Snakes and Stones

by Lisa Fowler

  “I git de fire started,” Abraham says.

  I fill the wooden bucket to the brim with water and look on as the triplets shred the grass they’ve pulled. Soon as they’re finished, off they go to gather more grass.

  Daddy’s gone longer than he should be just for buying bottles. Abraham must have thought it too, because right out of the blue he starts in trying to comfort me.

  “Yo’ daddy be back soon,” he says. “Gonna git some food stirred up so’s we can eat when he come. De day fast comin’ to a close.” He eyes the sky.

  Pulling four small potatoes from a box under the front seat of the wagon, he takes out his pocket knife and begins to peel. He tosses the peelings into a large wrought iron skillet, popping hot with the remnants of fatback grease. He tosses the peeled potatoes into the black iron pot of boiling water, hanging over the fire.

  Even though there’s a gnawing in my gut for food, I’ve not got my mind on eating, or elixir mixing, or Daddy’s being gone too long. My mind is on that money I stole, and on getting to the train station before Daddy can find out my plan or before the sheriff puts me under the jail. And before this night is over I’ve got more flyers to nail up, telling Mama—if she’s searching—where we’ll be.

  “Why do you reckon Daddy goes off and leaves us like he does, Mister Abraham?”

  “Don’t know. Bizness, I s’pose. Maybe he busy helpin’ out de orphans.”

  “Orphans? What orphans?” I laugh, thinking Abraham’s cracking a joke. I can see by his face though, he isn’t. “What are you talking about, Mister Abraham?”

  “Well now, seems yo’ daddy, he ain’t told you ev’rything.” Abraham gives me a wink and stirs up the fire with a long stick. “You know, missy, yo’ daddy a good man and he sho’ do love all ya’ll. If you don’t mind me sayin, ol’ Abraham think he don’t deserve de treatment you give him.”

  I stare into the fire wondering what in the world Abraham is talking about. Oh, I understand the part about Daddy not deserving the treatment I give him, but what does he mean, “business” and “the orphans”?

  “Mister Abraham, I don’t understand,” I say after I’ve thought on his words for a while. “What have orphans got to do with us?”

  25

  THE BUSINESS WITH ORPHANS

  Abraham doesn’t hesitate. Instead, he seems happy to be spouting out the information he knows about my daddy.

  “Well now, I bet you don’t know yo’ daddy give money to orphan childrens in ev’ry town he in, do you?”

  I shake my head. Abraham’s lost his mind.

  “And I bet you don’t know yo’ daddy slip money in some of de hands of de older folks dat come to de show when no one lookin’, do you?”

  Now I know he’s talking foolish. All I’ve ever seen Daddy do is laugh and make goo-goo eyes at the ladies. Then again, now that I think about it, the ladies are of the older variety, and he does sometimes take their hands in his, but Abraham must be mistaken. Daddy’s just working the crowd, drawing them in so’s he can sell more elixir. He would never just hand someone money. That’s not like my daddy at all.

  “But, what do the widows have to do with anything? I mean that don’t even—”

  “Now hold on a minute, little missy, and I’ll tells you,” Abraham interrupted with a wave of his hand. “Yo’ daddy know you children gots all you need, so he gives de rest of his monies away. You know, Miss Ches’nut, you all gots a heap more dan any dem children in dem orphan homes gots, so yo’ daddy help give dem what he never did have.”

  I jump to my feet. “I don’t believe you. That don’t sound like Daddy. Not the daddy I know. You’re lying, Mister Abraham.”

  “Now, missy, don’t git yo’ dander up. It is yo’ daddy, but he don’t want ya’ll to know.”

  “But that just don’t make sense. Look at this!” I jerk my shoe off and shove it toward Abraham. “Just look! We’re his children and we have to get our clothes from missionaries’ ragbags and wear shoes with more holes than soles! Most of the time, we don’t even have enough food in our stomachs to make it through the day. Why, I’ve had more wish meals in my life than I can count and I’m sick of living this way.”

  My heart wants to bust into tears but my head says don’t do it. Matter of fact, if I was to cry right now it would be from the anger of it all and not from the hurt.

  Surely Mister Abraham is talking about someone else’s family.

  Surely he don’t mean mine.

  I want to hold my tongue, but my mouth just won’t let it happen. Before I know it I’m spewing out words even I can’t believe I’m saying.

  “Do you know what a wish meal is, Mister Abraham?”

  I don’t give him time to answer. Matter of fact, I don’t hardly even take a breath.

  “Well, I’ll tell you what a wish meal is.” I plant my hands square on my hips and shake my finger in the air. “It’s when your stomach aches for a bite of something—anything—but when you sit down to eat there’s nothing, not a crumb or a smidgeon or even a smell there, and all you get to do is wish you had a meal to go in your belly.”

  “I know dat, missy, but dem orphan childrens gots even less dan you, don’t you see? You gots a roof over yo’ head, a family, and a daddy dat love you, and yo’ daddy ain’t gonna let you starve. Dem children ain’t got none o’ dat.”

  I bury my head in my hands, still not believing what I’m hearing.

  “Anyway, yo’ daddy say he don’t want his children raised up proud and haughty. Ever’body know the Good Book say right before de fall come some pride, and yo’ daddy, he want to raise children dats thankful for what dey got. He say dem dats gots too much ain’t thankful for what dey do have. And, missy, if you’ll ’scuse me for sayin’ it, I think yo’ daddy be right. After all, dey’s sometin’ else you didn’t yet know. Yo’ daddy and ol’ Abraham was raised up together in an orphanage. Our town was so small dey only had de one home for childrens without folks. Yo’ daddy bein’ white growed up in de front rooms of dat orphans home, and ol’ Abraham growed up in the back rooms with de other childrens like me. So I knows yo’ daddy be right. Yo’ daddy, he chose de right way and don’t you forget it neither.”

  He waves his hands in the air, like he’s frustrated with the things he’s already said.

  “Mister Abraham, I don’t—”

  “Now I done say too much, missy, and don’t you let on like I told you, neither.” He comes close, bends over, and looks me right in the eyes. “You jes’ remember what ol’ Abraham say. Yo’ daddy, he a good, good man.”

  I shove my holey shoe back on my foot and stomp away.

  No way I’m going to believe what Abraham is telling me about Daddy.

  No way Daddy’s got that big a heart in him, caring for them that don’t have so much.

  Huh! What kind of respectable man would let his children wear hand-me-down clothes and raggedy shoes while giving his money away? That just don’t make sense. And Mama says if it don’t make sense, it just ain’t so. Everyone knows adults stick together like warts on the back of an old toad.

  Still, now Abraham’s buried a doubt seed deep in my mind.

  What if …

  Naw, it can’t be so.

  But, I did see him at that wayward boys home in …

  Naw. Get it out of your mind, Chestnut Hill.

  I stare up into the sky. It’ll be dark soon and even though I’ve way more questions than answers, still I’ve got work that needs to be done. I run into the wagon for my flyers, Daddy’s hammer, and some nails. If I hurry, I can be back before Daddy knows I’m gone. I leave when Abraham’s back is turned as he tends to the fire and the triplets are busy fighting over Mac’s yo-yo.

  Running through town, I nail flyers to every post and tree I come to. Just as I’m nailing the last flyer to a pole, a street light flickers on, and I duck, then squint, feared there’s something in it going to spew out all over me at any second.

  Suddenly, I feel a finger tap me on the shoulder from behi
nd and I gasp.

  “Excuse me, young lady.”

  26

  SECRETS AND LIES

  The stranger’s puffing a big smelly cigar that nearly takes my breath away. He glances at me, then back up at the light. “You ever seen electric street lights?” he asks, smoke circling his head like a kingly crown.

  I shake my head, and—knowing Mama would say it wouldn’t be neighborly not to speak when spoken to—I reply. “No, sir. We don’t have anything like that back in Kentucky. Folks want lights, they burn a candle.”

  He chuckles. “I figured as much the way you were staring.”

  He pushes his derby to the back of his head with one finger; with the others, he flicks the ash from his cigar. He’s got the biggest, roundest belly I ever did see, and I wonder how he sees over it to tie his shoes.

  “It’s not any of my business, little lady,” he says, interrupting my thinking on his belly and his shoes, “but you shouldn’t be here. This is not a proper neighborhood for a young girl after the sun goes down.”

  I look him up and down, and then stretch my neck to look around him at the building behind, where there’s loud music spilling to the outside. Through the open doors I can see folk dancing and laughing.

  “What’s in there?”

  He ignores my question. “What are you doing here anyway? And where are your parents?” He looks up and down the street, like he’s searching for my folks.

  “You ain’t no runaway are you?”

  I don’t say anything.

  His stares make me more than a tad uncomfortable, and suddenly I remember my daddy told me not to talk to strangers.

  “I believe you are,” he says, lifting his hat and scratching his head. “You are a runaway, aren’t you? Sheriff! Sheriff!” he yells, waving his hand in the air and looking up the street toward the middle of town.

  I snatch a look behind me, and then take off running toward camp. No way I want an encounter with the law.

  With most of my flyers already nailed, I run as fast as my legs will go. When I get back to the wagon, Daddy’s there. He took over the cooking from Abraham and there’s a few boiled potatoes and a wrought iron skillet full of corn bread by the fire. The triplets are shoving food into their mouths almost as fast as if they were in an eating contest of some sort.

  “Chestnut, where have you been?” Daddy asks. “And what are you doing with my hammer?”

  “Um … I’m … well, I went back into town to look for you since you’d been gone so long, and I took this hammer to protect myself. That’s what I done.”

  I hang my head, but not before giving a glance toward Abraham who’s standing, staring at the fire, and shaking his head. He wipes his face with his hands.

  I hate lying to Daddy. I hate that Abraham knows I’m lying.

  I hate lying, period.

  Mama would never stand for it, not even if there was a good reason for the lie. I wish there was a way to suck the lies back in, but there’s not. There’s no way I can look Daddy in the eyes now, even though he’s the one that taught me how to lie in the first place.

  “Well, I’m here now, so you can stop your looking,” Daddy says. “Come sit by the fire and grab a bite to eat. We’ll work on the bottles later. And do something with that hammer, will you? You’re making me nervous.”

  Abraham’s a better cook than Daddy, though I would never say it out loud. But, same as always, there’s not near enough to fill a growing girl’s stomach. The triplets’ bellies come first; what’s left is divided among the rest of us. There’s no use in asking for more. There’s never more in the pot.

  “All right, let’s get a move on,” Daddy says, moving the boxes of empty bottles closer to the fire. “Chestnut, get the water bucket.”

  “Here’s the grass, Daddy,” Filbert says. “We broke it into tiny pieces, just the same as always.”

  “Good job! Abraham, you get the silver flask please. You know where I keep it.”

  “Sho’ nuff.”

  Before we start filling the bottles, Daddy sends the triplets to bed. They protest, especially Hazel, but as usual, it doesn’t work with Daddy. One thing he believes in is an early bedtime for his babies.

  Once they’re in bed, and the ruckus settles down, I begin filling the bottles with water.

  Abraham pushes in the tiny blades of grass, and Daddy adds one dropperful of the liquid from his flask with the small medicine dropper he got from a pharmacy back in Kentucky.

  Most folks back home kept spirits in their flasks. Not Daddy. He don’t believe in liquor or strong drink of any kind. Says he don’t want to put anything in his body that might cloud his thinking, so all he keeps in his silver flask is oil. While we work, Abraham hums. Daddy smiles, and I do my best to think.

  Suddenly and quietly, a man steps into camp from the shadows.

  First thing I notice are his shoes; big as rowboats in a puddle, but shinier than anything I’ve seen. It’s clear he’s wearing a uniform, and there’s a gun strapped tight around his waist.

  Next thing I look for is the star on his shirt. I knew it, a lawman plain as day.

  I swallow hard, knowing I’ll be in jail before the moon winks twice at the night sky.

  “Evening, officer,” Daddy says, rising to his feet. His Adam’s apple rises and falls as he speaks.

  I stand, my shoulders slumped and my head hung low, expecting to be arrested for thieving and, who knows, maybe lying too.

  “Chestnut, sit!” Daddy says, without turning to look at me.

  “What can I do for you, sir?” Daddy asks.

  “You head of this elixir outfit?” the sheriff asks, snarling when he says it and straining to look around the camp.

  “Yes, sir,” Daddy says, shoving a hand toward the sheriff. “Slim Hill. Proud to make your acquaintance.”

  The sheriff don’t shake Daddy’s hand but instead stares Daddy up and down, with one hand on his hip, the other on his gun.

  Daddy’s come to life, already pretending to be something he’s not. I suspect before much longer he’ll be bouncing up and down on his toes, breathing deep, and puffing out his chest.

  The sheriff clears his throat and gives the camp a look-see again, stopping a bit when he lays eyes to Abraham.

  “Mister Hill, you ever been to Beaumont, Texas?” the sheriff says. He’s calm, but he’s looking at Daddy with suspicion in his eyes.

  My stomach flops like a fish on dry land.

  “Yes, sir, we were there not too long ago. Why do you ask?”

  The sheriff rubs his hand across his chin. “I’ll know more after I return a call from the sheriff over in Beaumont. He left a message for me today. It seems there was some money missing from a store and the owner’s making accusations.”

  The sheriff don’t take his eyes off of Daddy and it’s clear that before he even hears from the sheriff in Beaumont, he’s not going to believe a word Daddy says.

  My heart is beating into my throat and I’m practically gasping just to take in air.

  “I’ll wait until I talk with him, but it would be wise for you folks to stay put, you hear?”

  The sheriff raises his eyebrows and gives a nod to Abraham, like he’s asking him to make sure Daddy stays put and don’t leave town.

  “All right, officer, and thank you,” Daddy says, his eyes turned down and fixed on the ground.

  Daddy’s face is as white as a ghost in the light of a full moon. Shaky, he lowers himself to a sitting position on a large hollow tree stump. He pulls his hanky from his back pocket and wipes the sweat beads from his face and neck.

  With the sheriff disappearing back into the shadows, Abraham speaks softly, wrapping both hands around his coffee cup.

  “What we gonna do, Slim?”

  “I tell you what we’re gonna do, Abraham,” Daddy says without hesitation, jumping to his feet, slinging elixir bottles into boxes. “We’re getting out of here is what we’re gonna do.”

  Daddy’s hands are shaking, and it seems it’s
all he can do to get the elixir bottles into the box rather than dropping them to the ground.

  “I haven’t a clue what that sheriff is talking about, but I’m not sticking around to find out. This isn’t the first time a traveling salesman’s being accused of something he didn’t do.”

  It don’t seem like Daddy’s even taking a breath his words are coming so fast and loud, and his eyes are as wide as a moon when it’s full. He’s flitting around the camp faster than the triplets after a sugary sucker and sliding boxes of elixir into the wagon so fast even Old Stump looks antsy.

  “Chestnut, get in the wagon and lock the door. We’re going to move as fast as Old Stump can run.” He plops a box of elixir bottles into Abraham’s arms. “Abraham, toss this stuff and those boxes over in the wagon while I hitch her up. We’ll be out of here in a flash. If we’re gone when he gets back, we’re as good as free. There’s no way he’ll know where we’re headed.”

  I toss out the water still left in the buckets, skedaddle up the steps and into the back of the wagon, like Daddy says. My knees are sounding more like hammers tapping on a nail head than trembling bones.

  The triplets are asleep and I’m glad. No use them knowing what’s going on; that one of us is about to be thrown into a cold, wet jail cell or worse, hung over a tree to swing. Best to just leave them alone and let them lie.

  I fall back on my cot just as Old Stump jerks the wagon. I hear Daddy and Abraham talking fast as lightning on the wooden seat up front, but I can’t make out the words.

  Daddy’s got Old Stump moving at such a fast pace the wind’s roaring through the cracks in the wagon. I can feel every bump and rock and stump on the road, and I don’t mind saying it.

  I’m scared.

  27

  GOTCHA!

  I ought to tell Daddy what I done, that I stole that money and it’s me the lawman’s after. Preacher back in Kentucky says confessing your sins is like a dose of medicine for the soul. Then again, if I tell Daddy, it won’t be medicine that I’ll need. It’ll be a deep, dark burying hole.

  I fall asleep worrying about the law being after us, Daddy finding out the truth, and not being able to get back to Mama. I never used to worry, but since I done so much wrong and broke so many of them commandments, I’m more afraid of meeting my Maker than of squaring off on some street corner with some sheriff. Reckon wrongdoing tends to make a body as jumpy as a one-legged chicken on a bed of hot coals.