Snakes and Stones

by Lisa Fowler

  By late in the morning we’re mighty close to Dallas. Daddy’s nowhere to be found and the triplets is off and playing on their own.

  I stumble down the steps of the wagon, rubbing my neck. Must have slept wrong, because it’s aching something fierce.

  “Mornin’, missy!” Abraham shouts.

  There’s coffee in the pot on the fire and I can smell biscuits in the Dutch oven buried up to its neck in the fire.

  I breathe in deep. “Morning, Mister Abraham. Where’s Daddy?”

  “Oh, I ’spect he’ll be along d’rectly.”

  I lean against the side of the wagon with my arms crossed and my conscience eating away at my soul.

  “Mister Abraham, did you really mean what you said about Daddy giving money to the orphans and widows?”

  “Sho’ nuff did, missy. Yor daddy, he a good man, a mighty good man.” Abraham gives me a wink and a nod. “Why you scratch yo’ head like you don’t believe?”

  Abraham lifts the lid on the Dutch oven, checking the biscuits and then pours himself another cup of coffee. “Go on,” he says, “tell ol’ Abraham why yo’ daddy want to take you away if all was so nice.”

  I squat, pick up a stick, and scratch in the dirt.

  “I ain’t rightly sure,” I say shrugging, and thinking back. “I mean, Mama seemed happy, Daddy too, but the morning we all went into town together they’d had a fuss.”

  I squint and stare off into the distance.

  “They never did too much angry jawing in front of us. Mostly went up on the hill behind the house for that.”

  “You want some coffee?” Abraham asks, holding up a cup and the pot of coffee.

  I shake my head and continue. “We’d had breakfast that morning, biscuits almost as round as plates. So big and fluffy Mama called them cat heads, and, boy oh boy, I can taste them now; right out of the wood stove with melted butter slathered all over them and sourwood honey drizzled over top. Mama’s cooking couldn’t be beat!”

  “S’pose yor mama’s biscuits make two o’ dese, huh?” He lifts the lid, pulls a small biscuit out of the Dutch oven, and hands it to me.

  I smile and blow on the biscuit to get it to cool enough for me to eat.

  “Mama’s biscuits was good, but these are good too. Thank you, Mister Abraham.”

  I take a big bite from the biscuit and swallow it down slowly, enjoying every bit of the good taste.

  “Anyway, Mama went inside the store alone. Said she could think better by herself. We stayed in the wagon with Daddy.” I look over at Abraham, sipping loudly on his coffee, chowing down on a biscuit. I can’t tell by the look on his face if he believes my story or not, but it don’t much matter. I know it’s true, every word of it. That all happened back before Daddy showed me lying was okay.

  “I need my mama, Mister Abraham. I mean, I’m nearly grown, but that don’t mean I don’t want my mama close. You know what I mean?” I say, turning from Abraham and swallowing down the lump that’s come up in my throat.

  “Yes’m. I sho’ do know it, missy. I sho’ do.”

  The door to the wagon slings wide and the triplets stumble down the stairs one at a time.

  “I’m hungry!” Mac shouts.

  “Me too!” Hazel and Filbert say in unison.

  Abraham passes out biscuits and I realize that’s the end of my storytelling. At least for now.

  “We doing a show here?” Filbert asks, chewing the biscuit with his mouth open.

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full!”

  “Aw, Chestnut, you ain’t our mama,” Mac says, his mouth nearly as fully stuffed as Filbert’s. “Stop telling us what to do!”

  I shake my head but don’t respond. It won’t do no good anyhow. I know I’m not their mama but I reckon I’m the closest thing they got to a mama right now. Until I get back to her and put this family back together proper, that is.

  Suddenly, Daddy runs into camp like he’s being chased by a hungry bear or a mountain lion, his shirttail’s hung out and flapping in the breeze, his shoes are untied, and his hair’s in a heap of mess. He stops at the edge of the wagon and plops to the ground, looking like something’s scared the life plumb out of him. His face is red from the running and the undersleeves of his shirt are as wet with sweat as if he’d taken an afternoon dip in the creek with his clothes on.

  “What’s wrong, Slim?” Abraham jumps to his feet. “You a’right? You looks like you done seen a corpse.”

  Daddy shakes his head, plants his elbows on his knees, and sucks in air harder than anyone I’ve ever seen. “Abraham … take … care … of …”

  Before Daddy can finish whatever it is he’s trying to say, two men run up behind and snatch him.

  “Gotcha!”

  My heart sinks, and I feel the fear—gnawing, tearing, pulling fear—down deep inside of me.

  28

  THE BLAME GAME

  These are lawmen, it’s easy to see, and they lay hands to my daddy in a flash. They’re not being gentle about it either. Matter of fact, they jerk him off the ground and sling him around like a vulture picking dry bones in the middle of a dirt-packed road.

  “You’ve got the wrong man! I tell you, I didn’t do it!” Daddy hollers, huffing and puffing from the run.

  But it’s clear to see from the way they’re yanking around on him, the men don’t believe a word Daddy is saying.

  “We know your kind. You’ve been stealing! The sheriff over in Beaumont says so.”

  I study the lawman up and down. The name on his tag says Johnny. He’s bigger around than he is tall, with hair the color of fresh baked bread and eyes like muddy water. And the smell of him stings my nose. It’s strong—like maybe he could use a good long bath.

  Mama always says the least anybody can be is clean. Reckon he’s never heard tell of soap and water.

  “I’m innocent, I tell you!” Daddy yells. “Innocent! I’ve never stolen anything in my life.”

  The man slings Daddy around by the arm. As wide-eyed and scared-looking as I’ve ever seen them, the triplets’ mouths are hung to their chests. Hazel’s chin is quivering worse than a maple leaf in a windstorm and Mac’s chewing his nails like a squirrel would gnaw at a nut.

  “What’s happening, Chestnut?” Filbert asks, his fists balled like he’s ready to jump in and defend Daddy from the trouble.

  “Get on up into the wagon,” I say as Daddy shoots me a quick look.

  They don’t move.

  “Go on now, I mean it,” I say again, taking Hazel by the hand and leading her toward the steps. The boys follow and reluctantly climb the steps and go inside. They stay close to the door though, watching us.

  “That’s not the way we hear it. The store owner says you left town right after the money went missing. It had to be you. There were no other strangers in town.”

  “Then again,” the lawman says, looking over at Abraham through tiny eye slits, “maybe, it was the Negro that done it. Maybe he’s the one stole that money and we’ve been looking at the wrong man all along.”

  “No!” Daddy and me shout it at the same time.

  “You leave him alone. He hasn’t done anything,” Daddy yells. He hangs his head, stares at the ground, and shuffles his foot through the dirt. “I did it. It was me.”

  He leans over and stares into Johnny’s face. “Now you leave him alone, you hear? He’s innocent. I’m your man, just like you said.” Daddy hangs his head again. “I admit it,” he says softly.

  “Maybe we ought to run the Negro in too, just in case,” the other lawman says. “Maybe they was in cahoots; you know, one playing lookout while the other one stole the money?”

  “Say, I never thought about it like that, Will,” Johnny says. “You might just have something there.”

  “You listen here!” Daddy says, through clenched teeth. “Abraham is innocent. He didn’t have nothing to do with what I did.” Daddy’s loud, his words forceful now. “He’s innocent, you hear? Leave him alone!”

  I swallow
hard knowing I’m the only one among the lot of us who knows the truth. I can’t believe my daddy, admitting to something he didn’t do just to protect a friend.

  There’s more hullabaloo in the camp than there’s ever been. Up in the back of the wagon, the triplets’ chins are hung to their chests, eyes bugged out, and it’s clear to see they got way more questions than answers.

  I look from Daddy to Abraham and back again. Daddy’s calm now, like he took a breath, and’s not looking for a fight. He looks Sheriff Johnny in the eyes.

  “How did you catch up with me anyway? I mean, how did you know where we were going? I thought we’d outrun you when we left Houston.”

  “What do you mean outrun us?” Johnny laughs. “You told us exactly where you were headed.”

  “What?” Daddy eyes Johnny like he’s from another world.

  “Yep! Easiest thing we’ve done in a long time was tracking you down! Matter of fact, we didn’t have to track you at all. We knew right where you were headed. Couldn’t have had a better map if we’d asked for one!” The lawman shoves a wrinkled paper up under Daddy’s nose and laughs.

  I gasp, realizing it’s my words there at the bottom of the paper plain as day.

  Heading Next to Dallas, Texas!

  There’s no use denying it’s one of my flyers, complete with striped wagon, Old Stump’s backside, yellow wheels and all. Daddy’s seen that before, back before it had any words.

  He cocks his head and looks at me like I shot him clean through the heart.

  My stomach flips and jumps and all I want to do is throw up. It’s my own words that’s done us in.

  “Daddy, I—”

  Daddy shakes his head. This time it’s him that’s not looking me in the eyes.

  “It’s all right, baby.” He shoots me a half-cocked smile. “I don’t understand, but it’s going to be all right.”

  For a change I look into his eyes; not only is there fear there, but there’s a look of confusion.

  Confusion in me.

  And what’s more, he don’t yet know the half of it.

  “Stay with Abraham and look after the babies,” Daddy says. “We’ll get this cleared up just as soon as the officers hear my story.”

  But I know better. Daddy’s going to jail on account of me and can’t no amount of his fancy talking clear that up.

  The men, one on each side of Daddy, walk him off toward the city and put him into a waiting Model T with a painted star on the side. We watch, none of us saying a word, until the car is clean out of sight.

  I want to cry, or scream, or run, but I can’t. I look over at Abraham, then back at the triplets.

  “Mister Abraham, what’s happening?” Mac asks, his chin quivering, and eyes full of baseball tears.

  Hazel flings herself to the ground and sobs. Weeping, wailing, hollering sobs. Sounds more like a funeral wake than a sorry-my-daddy’s-gone sort of cry.

  I run and scoop her up, like I would if I was a shovel and she was a pile of coal. She throws her arms around my neck so hard and fast it chokes me. I cough, and she pulls away, but when she sees I’m all right, she grips me even tighter and sobs like Daddy was killed and not just hauled away.

  “Aw, Hazel, there ain’t no use of all that. He’ll be all right,” Filbert says. But he’s scared too, I can see it in his eyes.

  Hazel pulls away, her eyes wide and wild. “Are they gonna … gonna hang him?” she asks.

  “No, baby, they’re not going to hang him.”

  “Probably lock him up for the rest of his life though,” Mac says. “We won’t never see our poor old daddy again! He’ll be busting rocks on the side of the road with the chain gang.”

  Hazel lets out another sob. Comes close to busting the drums clean out of my ears.

  “Hazel, now stop it! Daddy will get it straightened out,” I say, even though I know better. “And you, Mac, you’re not helping,” I say, shooting a harsh look toward Mac.

  I hug Hazel tight, but the hug’s as much for me as it is for her. Mama says in times of trouble, what a body needs most is a hug. Daddy’s going to jail for something I done, now how do you think that makes me feel?

  Awful, that’s how I feel, and worse, I know there’s no way for him to work it out. He’s confessed to a crime he didn’t do and the confessing was on account of Abraham—to save his hide from the law.

  “Now, now,” Abraham says, smiling, but for the first time I don’t feel comforted. “Yo’ daddy gon’ be all right. No need fo’ all dat.”

  “But it ain’t right, Mister Abraham! It just ain’t right …” I say, burying my head in Hazel’s hair, pulling her close.

  “I tells you what, missy, you stay here with de childrens.” Abraham smoothes his hair with his hands. “I’m goin’ to walk into town. We needs to know what be’s happenin’.” He gives me a nod. “I be back afore long.”

  29

  THE SHERIFF

  Wait!” I holler, as Abraham walks off. “Do you think you should? I mean, them men was ready to blame you for something you didn’t do, all on account of—” I catch myself. No way I would want to hurt Abraham with my words.

  “I know, missy,” he says, “on accounts of my skin. Now don’t you fret ’cause I had dat prob’em all my life and it ain’t stop me yet. Man can’t help de color o’ his skin. Dat’s God’s doin’, and I reckon right now He got work He mean for me to do.”

  “Yes, but if you go into town and they arrest you too, what’ll happen to us?” I point to the triplets. “What’ll happen to them?”

  Abraham scratches his head. “You might gots somedin’ dere, missy.”

  He looks me up and down, and in my mind I reckon he’s studying on whether or not I’m grown up enough to handle this problem.

  “Let me go. I can do it, Mister Abraham, really I can. I’ll go into town and see what’s happening. After all, I’m Daddy’s next of kin. They’ll have to tell me something.”

  He scratches his head and rubs his chin, his snowy whiskers making a scratching sound against the skin of his fingers. “Well now, I s’pose dat do makes sense, don’t it?” He turns and looks toward town. “You sho’ nuff do makes sense.”

  “I’m sure I ought to go instead.”

  He looks back at me and nods. “Maybe so,” he says.

  My stomach is flip-floppin’ like a monkey on an elephant ride. I look at the triplets. Hazel’s still in a tizzy, sniffing and snubbing around, and Mac’s sitting on a log chewing his fingernails into nubs. Filbert’s standing, looking toward town, and they’s tears streaming down his face.

  “All righty den,” Abraham says. “You go. But be kerful now, you hear what ol’ Abraham say? Be kerful!”

  I nod. “Yes, sir, I will.”

  I take off running as fast as my bony legs will carry me. I’ve never seen so many high up-in-the-sky buildings in my life, but now ain’t the time for looking.

  Now’s the time for doing.

  “Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! There, there, little lady. Where you headed in such a hurry?” A man grabs hold to my shoulders and bends over to look me in the eyes.

  He’s a cowboy. I figure that out right away, on account of the hat two times larger than his head, and the boots up to his knees with spurs—shiny, sparkly, pointed spurs on the back of his heels.

  “Please, sir, don’t hold me,” I say. “I got business with the sheriff.”

  He pushes his large hat to the back of his head with his finger. “With the sheriff? Now what’s a pretty little lady like you need with the sheriff?”

  “I—need—to—” With every word I jerk, trying to free his hold, but this cowboy’s got a grip on me and he’s not letting go. I figure there’s nothing else I can do, so I don’t think twice. I draw back and kick him hard as I can, smacking the middle of his knee, right above the top of his boot.

  “Ow!” he bellows, and he lets loose his grip on my shoulders.

  I run as fast as I can away from that cowboy, without looking back. Once I realize he’s not fol
lowing me, I slow and glance at the signs on the buildings around me: a bank, a motel, and a restaurant. I breathe deep. The air smells like meat and bread and potatoes, and I can feel my stomach churning. But there’s no time for stopping and smelling.

  Finally, I reach a brick building with a large sign out front:

  SHERIFF’S OFFICE

  COUNTY JAIL

  Them’s the largest doors I ever seen on a building, and folks are coming and going like ants to a picnic. As the doors swing open, a lawman saunters out, and I run in.

  The building is humongous with a ceiling that must reach halfway to the sky, the sunshine pushing its way through the windows to light up the inside. From the looks of things at first glance, the building’s divided up into sections, just like the inside of an orange. And there’s more people milling around wearing fancy lawman uniforms than I ever did see in one place in my life.

  “Excuse me, sir? Do you know where I can find the sheriff?” I say to the first man in a suit.

  He looks down and gives me a nod. He points off to the side. “Go down that hall to the first door on your left. Can’t miss it,” he says.

  The hall is as long a hall as I’ve ever seen, but the first door on the left I come to, I go in.

  They’s chairs, lots of chairs, and books. Stacks and stacks of books. Some of them line the walls, and some of them are propped up on desks; must be twenty or twenty-five desks in this one room alone.

  “How may I help you?” the lady behind the longest desk asks. First lady I’ve seen since I come through the doors. She leans way over the tall desk, I reckon trying to get a better look at the likes of me.

  “I come to see the sheriff,” I say, right sure of myself, not aiming to let Abraham or my daddy down.

  “Now, what’s a young’un like yourself needing with the sheriff? Someone stole your candy? Your dog? Your bicycle, perhaps?”

  Right off I can see she’s a snippy sort, and as she asks what it was that got stole, she pooches out her bottom lip. Now I might be just backwoods country folk, but even the likes of me can see she’s poking fun.