Now Pa handed the woman Our Jane, and the
man carried Keith, who had given up fighting and was now only screaming, as was Our Jane.
"Hey-lee ... Hey-lee!" sobbed Our Jane, stretching out her slender arms toward me. "Don't wanna go, don't wanna . ."
"Hurry, Lester. I can't bear to see this child cry."
Out the door in a hurry went the two carrying the screaming children, with Pa running in servile attendance, holding the torn old umbrella over the head of the lady and Our Jane.
I sank to the floor and sobbed.
Tom ran to a window, and despite my will not to look, I jumped up and hurried to stand beside him, and then Fanny was crouched down on her knees, staring out and saying: "Wish they'd chosen me. Oh, holy Jesus on the cross, I wish I could have all that stuff on Christmas morning! Why didn't they want me instead of Our Jane, who cries all t'time? An Keith ain't much better, an he wets t'bed. Why didn't ya tell em that, Heaven, why didn't ya?"
I wiped away tears and tried to gain control of my emotions. I tried to tell myself it wasn't so bad, not really, to lose Our Jane and Keith if they were to have so many fine things—oranges to eat, and toys to play with—and a doctor to make Our Jane well.
Then I was flying toward the door and the
porch so I could call out breathlessly, just as the black car prepared to drive off, "And be sure to send them both to good schools—please!"
The lady rolled down a window and waved.
"Please don't worry, darling," she called. "I'll write you from time to time and let you know how they are, but there won't be a return address. And I'll send you photographs." And up went the window again, smothering Our Jane's loud, anguished wails, and those of Keith.
Pa didn't even bother to enter the cabin again to find out what his children thought about the
"Christmas gift" he'd just given.
He ran, as if from me and my accusing eyes; me and all the angry words I had ready to scream in his face. He jumped into his old truck and drove off, leaving me to think he'd soon throw away his thousand dollars on whores, booze, and gambling.
And in bed tonight he wouldn't give one single thought to Our Jane, to Keith, to any of us.
Like a flock of chickens paralyzed by strange events beyond our understanding, we huddled, with Grandpa sitting quietly and whittling as if nothing untoward had happened, and then we met eyes. Soon even Fanny began to cry. She wrapped her arms about me and sobbed. "They'll be all right, won't they?
People do love all little children, even those not their own, don't they?"
"Yes, of course they do," I said, trying to choke back fresh tears and save my anguish for later, when I was alone. "And we'll see them again. If the lady writes long letters we'll hear how they are, and one day Our Jane and Keith can write themselves, and won't that be wonderful . . . won't it be . . .
wonderful." I broke anew, tears flooding down my face before I could manage to ask a very important question. "Tom, did you notice their license plates?"
"Sure did," he answered in a gruff, hoarse voice. "Maryland. But I didn't have time to catch the last three numbers. First were nine-seven-two.
Remember that." Tom always noticed things like that.
I never did.
Now the little ones I'd worried about were gone. No wailing in the night and in the morning. No wet beds and quilts, not so much washing to do, plenty of room in the brass bed now.
How empty the small cabin, how sad all the hours, minutes, and seconds after Our Jane and Keith went away. And maybe in the long run they would be better off—especially since those people appeared so rich—but what about us? Love, wasn't that worth anything? Wasn't blood the tie that bound, not money?
"Grandpa," I said in my constantly hoarse voice, "we got room for you in the bed now."
"Not proper or healthy t'put t'old in with t'young,"
Grandpa mumbled again and again, his gnarled hands quivering as if with some ancient ague. His faded old eyes pleaded with me to understand. "Luke's a good boy, chile, he is. He meant well. Though ya don't know it. He wanted t'help, that's all. Now, don't ya go thinkin bad about yer pa, when he did all he knew what t'do."
"Grandpa, you'd say good things about him no matter what he did, cause he's your son, the only one you've got left. But from this day forward, he's not my father! I'm not calling him Pa from now on. He's Luke Casteel, an ugly, mean liar, and someday he's going to pay for all the suffering he's put us through! I hate him, Grandpa, hate his guts! Hate him so much I feel sick inside!"
His poor old withered face went dead white, when already it was pale and sickly, crosshatched with a million wrinkles, and he really wasn't that old.
"T'Good Book says t'honor thy motha an thy fatha . . .
ya remember that, Heaven girl."
"Why doesn't the Good Book say honor thy children, Grandpa, why doesn't it?"
Another storm blew in, and turned into a
blizzard. Snow banked as high as the top of our windows, covering the porch. Ice sheeting prevented us from looking through the wavy cheap glass even when Tom went out to shovel some of the snow away.
Luckily, Pa had brought enough food to see us through another few days.
Heartbreak ruled the cabin without the cheerful chirping of Our Jane and the sweet quiet of Keith. I forgot all about the trouble Our Jane had been, forgot the plaintive wails, the tempestuous stomach that was so difficult to please. I remembered only the tender young body, the sweetness of the back of her neck where her curls turned damp when she slept. Two angels they'd appeared when they cuddled in the bed and closed their eyes; I remembered Keith and how he liked to be rocked to sleep, wanting to hear bedtime stories I'd read a thousand times or more. I remembered his sweet good-night kisses, his strong legs; I heard his small voice saying his prayers, saw him next to Our Jane, both on their knees, their small feet bare, pink toes curled; they never had the proper kind of pretty nightclothes. I sobbed, felt sicker, meaner, angrier, and everything I remembered formed steel bullets that sooner or later would gun down the man who'd taken so much from me.
Poor Grandpa forgot how to talk. Now he was as silent as he'd been when Granny was alive, and he didn't whittle, didn't fiddle, only stared into space and rocked to, fro, to, fro. Once in a great while he'd mumble some prayer that was never answered.
We all said prayers that were never answered.
In my sleep I dreamed of Our Jane and Keith waking up to a fantasy of what I believed the merriest of all Christmas mornings. I saw them in pretty red flannel nightclothes playing in an elegant living room where a magnificent Christmas tree spread over all the new toys and new clothes underneath. Laughing with the silent merriment of dreams, my youngest brother and sister raced about ripping open all their gifts, riding in miniature cars, Our Jane small enough to crawl inside the dollhouse; and long colorful stockings were full of oranges, apples, candy and chewing gum, and boxes of cookies; and finally came a meal served on a long table with a white tablecloth, sparkling with crystal and gleaming with silver. A huge golden-brown turkey arrived on a silver platter, surrounded by all the things we'd eaten that time in the restaurant, and there was pumpkin pie straight from one of the glossy magazines
I'd seen. Oh, the things my dreams gave to Our Jane and Keith.
Without Keith and Our Jane to distract me, I heard more from Fanny, who continually grouched about not being the child chosen to go with those rich people in their fine clothes and long car.
"It coulda been me an not Our Jane that rich lady wanted," she said for the hundredth time, "if I'd have had time t'wash my hair an take a bath. Ya used all t'hot wata on them, Heaven! Selfish, ya are! Them rich folks didn't like me cause I looked messy—why didn't Pa tell us t'get ready?"
"Fanny!" I exclaimed, quite out of patience.
"What's wrong with you? To go away with strangers you don't even know. Why, only God above knows what will happen to—" And then I broke and started to cry.
Tom cam
e to comfort me. "It's gonna be all right. They truly did look rich and nice. A lawyer has to be intelligent. And think of this, wouldn't it have been terrible if Pa had sold them to folks as poor as we are?"
As was to be expected, Grandpa took his son's side. "Luke only does what he thinks is best—and ya hold yer tongue, girl, when next ya see him, or he might do somethin awful t'ya. This ain't no fittin'
place fer kids nohow. Betta off they'll be. Stop cryin, an accept what can't be changed. That's what life is about, standing firm against t'wind."
I should have known that Grandpa, like
Granny, wouldn't be any help when it came to Pa.
Always she'd had excuses to explain her son's brutal behavior. A good man—at heart. Underneath all that cruelty, a frustrated gentleman who couldn't find the right way.
A monster only a parent could love, was my opinion.
I stood as far as I could from the old man who disappointed me in so many ways. Why couldn't Grandpa be stronger and stand up for all our rights?
Why didn't he open his silent mouth and put his tongue to good use? Why did all his thoughts come out in the form of charming little wooden figures? He could have told his son he couldn't sell his children.
But he hadn't said a word, not a word.
How bitter I felt to think my grandfather went to church every Sunday he could, to sing and stand up and say prayers with bowed head, and then he came back to a home where small children were whipped, starved, brutalized, and then sold.
"We'll run away," I whispered to Tom when Fanny was asleep and Grandpa was in his pallet.
"When the snow melts, before Pa comes back again, we'll put on all our clothes and run to Miss Deale. She must be back from Baltimore by now. She has to be.
She'll tell us what to do, and how to get back Our Jane and Keith."
Yes, Miss Deale would know, if anyone did, just how to thwart Pa and keep him from selling us all to strangers. Miss Deale knew a thousand things that Pa would never know; she had connections.
It snowed for three days without letup.
Then suddenly, dramatically, the sun broke out from behind clouds. The bright light pouring in almost blinded us when Tom threw open the front door to stare out.
"It's over," Grandpa murmured weakly. "That's t'way of our Lord, t'save his own jus when we think we kin't live on another hour."
How were we saved? Not saved at all by
sunlight, only warmed a bit. I turned again to the old chipped and rickety cabinet that held our pitiful store of food. Again, nothing to eat but a few of the nuts harvested in the fall.
"But I like nuts," Tom said cheerfully, setting down to munching on his two. "And when the snow has melted enough, we can put on our warmest clothes and escape. Wouldn't it be nice to head west, into the sun? End up in California, living on dates and oranges, drinking coconut milk. Sleeping on the golden grass, staring up at the golden mountains . . ."
"Do they have golden streets in Hollywood?"
asked Fanny.
"Spect everything is golden in Hollywood,"
mused Tom, still standing and looking outside. "Or else silver."
Grandpa said nothing.
We lived in capricious country. Spring could come as quickly as a lightning bolt and do just as much damage. Springlike days would warm up the earth in December, January, and February, trick the flowers into blooming ahead of time, fool the trees into leafing out; then winter would come back and freeze the flowers, kill off the new baby leaves, and when real spring came, those flowers and trees wouldn't repeat their performances since they'd been deceived once, wouldn't be deceived again, or at least not this season.
Now the sun turned the mounds of heaped snow into slushy mush that soon melted and flooded the streams, causing bridges to be swept away. . . and trails were lost in the woods. There was no way to escape now that the bridge was gone. Exhausted and exceedingly tired from his long quest to find a way out, Tom came home to report the loss of the nearest bridge.
"The current's running fast and strong, or else we could swim across. Tomorrow will be a better day."
I put down Jane Eyre, which I was reading again, and drifted over to stand beside Tom, both of us silent until Fanny ran to join us. "Let's swear a solemn vow now," Tom whispered so Grandpa wouldn't hear, "to run the first chance we get. To stay together through thick and thin, one for all and all for one . . . Heavenly, we've said this to each other before.
Now we have to add Fanny. Fanny, put your hand on top of mine. But first cross your heart and hope to die if ever you let us be split apart."
Fanny seemed to hesitate, and then with rare sisterly camaraderie her hand covered mine, which rested on top of Tom's. "We do solemnly swear. ."
"We do solemnly swear . ." repeated Fanny and I. "To always stay together, to care for one another through joys and suffering . ."
Again Fanny hesitated. "Why do ya have t'mention sufferin? Yer makin this sound like a weddin, Tom."
"All right, through thick and thin, through good and bad, until we have Our Jane and Keith with us again—is that good enough for you two?"
"It's fine, Tom," I said as I repeated his vows.
Even Fanny was impressed, and more like a
real sister than she'd ever been as she snuggled up beside me, and we talked about our futures out in the big world we knew nothing about. Fanny even helped Tom and me search the woods for berries as we waited for the swollen river to go down and the bridge to be restored.
"Hey," Tom said suddenly, hours later, "just remembered. There's another bridge twenty miles away, and we can reach it if we're determined enough.
Heavenly, if we all have to hike twenty miles or more, we're gonna need more than one hazelnut apiece, I can tell ya that right now."
"Think we can make it on two nuts apiece?"
asked I, who'd been holding back just for an emergency like this.
"Why, with all that energy, we could probably walk to Florida," Tom said with a laugh, "which might almost be as good as California."
We dressed in our best, put on everything we owned. I tried not to think of leaving Grandpa all alone. Fanny was eager to escape a cabin where only sadness and old age and hopelessness had come to stay. Guiltily, with reluctant determination, we kissed Grandpa good-bye. He stood up feebly, smiled at us, nodding as if life never held any surprises for him.
In my hand I held my mother's suitcase that finally Fanny had seen, though her excitement had been lessened by the knowledge we were leaving . . .
for somewhere.
"Good-bye," called all three of us in unison, but I hung back when Tom and Fanny raced outside.
"Grandpa," I said in an embarrassed voice, really hurting inside, "I'm sorry to be doing this to you. I know it's not right to leave you alone, but we have to do it or be sold like Keith and Our Jane. Please understand."
He looked straight ahead, one hand holding a knife, the other his bit of wood to shave, his thin hair trembling in the drafts. "We'll come back one day when we're grown-up and too old for Pa to sell."
"It's all right, chile," whispered Grandpa, his head bowed low so-L couldn't see his tears. "Ya jus take kerr."
"I love you, Grandpa. Maybe I've never said that before, don't know why now that I didn't, cause I always have."
I stepped closer to hug and kiss him. He
smelled old, sour, and felt brittle in my arms. "We wouldn't leave you if there was any other way, but we have to go to try and find a better place." Again he smiled through tears, nodded as if he believed, and sat again to rock. "Luke will come back soon with food—so don't ya worry none. Forgive me for saying nasty things I didn't mean."
"What nasty things did ya say?" bellowed a rough voice from the open doorway.
ten
Too Many
Farewells
.
PA TOWERED IN THE OPEN DOORWAY,
GLOWERING AT US. He was wearing a thick red jacket that reached his hips. Brand-new. His boots
were better than any I'd ever seen him wear, as were his pants; his hat had a furry band across the top that ended in earmuffs. With him he had more boxes of food. "I'm back," he said casually, as if he'd just left yesterday. "Brought food with me." And then he turned to leave, or so I thought.
Trip after trip he made to his truck to bring things in. What was the use of our trying to run now, when his long legs could catch up and swiftly bring us back again—if he didn't chase us in his truck?
More than anything, now Fanny didn't want to escape. "Pa!" she cried, happy and excited, dancing around him and trying to find a way to hug and kiss him before he had all the supplies in from the truck.
Many times she tried to throw herself into his arms, and then succeeded. "Oh, Pa! Ya've come to save us ain! Knew ya would, knew ya loved me! Now we don't have t'run away! We were hungry an cold an goin t'find food or steal it, an waitin fer t'snow t'melt an t'bridges few back, an I'm so durn happy we don't have t'do none of that!"
"Runnin away t'find food, huh?" asked Pa with his lips tight, his eyes narrow. "Can't run nowhere I can't find ya. Now sit and eat, an get ready for the company that's comin."
It was going to happen again!
Fanny's face lit up as if an electric switch had been pushed. "Oh, Pa, it's me this time, ain't it? Ain't it? Jus let it be me!"
"Get yourself ready, Fanny," Pa ordered as he fell into a chair and almost tipped it over backward.
"Found ya a new ma and pa, jus like ya asked me t'do, an as rich as t'ones who took Jane and Keith."
This information made her squeal in delight.
She hurried to heat a pot of water on the stove. While that was warming she pulled out the old aluminum basin we all used for a bathtub. "Oh, I need betta clothes!" Fanny bewailed as the water began to boil.
"Heaven, kin't ya do somethin with a dress of yours, so it'll look good on me?"
"I'm not doing anything to help you leave," I said, my voice so cold it chilled my throat, while I felt hot tears in my eyes. Fanny cared so little about leaving us and breaking her vow.
"Tom, run fetch me more water," she called in her sweetest voice, "enough t'fill up t'tub an rinse my hair!" And Tom obeyed, though reluctantly.
Heaven (Casteel Series #1) Page 17
