GodPretty in the Tobacco Field

by Kim Michele Richardson

  I picked up the paper and stumbled back. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw Gunnar heading toward Abby’s. No telling what he’d do to Rainey. I took off.

  As I neared the Fords’, I saw them on the porch, hands windmilled, mouths tightening. Catching my breath, I stopped at the yard tree to breathe and watched Gunnar and Abby.

  Abby shook her head, once, then again. Gunnar grabbed her wrist, and she tried to jerk away but couldn’t, his grip ironclad. Then he pulled her inside the tiny house.

  I made it up to the side of Abby’s cabin and was getting ready to barge up to the door when her words struck me.

  “Tell RubyLyn . . . We have to tell them, Gunnar,” she cried.

  I ducked under the window, listening.

  “I’ll do no such thing. No,” Gunnar snarled.

  “It’s the only way,” I heard her say inside.

  “I’ll not have my sins visited on them. They’ll be ridiculed. Look what Rainey has to go through every day. To send him off to war with my sins? I won’t! Think on it—”

  “Don’t you see, Gunnar . . . love. They don’t need . . . for that.” I only caught clipped sentences. She must’ve turned her back to the window.

  “No, Abby. I won’t have their souls die in that hate and fear.”

  “Love, Gunnar . . . they are—”

  “No, Lord . . . no.”

  “In love.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Just like . . . us . . . always.”

  Abby and Gunnar in love? I eased up slowly to hear them better and saw Abby take her small brown hands and cradle his face.

  He rubbed his cheek against her palm, kissed it, and began to weep. “Abigail,” he called formally, “I can’t. No, Abigail, I’ll lose her just like I did the others.”

  “Tell her everything,” she pushed. “Start with the execution—her parents. Claire . . .”

  Parents. Claire. I soaked up more confusion.

  “I can’t tell her I cheated on Claire,” he said.

  I covered my mouth. Cheat? He cheated? Him and his heavy words of God.

  “You must, Gunnar,” she insisted. “Let her know about the hard patch with your job. How Claire always thought it was shameful work—”

  “Tell her of my failings?” he cried out. “How the State called for me to electrocute a man and I failed? No, dammit, I won’t.”

  “Gunnar, you couldn’t help that a big storm blew through the night before and fried them switches like that.”

  I felt my eyes stretch and lock.

  He moaned. “Damn lightning storm. I still can’t believe that devil chair got a hitch in its wires and caught the prisoner on fire.” He sniffled and coughed out. “I caused that poor soul a crueler death.”

  Oh . . . awful! I couldn’t believe it—believe that Gunnar had messed up the electrocution of an inmate . . . same as ol’ Rainey Bethea’s hanging had been botched.

  I heard him suck in a loud breath. “A damn tragedy, Abigail, and one I can never let go of—the type of cruelty I’ve fought against my whole life.”

  He’d muddled a state killin’, his marriage . . .

  Abby mumbled something.

  “The resignation was more than I could bear.” His graveled words quaked. “I was weak . . . then you . . . with child . . . Claire . . . oh, dear Lord . . . if only I’d been stronger . . . Claire wanting the babies so bad. And . . .”

  You . . . ? What? I pressed my ear closer.

  Gunnar coughed again, tears strangling the words. “And Rainey . . . After he was born, she . . . well, you saw how she folded herself up that winter. Devil’s doings, my doings, Abigail.”

  “Pneumonia,” she hushed. “You can’t blame yourself—”

  “I suspect it was more that made her give up her fight. It was Rainey.”

  I wrinkled my brow. Rainey.

  Abby put a force in her voice. “Go, before it’s too late, Gunnar. He’s gone to the Feed to meet her. Tell her ’bout the law.”

  “Abigail, I . . . I don’t know—”

  “It’s against Kentucky law to marry your first cousin. Go on, Gunnar, tell her about our son,” she begged.

  Son! I covered my mouth to hold in the scream. “My cousin . . . kin . . .” I lowered my head down and snuck away, making it to the old black locust in her yard.

  I let out a whimper. Thoughts coiled around Molly and Lewis and their baby. “No.” I banged my forehead against the bark. Rainey. My husband-to-be, my kin.

  Rainey’s tilt of the head when looking at me, the same as Gunnar’s the times he’d looked at me when I’d done something that pleased him. Rainey’s long-fingered hands that waved and wiggled with talk—same as Gunnar’s before age and hard work slowed, thickened the knuckles and crooked the fingers. His walk even . . . not really a walk but more of a big sure gait like Gunnar’s. How when they walked side-by-side, one shadow fit to the other. The images popped up like glints of broken glass, blinding, breaking the stretching circle of sanity.

  And my foolishnesses—that I had seen none of it, blinded by deeper needs welling out from my hunger to love and be loved in this loveless life.

  “No, no-o.” I thumped the tree with my fist. “No,” I shrieked, no longer caring who heard.

  The quick footfalls of Gunnar and Abby closed in behind me.

  Gunnar latched on to my arm.

  “Let go!” I jerked and whipped out of his hold and tumbled backward, dropping to my knees, spilling the hurt into the dark ground. “You’ve taken everything. Not Rainey. Rainey,” I wailed.

  Abby tried to shush me with soft words. “Oh, dear RubyLyn, I’m so sorry, chil’.”

  “How could you?” I hissed.

  Gunnar put a hand on my shoulder. “Get on up, RubyLyn. We need to talk about things—us here in Nameless . . .” I felt his fingers dig into my ribs, work their way under me as he tried to pull me up. “Stand up.”

  I didn’t want to get up, ever. I wanted to empty my tears—bloody the already darkened soil with more hurt. I wanted the dirt to cover me, hide me like it does its dead. I wanted nothing. And I went limp in his big, ugly hands. He tugged again and I felt him lifting me and found the strength to twist my shoulders and chest, grab one of his gnarled fingers, and bend it back.

  I broke away, threw the deed in their faces. “Nameless? I got nothing left in Nameless!”

  Gunnar grasped my elbow.

  Abby put her hand on his. “Gunnar, let her go and tend to her hurtin’. Alone,” she said.

  “RubyLyn—” he began.

  “Don’t,” I warned.

  Gunnar dropped his hold and shifted his weight back.

  “Nothing left.” I spit at him and tore off across the fields.

  A minute later, I stood breathless in front of our house. Numbly, I bent over and picked up the strawberry dress from the yard, then climbed the porch steps.

  Inside, I slung the dress over a kitchen chair. Flinging open the pantry door, I grabbed Gunnar’s bourbon bottle and plopped down into the chair. Staring hard at the dress, I opened the Kentucky Gentleman and downed a big, burning gulp. Coughed. Downed more. And coughed again.

  I held up the bottle, read the name, and gave a short, tight laugh. “Gentlemen?” I wiped my tears. “Nothing but cheaters and women beaters here.”

  I shoved stuff off the table, sending Mama’s purse, newspaper, pens, and Gunnar’s pills flying. The Tuinal lid burst off the bottle. Colorful capsules skittered across the green linoleum.

  I pulled Mama’s snakeskin purse onto my lap and fished out her lipstick and our fortune. I smeared the paint across my mouth, thickening, smacking my lips. I studied the flaps on the fortune-teller. Tracing my fingers over the tiny sketched portraits of me and Mama, I peered closely at the third flap with the tobacco leaf, then the fourth where Daddy should’ve been, instead of this poorly drawn heart with the cut down its middle.

  Distant screams sawed through clouded memories. Mama, Daddy. Daddy yelling at Mama. Me. Daddy rushing toward me, knocking me onto
the floor. More screams . . . Mine. His. More crying. I shook my head, the memory fuzzed, blurring.

  I tossed back two more gulps of the bourbon and fell to my knees coughing, the bottle tipping, spilling out some of the booze. Brown liquid spread out before I caught the bottle and set it upright.

  I felt the aching hum of the Patsy Cline song rub my tongue. I tipped back the bourbon to silence it, slapped the wet floor with the bottle.

  Floor.

  The spill had dirtied my spotless linoleum.

  I stared down at it feeling trapped—aching in the darkest way—drumming the floor with the bottom of the Kentucky Gentleman.

  I knew it would be hell to clean the sticky mess, but I swiped my foot over the puddles anyway, making a bigger mess for him. Him always telling me to appreciate the living bones in my knees. Let him feel the breath in his own knees and clean up this slop. If I was gone, he wouldn’t have anyone . . . No one. Same as me. No one—no more. And no more Rainey and me breaking our living bones for his dead ones.

  Rainey . . . At least he had a mama and daddy now—alive—close to his side.

  I blinked, swigged more, spilt some more, and looked at the blue and red capsules scattered in the bourbon, dropping fat tears onto the floor.

  The power of the booze landed low and hit me. My throat and gut felt the burn and asked for more.

  Family is what I needed from Gunnar, but could never have. I guzzled down the webbed thoughts, took another long drink. All the good having one does . . . Rainey. Knowing about his family now would destroy him.

  I stretched out an arm and touched the beautiful strawberry dress—the dress meant for us.

  “Rainey,” a hot breath escaped. “Rainey.” I howled, scooping the small capsules into my hand, rolling, jiggling them across my palm.

  I looked down at the grimy floor and let out a desperate growl. “Gunnar . . . Damn you, Gunnar, I won’t let you keep me tied to your tobaccos—alone—slowly executing me in this godforsaken land!”

  I took another mouthful of bourbon. “I won’t . . . and I sure as hell won’t botch my own godforsaken leaving.”

  My fingers reached for one of the pretty pills.

  “Pre-tty, pre-tty. My GodPretty.”

  I popped the pill into my mouth. Another.

  Chapter 35

  Gunnar had a funny look on his face. Not his usual executioner glare or the Bible-thumping one either. I tried to pop open my eyes bigger to get a better glimpse, but they were too heavy, swimmy-like. He talked funny, too. “Go to town and telephone Doc,” he was saying, smacking my cheeks.

  Clipped voices crawled across the air, buzzing.

  “RubyLyn, RubyLyn,” he hummed, pushing my head toward the toilet. “That’s right, get it all up. Up.”

  Abby’s voice floated atop his. “RubyLynnn.” And Rose’s over hers. I pulled a wet towel off my neck. The pink company’s-coming towel. For me?

  Gunnar smacked my cheeks again, called out, “Hurry, go to town and telephone him.”

  Their voices bumped like angry snakes. “RubyLynnn . . . Hon-eee . . . Telephone-ph-phone.” Are they talking on my old telephone toy?

  Someone lifted me up, carried me away. Daddy. But how?

  “M-m-m.” I tried to speak, but my drug-soaked voice climbed through raw, tight pipes. “My—my . . . Da-ddy.” I reached out my arm, grasping for him.

  A perfumed Rose leaned in close, grabbed it, and clasped me in a hug.

  Commotion.

  Then I saw old Doc Sils bent, his face blurring over mine. “All we can do is let her rest now,” he said before I sped into blackness.

  A pounding in my head finally stirred me awake. Night had fallen and the table lamp cast shadows across the face of my bedside clock and Gunnar’s slumped body. I grabbed the top of my head, plucking off a pink towel.

  Gunnar sat in a chair, perching his elbows on tall knees, hands fisted over the State Fair candle cross in prayer.

  I squeezed my eyes shut. Anything to do with Gunnar and God would mean punishment.

  Gunnar must’ve seen me move. He jumped up from the wooden chair beside my bed. “RubyLyn, you’re awake. It’s been fourteen hours . . . O thank you, Merciful Lord!” He grabbed the headboard, looked up at the ceiling, his wild-eyed expression scaring me.

  I tried to get up. Weak, I slumped back down.

  “Stay put. I’ll bring tea.” He left the bedroom.

  In a few minutes, I pulled myself up and swung my legs out of bed. My feet sank into the worn rug. Shaky and a bit fuzzy, I made my way to the bathroom. I’d barely finished washing my face when I became light-headed again. I shuffled back to bed and collapsed onto the pillow.

  When I stirred awake, Gunnar was there again.

  “Let me warm your tea,” he fussed.

  In a bit he came back with the tea and some toast. “Sip slowly. And here”—he set the plate of toast beside me—“try a bite of this.”

  Gunnar hovered over me as I took a swallow of the hot liquid. Watching him, I nibbled on the toast, drank more tea, and soon felt less shaky.

  “I-I’m fine,” I trembled, pushing the plate away.

  He pulled up the chair and sat down. “I’m not.”

  I swallowed, waiting for his hard words.

  “RubyLyn, you gave me a scare . . . I have failed you and Rainey with my secrets.”

  “Secrets,” I shivered, everything flooding back.

  “Some that should’ve been shared. Sins . . . Mine and Abigail’s. . . We’ve always loved each other, even as youngsters. But the times say you stay put with your own . . . No different than now. My weakness.”

  I stared at Gunnar. Weak. Nothing about him was weak. He was like the hundred-year oak in our side yard.

  As if claiming my thoughts, he went on. “I’m ashamed to say, I was. No excuse for what I’ve done. Knew after Gus passed, it would be an even harder road for Rainey here if folks found out about us. Still would. Being colored and being a bastard in this world is damning . . . damning the already damaged that folks see and pick on. Do you understand that?”

  My thoughts had pulled to it. “Yes,” I barely whispered and knew he was right. At least Rainey could claim a namesake, a daddy, though it weren’t the right one.

  “RubyLyn,” he said, “I’ve prayed on this every day. . . . Every day. I couldn’t protect my women—Claire or your mama, or do much about Rainey . . . and you were my last chance. Lord knows I’d been given a few. That’s why I picked you up at the orphanage. Hoping for that chance I didn’t get.”

  My eyes widened. Gunnar never talked about this—or Mama.

  “I’ve heard you cry out in your sleep plenty over the years,” he said. “Cry out for them—for your pa. Didn’t know quite what to do about it, except pray some more. I’m truly and deeply sorry for not doing right by you—for not being enough of a man . . . the father you needed.”

  Embarrassed, I looked away.

  “Maybe if you know the whole truth, the nightmares will leave you be.”

  I squirmed. What else?

  Gunnar gripped my hand, rubbing it, something he hadn’t done but one other time that I could remember: the day we walked out the orphanage together. I couldn’t help holding right back despite knowing it would fade as sure as his declarations.

  “RubyLyn, you need to know that your pa died protecting you. He loved you.”

  “What do you mean, Gunnar?” I asked, wadding up the bedsheet in my other hand. “It was because of the drinking. You’ve said it a hundred times.” I untangled our hands.

  He shook his head. “It was more . . . Your folks had come in late from one of their revivals. He was spent and your mama poured him a stiff drink, and after it all happened, I said the drinking killed him, when it really was the snake.”

  “Snake . . . But—”

  “I couldn’t tell you. I had to protect you. Couldn’t have you blaming yourself for his death.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, the fear stacking up like
bricks. I pushed myself up straight.

  “The men helping him at the revival didn’t knot the snake bag tight when they delivered it back to your parents’ house . . . Left the damn church snake sitting on the porch instead of putting it back in its glass cage out back in the shed . . . You picked up that old telephone you were so fond of—”

  “Telephone.”

  He rubbed the swollen burls on his knuckles. “You were just a baby, not yet five, how could you have known? You wandered onto the porch, took the toy and banged it on the sack, playing.”

  The long-ago memory burst into my brain new and bright. “Talk, talk, talk,” I’d hissed long ago, tapping the plastic receiver on the brown cottonseed bag. “Talk to Daddy!”

  “Didn’t take much.” He grimaced. “The snake wriggled out and was getting ready to strike, when your pa shoved you out of the way and saved you. The snake struck his arm.”

  My hand flew to my mouth, tears gathered behind my closed lids. “I remember now.”

  “Your pa was a good man and had a strong faith. He believed God would heal him. Refused the doctor, calling on Mark . . . Mark 16:18.”

  I racked my brain for the Bible verse.

  “He believed that verse was the word of God. ‘They shall take up serpents and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them,’ ” Gunnar recited. “And I’d argued with him about it.”

  That’s why Mama didn’t sketch him on our fortune-teller. Her, saving the last flap for my memory. Frantic, I scanned the room, searching.

  Seeing my distress, he lifted up the teacup. “Here, have some more.”

  I pushed it away. “My things—”

  “I put your purse and the other things over on the dresser by those new stack of books Rose brought by this morning. She changed you into your gown.”

  “Rose was here?” I looked down at myself, hating that she saw me in this troublesome way.

  “I couldn’t keep her away.”

  I stared at the dresser. The crinkly fortune-teller I’d made with Mama sat unfolded beside her lipstick. The penciled sketches showing. Deep down, I must’ve known all along: I’d drawn the broken heart and the snake down its center to remember he’d died saving me. The memories flooded back, battering my heart.