He would leave early and watch the trains come and go, he decided. Nathaniel drove with his windows down, the scents of spring, mowed grass and gardenias, drifted inside like old friends. The sky was blue with only a few puffball clouds low on the horizon. As he approached the station, he heard the faint whistle of the first afternoon arrival. This would be the train from southern Alabama, he thought, remembering that Walt had come in on it the last time he visited.
In the parking area, Nathaniel tugged off his jacket and necktie and rolled up his shirtsleeves. A cigarette. Just one? Yes, just one. He wanted to quit, having noticed they made his breathing harder when he walked, like he couldn’t get enough air inside his lungs. But so far he’d been unsuccessful in quitting cigarettes or whiskey. His mother would be appalled at his new vices. He took one of the cigarettes from the pouch and lit it, taking a deep drag that he blew out the open car window. Near the depot building, the azaleas were in their full spring glory, God’s beauty standing in stark contrast to the men in tattered work clothes and boots lined up outside the coal mining office. Waiting. Always waiting. Waiting for work that never came.
The train whistle blew. Trains. How he’d loved them as a boy. As an adult they’d represented adventure and acclaim as he went from city to city on tours. He smoked a second cigarette, staring out the window. Of course there was no such thing as just one. Cigarettes and whiskey, same problem. To think there was a time when he wouldn’t have touched whiskey. But that was before. Before the accident. Everything was divided like this. Life before the accident and life after.
Lavender grew next to the fence, and bees swarmed over the fragrant flowers, so many that he could hear their faint, collective buzz. He smoked the second cigarette until he could no longer hold it without burning his fingers and tossed in on the ground. A walk, perhaps? Would that clear his mind? He got out of the car, stomping the cigarette butt with the toe of his shoe, and walked toward the station’s office.
The chug of the train’s engine was like the low notes of a cello, the whistle punctuating in a high note as if from a flute, the clanging of the wheels against the tracks the percussion. He leaned against the station’s brick wall, his hands in his pockets. The arriving train came to a stop. He wondered what the train’s arrival meant for each of the passengers: a new beginning, a quest, a reunion with a loved one? All possibilities that no longer existed for him.
It was in the release of that thought that he saw her for the first time. She stood at the exit of the passenger car, a small suitcase in one white-gloved hand and a handbag in the other, surveying the station with squared shoulders and an anticipatory expression on her refined face, like she was embarking on a splendid journey of some kind, perhaps a safari or a visit to the pyramids. She wore a yellow dress the color of lemon pie and a faint pink straw hat with a wide brim and pale yellow ribbon the same shade as her bobbed hair. Without thinking, he moved closer to the train, his eyes upon her. She surveyed the platform, and then her gaze came to rest on his face. She smiled in a hesitant way and then stepped from the train, moving with an athletic grace, as if he were there to meet her. She was unusually tall for a woman, almost like she’d been stretched from head to foot, elongating every aspect of her. Even her face was long and skinny, with a small pointy nose that perfectly matched the elegant tip of her chin. She radiates energy, he thought, transfixed.
By then she was upon him. “Excuse me, sir, would you be so kind as to point me toward Alabama College?” Her voice was low-pitched, almost husky, with a northern accent.
He felt himself go hot at the neck. “That way.” He pointed east.
“Oh, thank you very much.” Her eyes were light blue and alive, full of humor. “I’ve just arrived, as you can see, from Atmore, Alabama. Have you heard of it?”
“I’m not from here, but that’s near Mobile, isn’t it?”
“Right. I’m not from here either, the South, I mean. Well, I’ve lived here for twenty years, but I’m from upstate New York originally.” She set down her suitcase and adjusted her hat. “I was suddenly almost too frightened to get off the train. I haven’t been away from my home in, well, in a long while.” She peered at him from under the brim of her hat in a way that made him uncomfortable. Women’s gazes still did that to him, even after all the years with Frances. “Were you waiting for someone?”
“No. I mean, yes.” He tried to think of how to explain his presence, but his mind was blank. He might not remember his own name if she’d asked that. “I’m here to meet someone, but she’s not on this train. She’s coming from Atlanta.” To his surprise, another truth tumbled from his mouth. “I suddenly couldn’t bear my own life so I came here to look at trains come and go, wishing I could be on one of them. But I can’t.” Flushing, he cleared his throat. “That sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?”
“Not at all. I understand perfectly.”
The way she looked at him! It felt as if it might pierce through to the center of his brain.
“There are times in every life when we must dig in and stay rather than fly, no matter how much we might want to.”
The scar on his arm pulsed. “Quite so.”
She picked up her suitcase. “I should get on, then. Thank you for your assistance.”
He felt the air go out of him. “Of course. Have a lovely day.”
She smiled, revealing a row of small, shiny teeth. Her smile was like sudden sunshine on a dark day and made her as beautiful as any woman he’d ever seen. “Wish me luck. I’m quite terrified.”
“I imagine you’re the type of woman who makes her own luck, but I wish you some just the same. Good day.” He tipped his hat and turned away, feeling her eyes still on him.
Chapter 29
Jeselle
* * *
Nate was waiting when the train pulled into the station. She almost cried at seeing his familiar face. He rushed to greet her, taking her satchel. “Jeselle, good to see you. How was your trip?”
“Fine, sir.”
They drove through the main part of town, passing a downtown area with a café and movie theater. Several brick buildings lining the streets housed various shops: drugstore, grocery store, fruit and vegetable stand, and a lawyer’s office. A block from Main Street the streets turned residential: neat homes with green lawns and flowers and dipping, moss-covered oaks. They passed a large, brick church with stained glass windows. Nate pointed across the street from the church. “There’s the college.” It was a clump of brick buildings arranged around a water tower and wide, grassy lawns and brick paths. Beautiful. Jeselle turned away, focusing on the tips of her shoes.
They turned down a street called Vine. The houses on this street were more modest than others they’d passed: modern Craftsman homes with front porches and small lawns. At several of them, white women sat on rocking chairs, snapping green beans or knitting, occasionally calling out to one another.
Inside the house, Nate and Jeselle sat at a small table in the kitchen to discuss her duties. “Just standard cooking and cleaning.”
“Where’s Miss Frances?”
He rubbed his eyes. “Resting. She has a lot of sad days. It’s best to stay out of her way if you can.” He paused, looking at her. “But I suppose you know that.”
“Yes, sir. I’ve known her all my life.”
“If you have any questions, save them until I get home.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m looking forward to some decent cooking,” he said with a smile. “Come on, I’ll take you out to your cousin’s. You can start tomorrow.”
“No, sir. I’m here. I’ll fix your supper before I leave. And I’ll walk to Bess’s.” Mama had given strict instructions on this: Nate was not to see where and how Bess lived. “It’s no more than a quarter mile out of town.” This was a lie. From the directions Bess’s husband, Ben, sent, Jeselle knew it to be at least two miles out of town, down a dirt road on Pierson’s farm.
She fixed Nate and Frances’s supper: slices of left
over ham, collard greens, and some biscuits. Nate insisted she eat as well before setting out to walk to Bess’s farm.
Jeselle carried her satchel in one hand, feeling a blister developing in the palm of her hand. The heat of the day had dissipated some with the setting of the sun, but it was still muggy and warm, and Jeselle was weary and emotionally numb. She felt the additional girth of her growing baby; she was breathless, and her feet ached.
She walked past a creek, over a crest of a low hill, and then along a paved country road until the she saw a dirt lane marked with a sign that said, “Pierson.” Ben had written that the house was about 200 yards down the dirt driveway, but it felt like she might never see another sign of humanity. Pines, unusually tall, enclosed the road so that Jeselle felt alone and frightened. Dark shadows between the trees reminded her of a children’s fairy tale, as if something frightening might jump out any moment. She told herself it was ridiculous to think this way. It was nothing but a hot and dusty road.
At a bend in the road, Jeselle rounded the corner and saw the cabin—a ramshackle heap of boards tossed together, leaning to the left, and the roof and front porch sagging into the shape of a crooked smile. No front door and two windows without glass, so that Jeselle could see right through the house to the other side.
A young couple stood on the porch. Jeselle assumed they were her cousin Bess and the husband, Ben. Holding onto Bess’s skirt were two small girls. An older boy, around ten, stood next to his father. Bess held a baby in her arms.
The little girls came running toward her. “Cousin Jes. Cousin Jes,” they shouted. She realized she had no gifts for them as they tugged on the skirt of her dress, pulling her toward the house. The boy took her satchel, his eyes on the ground.
“Thank you for having me,” Jeselle said straightaway.
“You talk like a white girl.” Bess, tall, stooped-shouldered, and with a protruding midsection, narrowed her eyes, looking Jeselle up and down.
“Bessie, that ain’t polite.” Ben was a clear-eyed, large man with skin the color of dark brown leather. He put out his hand. “Glad to meet some of Bess’s family.”
Bess’s eyes hadn’t left Jeselle’s face. Jeselle felt her assessing her character in a way that reminded her of Mama. “Hardly family.” Bess turned to her husband as if Jeselle were not there. “She’s a distant cousin ain’t no one heard of ’til they needed something.”
They all went inside the house: two rooms, with only a thin wall dividing them. “We all sleep in there.” Bess pointed to a double bed, cot, and an apple cart with a baby blanket. “You’ll have to sleep on the porch.”
The boy handed her two blankets, still with his eyes cast toward the floor. “Made a cot for you from some old scraps of wood.” He pointed toward the porch. “It can be a bench, too.”
“What’s your name?” asked Jeselle.
“Tom.”
“I have a friend who made things from scraps of wood when he was a boy, too,” said Jeselle.
“Ain’t nothing but couple boards I nailed together.” He glanced up this time and gave her a slight, shy smile.
“Good Lord gave Tom a gift for making things,” said Ben. “He built that table for us with nothing but his bare hands.” He pointed to a wooden table in the corner of the room.
“Made it from wood from Pierson’s old barn,” said Tom.
Jeselle peered more closely at the table. The legs were peeled pine trunks or branches, as big around as a man’s forearm. The tabletop was made of thin slabs of wood with peeling red paint, like a snake shedding its skin. “It’s beautiful,” said Jeselle. “Pierson?”
“He’s the landowner,” Ben said. He went on to explain to her that as sharecroppers they were given seventy-five dollars’ worth of supplies for the cotton season, and whatever profit they made at harvest time was theirs to keep.
“But at the end of the season, there never seems to be any left, and we owe more than we borrowed,” said Bess.
“Who keeps the books?” Jeselle asked.
“The boss,” said Tom.
“You want me to look at them for you?” asked Jeselle.
“Boss never allow that,” said Ben.
“Tom can pick like a man.” Bess pointed at a stack of picking bags near the doorway. “He fill two of those a day.”
“Joy and Lizzie as fast as me,” said Tom. “Only they can’t last as long, being little.” He paused, looking over at his mother. “I can go twelve hours in hundred-degree heat.”
“He sure can,” said Bess.
Twelve hours? “How old are you, Tom?” Jeselle asked.
“Twelve,” said Ben. “Lizzie and Joy are five and seven. They pick with two hands, sacks so heavy they can’t carry ’em by the end of the day.”
“Pluck, pluck, drop-it-in-the-bag,” said the older girl, Joy.
“Me and Bess do the chopping,” said Ben. “It’s harder, and the boss always staring at us to go faster.”
“Chopping?” asked Jeselle.
Bess made an impatient sound. “Clearing weeds. With a hoe. Cotton can’t grow with weeds taking from the dirt.”
“Do the children go to school?” asked Jeselle, ignoring Bess’s glare but feeling the heat of embarrassment. She must seem like a spoiled dolt to her cousin, not knowing something that was a rote part of their lives.
“They closed the Negro school ’cause there ain’t money to keep it open. Don’t matter,” said Bess. “Pickin’ season lasts all through the summer and into November so they don’t got time anyway. By time winter comes it turn cold, and they don’t got shoes.”
“I went to school a couple of years,” said Tom. “I can read.”
The little girls continued to stare at Jeselle. They pulled on her skirt and looked up at her with round brown eyes. “Did you come here on the train?”
“Yes,” said Jeselle.
“Was it fast?” the older one asked. “Tom told us it’s like a bullet shooting from a gun.”
“It was. Faster than a car for sure.”
“You been in a car?” said Joy.
“I know how to drive a car,” said Jeselle.
“You do?” said Tom, his eyes big.
“We start work at dawn,” Bess said, her features turning from flat to hostile. “During pickin’ season we work from when we can see to can’t see.”
“Of course. I’m sorry to be a bother to you,” said Jeselle. “Is there anything I can do to help while I’m here?”
“Your mama sent us some money,” said Ben. “We’re mighty glad for it.”
“Um, where’s the bathroom?” asked Jess, flustered. She hadn’t known that Mama sent money.
“Outhouse around back.” Ben lit a new candle from the one on the table and handed it to her. “But we left a bucket for you by your cot. It’s best to use a bucket this time of night. Snakes and such after dark.”
Jeselle shuddered as she said goodnight and went outside. It was dark now, and the light from the flickering candle made shadows. The cot was a flat piece of lumber stacked on bricks. She put one of the blankets down in place of a mattress and then pulled one of her work dresses out of the satchel and changed in the light of the candle, too tired to care if anyone saw her. She squatted over the bucket and urinated, throwing the waste off the side of the porch. Shivering from fright rather than cold, she blew out the candle and climbed onto the cot. The air felt heavy with moisture. She used the blanket for a pillow, lying on her back and cradling her belly with both arms.
The night was a pool of black ink. A cloud layer, low in the sky, allowed no stars or moon to give Jeselle any relief from the despair that was beginning to seep inside her. She closed her eyes, thinking of Whitmore, wondering if there were stars where he was tonight.
A rustling, scratching sound penetrated the quiet night. Rodents, she realized with horror, scampering about on their tiny feet around the porch and up the walls. “Please, God, don’t let the rats get me while I sleep.” The crickets began to chirp. They were
loud, drowning out the clamoring scuttle of critters’ feet, and she drifted off to sleep. She dreamt of her cousins’ little hands, grabbing at that cotton, pluck, pluck, drop-it-in-the-bag, their brown eyes hungry, and they were singing:
Trouble comes, trouble goes,
I done had my share of woes.
Times get better by-n-by.
But then my time will come to die.
She awakened to the sound of a bell ringing from some distance away. Loud like a church bell except that it was a dull, relentless clanging. Inside the house, the baby cried. Floorboards creaked, and voices, low, called out to one another. Flatware clanked against tin plates. Jeselle got up, folding her blankets into neat squares before going inside. Bess was in the rocking chair, nursing the baby.
“Morning,” said Jeselle.
Bess nodded but didn’t say anything. The children sat at the table, eating biscuits that crumbled in their hands. They wet their fingers with their tongues and scooped up every crumb, leaving nothing but the sheen of the tin plate.
Jeselle hovered a few feet from the table. The children, intent on their measly breakfast, didn’t look over at her. Ben came in from the other room. “Mornin’, Jes. There’s a biscuit saved for you.”
“No, it’s all right. I’ll have something once I get to work.”
“Best be getting on then,” Ben said to his family. The children rose from the table and gathered their picking sacks from a corner by the door, slinging them over their shoulders. Bess tied the baby to her back using something that resembled a horse harness. The children trudged out the door, with Bess and Ben behind them. From the doorway Jeselle watched the children head toward the fields, walking behind their parents, abreast, in birth order like stair steps. She put her hand on her belly. “No,” she whispered. “No.”
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