by Sam Torode
It wouldn’t be long till the frozen chickens started flying. Millie grabbed the bowl of gravy and held it over Wilburn’s head. “Well, you’re an old husband,” she said, “so what does that make me?”
“A kind, patient, faithful, long-suffering, beautiful wife.”
She rolled her eyes, then dropped into Wilburn’s lap and smiled. I was relieved—one hasty word could have set off another disastrous chain reaction. It’s a valuable skill, knowing how to defuse a woman.
As much as I wanted to ignore it, Millie’s revelation unsettled me. Three boyfriends dead? I didn’t know whether to feel even more sorry for Sarah, or frustrated that she hadn’t told me herself. Should I still ask her to the reunion? I excused myself to go outside and think.
+ + +
When I stepped onto the porch, Craw was setting up picnic tables under a canvas tent. “I hope you’re getting paid for this,” I yelled.
He waved. “I volunteered my services, actually—in exchange for a free ticket to the dance.”
I stepped off the porch and ambled towards him. “You’re really coming to the reunion?” I was surprised Uncle Will would let him. Did Aunt Millie know about this?
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Craw said. “Who knows—maybe I’ll find me a lady to take back to my shed.” He tweaked the brim of his hat.
“I’m not in the mood for jokes.”
“Who’s joking?”
“I need your advice … It’s about Sarah.”
A grin spread across Craw’s face. “I knew you’d come back to me. Now go ahead—ask me anything.”
I took a deep breath. “I just found out from Aunt Millie that she’s already had some boyfriends.”
“That’s no surprise,” he said. “You’d better lay your claim before somebody else comes along.”
“Not just one—three boyfriends.”
“The competition is fierce, eh?” Craw raised his hook. “Where are they? I’ll kill the bastards.”
“They’re already dead.”
“Hot damn, boy—you win by default!” He slapped the back of my head. “So what’s the problem?”
“Three. Boyfriends. Dead.” I waited a moment to let it sink in. “And she didn’t tell me—I had to hear about it from Aunt Millie. You don’t think there’s a problem there?”
Craw sat on a table and motioned for me to come over. “Listen, my boy. Everybody’s got a history. Something they’re scared or ashamed of. Skeletons in the closet, if you will.” When I sat next to him, he looked me in the eye. “Now, don’t try to tell me you don’t have any secrets.” I thought of the money and my cheeks flushed red.
Craw must have thought I was blushing over Sarah. “You love her, don’t you?”
The question jarred me. What did it mean to love someone? “I—I don’t know.”
Craw put his arm around my shoulder. “Tobias, my boy, a girl like Sarah doesn’t come down the tracks every day. You let this train roll by, and you’ll regret it the rest of your life.”
CHAPTER 24
AFTER the path to Sarah’s, I thought about love. Did such a thing even exist? The way of nature was self-preservation, not self-sacrifice. And the more I thought about it, love seemed to be nothing but a fancy word that disguised our innate selfishness.
Sure, I’d heard a few sermons about love. In my father’s system, you were supposed to love others—not for their own sake—but to deposit coins in your own spiritual bank account. Works of charity were ways of saving your own ass from hellfire.
And I’d heard a million songs about love. Bing Crosby and those fellows promised to love deeper than the ocean and higher than the stars for eternity. But who can sustain that kind of emotion for a month, or a year—much less forever? The song ends, the feeling fades, and they’re onto the next pretty girl.
Maybe the only true love was the sort for sale at the Pink Palace. All the getting and taking of love, without the fluffy words and empty promises. Fucking without the frills.
But if that was the only sort of love that’s real, why did it depress the hell out me? When I had the chance in St. Louis, I hadn’t taken it. And I didn’t want that with Sarah, either. I was attracted to her, but I wanted to believe that my feelings for her went beyond sex and self-interest. Did they?
By the time I got to her door, my hands were shaking. There’s nothing to be nervous about, I assured myself. You’re asking her to a square dance, not a waltz ball. Partners at a square dance barely even touch each other. Then I heard my father’s voice: “You might say it’s only square dancing, but it doesn’t take long to cut the corners off.”
For once, I hoped he was right.
Rosalind opened the door. “Tobias—what are you doing out this time of night? Come inside and—”
“That’s all right,” I said. “I just wanted to tell Sarah something. It won’t take long.”
Rosalind ducked back inside. A minute later, Sarah came to the door wearing a white nightgown. I was shocked to see her in something other than black. “Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t realize it was so late.”
Sarah stepped out onto the porch, barefoot, and crossed her arms over her chest. She glowed pale and ethereal in the moonlight, like the forlorn spirit of a Civil War widow. I had a sense that if I reached out to touch her, my hand would pass right through.
She cocked an eyebrow. “Well?”
“There’s—that is—” What had I come here to say? I leaned back against the porch rail and focused on the toes of my boots, desperate to gather my thoughts. “There’s a family reunion tomorrow.” I took another breath. “And Uncle Will said it would be fine if you came.”
“Mister Henry sent you to invite us?”
“Well, not exactly.” I glanced at her eyes, then back at the ground. “That is, I asked if you could come, and Uncle Will said it was all right.”
The hem of Sarah’s gown fluttered around her ankles. “Just me?”
When I looked up, she lowered her hands to her waist. I could see the outline of her nipples veiled in white linen. When I opened my mouth, no words came out. My bottom lip was quivering. “I don’t like crowds,” I finally managed. “I was hoping you could come, so I’ll have an excuse not to talk to all those relatives I’ve never met.”
Sarah folded her arms back over her chest. “So I’m the excuse?”
Damn it, I’d done it again. Why couldn’t I say what I meant?
She glided towards the door. “I’ll have to see. Mama probably has other plans for tomorrow. Goodnight.” She didn’t look back.
“Wait,” I said. “You’re not an excuse.” It was no use—she was inside the doorway now. “What I mean is—the reunion is my excuse.”
The door creaked, but I heard Sarah’s voice from inside. “For what?”
“To ask you to dance.”
The door clanged shut. I stopped breathing. Silence.
I stumbled into the yard, kicked the dirt, and cursed the moon. Then I heard the door open behind me. Sarah poked her head out. “Thanks for asking, Toby. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
+ + +
Heading back, I didn’t walk so much as float. Boyfriends?—bah. Curses?—who cared? Snapping noises in the grass? Nothing could shake me out of my reverie—not even a rattler.
Well, maybe a rattler. I jogged for the last leg of the trail, then climbed the farmhouse stairs and fell into bed, exhausted.
I dreamed I was riding the rails again, only this time, Craw wasn’t with me. I was headed back to Michigan with a big sack of Father’s money tied around my waist. The boxcar was pitch black, and the only sounds were the whine of the wheels and the pounding of rain against the roof. Somehow, I had the feeling of being watched.
In a corner, I thought I glimpsed the form of something darker than a shadow. “Who’s there?” The black shape didn’t speak or move, but it sent a chill down the back of my neck. I felt around until my hands grasped the cold steel rungs of a ladder. What a relief—now I could find another ca
r.
I climbed to the top and opened the hatch. As I struggled onto the roof, the wind and rain lashed my face. I kept on my hands and knees, creeping along the catwalk, but when I reached the back of the car there was nowhere left to go—only the caboose, and it had a smooth, curved top.
I tried to turn around, but someone blocked my way. A black silhouette stood tall against the sky. “Who are you?” No answer. I held out the sack of money. “What do you want—this?”
A flash of lightning tore through the darkness and I saw him—an Indian warrior with eyes red as fire and a face like melting wax. I threw the sack at his chest but he let it drop. It tumbled open, unleashing a shower of coins.
There was only one hope. I leapt for the caboose and slammed against the roof, sprawling. My limbs flailed for traction, but there was nothing to catch hold of. I slid over the wet metal, faster and faster.
As I flew off the edge, my eyes snapped open in the darkness of my bedroom. With a scream lodged halfway down my throat, I struggled for breath. For a few moments I could still see the Indian’s shape standing over my bed. Then my eyes adjusted to the early morning light and he faded away.
Damned old wives’ tales.
CHAPTER 25
BY noon Sunday, the farmstead was crawling with every manner of Henry relations—aunts and uncles, first cousins and second cousins, in-laws and outlaws. And I was the featured, freak attraction under the big tent: the sole progeny of long lost brother Malachi. Children pointed and stared, old men whispered, large women embraced and smothered me against their bosoms. I grabbed a brown bottle out of an ice bucket, hoping one beer would be enough to get me through the day.
Chatter and laughter filled the air, along with a cloud of cigarette smoke and the scent of roasting pig flesh. No wonder Father kept his distance from these folks—he was the only white sheep in the family. And what a family it was. After a few sips of beer, the names and faces blurred together—Verna, Maynard, Fanny, Homer, Eunice, Elmer …
For lunch, I devoured a piece of Old Squeal on a bun. He tasted a hell of a lot better than he looked. I taunted Craw with the succulent meat. “Come on—just one bite.”
He turned up his nose. “I have my dignity. Besides, I’ve got to save room for beer. Why eat lunch when you can drink it?”
Around two o’clock, I started wondering when Sarah would arrive. Or was I supposed to pick her up? Damn—how do these things work? Just then, two bony arms seized me from behind and lifted me straight off the ground. I squirmed loose and turned to face a shriveled old woman half my height and twice my strength. She caught me again in her vice-like grip. “My own flesh and blood!”
“I—I’m Tobias,” I said. “Malachi’s son.”
“I damn well know who ye are. Don’t ye know me? I’m yer Granny!”
I should have known—her few scraggly hairs were dyed bright peach. To give her another hug would have been overkill, so I held out my hand to shake hers. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Granny.”
Her hand felt like a skeleton’s covered over with parchment paper. She squinted her eyes, searching around me. “Now where in tarnation is that boy of mine?”
She must have meant my father. “He’s sorry he couldn’t make it down,” I said. “But the church, you know—”
“I ain’t seen hide nor hair of that boy in damn near twenty years.” Granny spat a stream of brown tobacco juice onto the ground. “You tell him to get his ass down here where I can whup it.”
Then she pushed me onto a picnic bench seat and squeezed up next to me. “Now, child, let yer Granny tell you everything you need to know about your illustrious forebears.” For the next half-hour, she regaled me with Henry family lore. Her front teeth were missing, her breath reeked of minty tobacco, and she yelled as though I were deaf—but I loved every minute of it.
According to Granny, the Henry family tree boasted dozens of war heroes, including six Civil War generals—all Confederate, of course. “If Jeff Davis had put a Henry in charge, instead of that fool Lee, you bet yer ass they’d be flying the Stars an Bars over the Potomac today.”
Out of pure spite, historians never gave the Henrys their due, Granny said. “Do you know who invented the automobile?”
I shrugged. “Henry Ford?”
“Horse shit!” she screeched. “Is that what they teach children in those Michigan schools? Well, they got it backwards—it was Ford Henry, not Henry Ford.”
Just as Granny was recounting the exploits of Ace Henry, fighter pilot in the Great War, Craw broke in from behind. He cleared his throat and bowed. “Pardon me, miss, but I need to borrow this boy for a moment.”
I turned around and caught a glimpse of dark hair and a red dress. When I stood up, I realized it was Sarah. Craw stood between us. “Tobias Henry, I’d like you to meet the girl who puts the rose in Glen Rose, Miss Sarah Hawthorn.” He put our hands together.
It must have been the beer emboldening me, because I bowed and touched her fingers to my lips. Craw poked me in the ribs. “I knew you’d learn fast.”
Then he turned to Granny, who was stuffing a pinch of snuff under her lip. “And who might this lovely lady be?”
“Granny, meet Craw,” I said. “Craw, Granny.” I whispered in Craw’s ear—“Just try taking her back to your shed.” Craw grinned, tipped the brim of his white hat, and sat down in my place.
Granny gave him a squint. “How the hell am I related to you?”
“Well, now,” Craw said. “Surely you remember Moses Henry, the great explorer?”
I didn’t get to hear the rest of his story, because Sarah tapped my shoulder. “Your excuse is here.”
“A fine excuse.” We snuck away, walking so close that my sleeve brushed against her bare arm. “Especially in that dress.”
Sarah tugged at the waist. “This old thing? Mama sewed it from some feed sacks.”
I touched the sleeve. It was coarse fabric all right, but I’d never seen a scarlet feed sack. “How’d she get it that color?”
“Soaked it in wine.”
“Better not stand too close. I might get drunk.” I already felt tipsy.
Sarah put her hands on my shoulders. “Sorry—I forgot Baptists can’t drink.”
“They can’t dance, either.”
“So what are we going to do?”
I carefully placed my hands on her waist. “I’m a bad Baptist.”
+ + +
When Old Squeal’s bones were picked clean, Wilburn, JP, and the others brought out their instruments and tuned up. At the front of the tent, a row of hay bales marked the dirt dance floor.
Uncle Will called out a “one, two, three,” and the Golden Melody Makers kicked up a swing tune I recognized from the Texas Stampede. Wilburn strummed his banjo and sang:
Chicken in the bread pan peckin’ out dough,
Granny will your dog bite, no child no;
Hurry up boys and don’t fool around,
Grab your partner and truck on down.
Ida Red, Ida Red,
I’m a plumb fool ’bout Ida Red.
Sarah tugged my sleeve. “Well? Let’s see your steps, Toby—”
My mouth went dry. I’d been expecting to square dance, which wasn’t really dancing so much as sashaying around while somebody tells you where to go. I had no idea how to swing dance. I’d never held a girl’s hand, much less held a girl’s hand while moving my feet in rhythm. Not even the beer could save me now.
As she took my hands, I was watching out of the corner of my eye to see how others were doing it. Sarah swung her arms, stamped her feet, and rocked back. I almost tumbled over on top of her.
“Silly,” she said. “You’re supposed to pull me back.”
“Got it.” I nodded like it was all a simple misunderstanding. Like somehow, I’d thought we were supposed to fall flat on our faces. Then I took her hands again, counting out the beats inside my head. I stomped along with her a few times, then landed my boot on top of her bare toes. “Shit—” she
let go and grabbed her foot. There was no explaining that one away. I was a bad Baptist and a worse dancer.
Sarah bravely took my hands a third time, and by the last verse I started to get the hang of it. Tap-tap, tap-tap, rock back …
My ol’ missus swore to me,
When she died she’d set me free;
She lived so long her head got bald,
Then she took a notion not to die at all.
Ida Red, Ida Red,
I’m a plumb fool ’bout Ida Red.
“You can twirl me if you like,” Sarah said.
“Sure you want to take that risk?” My head was already twirling as it was. Sarah let go of one hand, lifted the other above her head, and spun around under it. Then she wrapped herself inside my arm, turning till she bumped flush against me. Glancing down, I caught a glimpse of paradise down her dress front. Thankfully, the song ended before my body had a chance to react.
Sarah stepped back and tucked her hair behind her ears. “What are you smiling about?”
“You’ve got a nice form.” The beer made me as bold as Craw.
She raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’ve got a nice shape to you, that’s all.”
She laughed. “I’ve got the same shape as a washing board, silly.”
I didn’t tell her so, but that was one washing board I wanted to see.
Why do girls always fret about chest size? The fact that a girl has breasts is the exciting thing—doesn’t matter how large they are. Sarah’s might have been on the small side, but they crowned her body like rubies on a delicate silver band.
+ + +
Across the tent, I saw Craw leading Granny onto the dance floor. Were they really holding hands? Craw whispered something in her ear, and Granny giggled and slapped his chest.
