A Home in Drayton Valley

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  “Come, Emmy and Nathaniel.” Tarsie nodded her head at the Foster children. “Tell your new friends good-bye. We must be goin’ now.” The bundle weighed heavily in her arms, making her impatient to get home.

  A chorus of childish good-byes rang, each voice tinged with regret. Just as the children pushed to their feet, the bell on the schoolhouse up the hill began to clang. Tarsie smiled as the doors burst open and children spilled out, lunch buckets in hand. She heard a sigh and shifted to look at the oldest of the Foster youngsters. The boy gazed up the hill, longing in his eyes. He turned to his mother.

  “Cain’t I be goin’, Mama? Huh? Huh?”

  Ruth cupped the boy’s dirt-smudged cheek. “Now, E.Z., we done talked ’bout this befo’. You know that school’s only fo’ the white chillun. You’s gon’ hafta wait ’til somebody comes along willin’ to make a school for the black chillun, too.”

  E.Z. scuffed his toe on the porch floor. “Ain’t nevuh gon’ happen.”

  Ruth swatted his bottom, and E.Z. yelped in surprise, holding his rear. Ruth pointed her finger at him. “Now you quit that kind o’ talk. Yo’ pappy an’ me, we’s prayin’ ever’ day ’bout school, an’ God’s gon’ answer by an’ by. Don’t you be disbelievin’, boy.”

  E.Z. nodded solemnly. “I’s sorry, Mama.”

  Ruth’s smile returned. She bounced it from E.Z. to Tarsie. “It was right nice meetin’ you all. I hopes to cross paths with you’uns again soon.” Waving her arm, she turned to her children. “Well, come along now, no dallyin’. We gots work to do at home.” The four traipsed off, the little girl skipping ahead, the youngest boy holding on to his mother’s skirt, and E.Z. scuffing behind with his head low.

  Tarsie watched them for a moment before she turned toward the house and headed up the road. Emmy and Nathaniel followed, chanting a nonsense song as they walked, but Tarsie paid little attention to their voices. Her thoughts were inward, churning. She’d heard mutters from her neighbors. Although many colored people resided in Drayton Valley, often working side by side with white men at the docks or in the warehouses, their homes were far separated. They attended different churches, buried their dead in different cemeteries, and apparently had a rule against colored children sitting under the same school roof as the white children. The white business owners had no trouble taking the blacks’ money, however. It didn’t seem fair.

  By the time they reached their little house, Tarsie’s arms ached from carrying the heavy load, and her heart ached from the seeming inequities between whites and blacks. Joss would certainly have much to say in defense of the current system. In fact, Joss would—

  She gave a start, the bundle dropping from her arms to spill its contents across the clean-swept floor. She clutched her hands to her heart, her soul rejoicing. Ruth had indicated Joss worked under a black manager. Joss Brubacher—working for a black man. She shook her head, marveling. Hadn’t she prayed for Joss to change? And apparently he had in some wonderful way or he’d never have taken that job at the vineyard. Although it still worried her to have him working in a place where wine was produced, she chose to push the worry aside. Perhaps this was God’s way of softening Joss’s heart.

  Tarsie honored her conviction to hold her tongue concerning Joss’s place of employment, trusting God had a reason for placing Joss at the vineyard. She waited for him to admit—or even bemoan—working for a colored man, but he never spoke of work. She supposed she shouldn’t expect him to. Joss wasn’t much of a talker, and even though she was his wife, he held his distance in every way. But she kept her ears tuned for any comment that might lead to conversation concerning Ruth’s husband and how Joss was getting along with him.

  On Sunday, she and the children attended a red-brick chapel set on a little rise overlooking the cemetery. Joss stayed at the house to cover the broken window with some scrap lumber he’d dragged home from the vineyard. Although Tarsie came close to informing him, rather tartly, that he’d make better use of his day attending church, she held the words inside. Mary had let her kind actions and attitudes speak to Joss, and Tarsie would follow the same example.

  Rain fell both Monday and Tuesday, turning the garden plot into such a mucky mess Tarsie feared she’d never be able to put the turnip, carrot, cabbage, tomato, and bean seeds in the ground. Having the youngsters constantly underfoot in the small space made work difficult, and she searched for ways to occupy them. Remembering how they’d drawn all over the sides of the wagon with bits of white rock, she gave them each lumps of coal and permission to use one wall of the house as a blackboard. They cheerfully entertained themselves most of the day Wednesday, allowing Tarsie to bake bread and do laundry without interruption.

  On Thursday morning, after Joss left and while the youngsters still slept, she sat on the little front stoop with her Bible in hand. The minister had admonished the congregation from the pulpit about the importance of spending time each day with God. Tarsie prayed daily—many times each day, as needs arose—but she’d neglected the Bible reading her aunt had encouraged. Determined to do better, she flopped open the worn book and hunched forward, drinking in the beautiful words of promise found in the forty-third chapter of Isaiah.

  Birds sang from treetops, oblivious to the gloomy sky painted the same color as an old iron washtub. Tarsie read aloud, her whisper joining with the birdsong to create a sweet melody of praise. “‘Fear not: for I have redeemed thee, I have called thee by thy name; thou art mine. When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee . . .’” She took comfort in the words, knowing how the rains filled the rivers and brought the banks to the edge of town.

  She read on, and when she reached verses eighteen and nineteen, a tremor of delight wiggled its way up her spine. Her heart skipping cheerfully within her chest, she read the words in a strong, sure voice. “‘Remember ye not the former things, neither consider the things of old. Behold, I will do a new thing; now it shall spring forth; shall ye not know it?’”

  Closing the Bible, Tarsie hugged it to her chest and looked out across the burgeoning day. So many “new things” were springing up—a new place to live, a new family to claim as her own, Joss taking on a new job, all of them meeting new people . . . Immediately, in her mind’s eye, an image of Ruth and her three barefooted, bedraggled children appeared. Something niggled in the back of Tarsie’s heart. She pursed her lips, squinting skyward. “Are You tellin’ me something important, dear God? Somethin’ new I’m to know . . . or do?” The idea quivered beyond her reach.

  “Tarsie? Tarsie, where are you?”

  Emmy’s panicked voice carried from inside the house, chasing Tarsie’s thoughts away. She rose, calling, “I’m out here, Emmy.” She entered the house, ready to face the day, but as she stepped to the cookstove to boil water for the children’s mush, she sent one more prayer up to the heavens. God, if You’ve got something else in mind for me to be doin’, make it clear to me so I can be about Your business.

  18

  The vineyard’s lunch bell clanged and, with a sigh of relief, Joss set aside his hoe. Simon limped ahead of Joss and climbed into his little mule-pulled cart. He lifted his hand in a wave before flicking the reins and rolling past the lines of workers filing out of the fields and making their way up the lane toward the Tollison mansion. Joss joined the ranks, eager to get out of the muggy air that buzzed with mosquitoes and sit for a while.

  To the west of the big house, Tollison had constructed a barnlike structure sporting rows of square windows on all four sides where the men gathered for meals or to get out of the rain. Behind the building, Joss’s horse grazed with a half dozen other horses owned by white workers and a goodly number of mules belonging to colored workers. Joss glanced into the corral, noting how the horses clumped together on one side, the mules on the other. Separate, just like their owners. Funny how even dumb animals knew things weren’t equal, no matter what Lincoln said or how Tollison tried to run this place. Joss didn’t k
now of any other operation that put colored men in authority over white men.

  Pushing the thought aside, Joss entered the building. Tollison’s house servants always set out jugs of water and baskets of fruit or pans of cobbler for the workers, and men swarmed the table containing the items. As much as Joss’s parched mouth longed for a cup of water, he wouldn’t battle the crowd, putting him elbow to elbow with the black men. Pa’d always said to be careful—the black could rub off on him. He’d fetch a cup of water and maybe an apple or two when everyone cleared out.

  He made his way to one of the roughhewn tables, his paper-wrapped cheese sandwiches in hand, and plopped onto a bench. Others joined him, tired-looking men with lines etched into their sunburnt foreheads. None of them spoke—they were too interested in guzzling water from tin cups or digging through whatever their wives had sent in their lunch pails. That suited Joss. He’d listened to Simon’s blather every day since he’d started out here, from morning to late afternoon. The man seemed to have nothing better to do than follow Joss and oversee his every move. When would Simon finally trust Joss to do the job on his own?

  He finished his first sandwich in four big bites, nearly swallowing the chomps whole. The dry bread tried to stick in his throat, but he swallowed resolutely and reached for the second sandwich. Just as he lifted it, a hand shot over his shoulder. A black hand, curled around a shiny tin cup filled to the brim with clear water.

  “Here you go, Joss. You ain’t stopped for a drink all mo’nin’—need to have yo’self some watuh.”

  Joss nearly groaned. He grabbed the cup and plunked it onto the table, chagrined as droplets spilled over the rim. “Thanks.”

  “Sho’ thing.” Simon stood at the end of the bench, beaming down at Joss. “Mistuh Tollison’s cook done outdid herself today with peach ’n’ berry cobbler. It be ’most gone a’ready.” He bobbed a small plate under Joss’s nose. “If’n you want, I’ll gib you this portion an’ fetch another plate fo’ myself.”

  Joss squeezed his sandwich in both hands, his mouth watering at the sight of rich juices oozing from a thick, flaky crust. Tarsie was a good cook, but she’d never made anything more than some crispy cookies for treats. He wanted that cobbler so bad his insides nearly quivered right out of him. But he couldn’t bring himself to take that plate from Simon.

  “No, thanks.”

  Simon’s wiry eyebrows shot up. “You don’t like peach ’n’ berry cobbler?”

  Joss waved his sandwich, keeping his eyes averted from the tempting plate. “Got this to eat.”

  “A’right then.” Simon shrugged, his brown face still wreathed in a smile. “Just hope they’s still some waitin’ when you git that sandwich all et. Enjoy yo’ break, Joss. We’ll take up again when lunch is over.” Finally, he ambled off to a lone table near the colored workers, the shorter leg giving him a painful-looking hitch.

  The man on Joss’s right snorted. “That Simon . . . thinks he’s somethin’ ’cause the boss made him foreman. Don’t got nothin’ to do with him bein’ able. Got everything to do with his pappy pullin’ Tollison’s brother from a ragin’ creek when they were young’uns. Tollison thinks he owes the family.”

  Joss sat straighter. “That so?” He hadn’t realized how long the vineyard had been in operation. “Their families go way back, huh?”

  “Way I understand it,” the man continued, his derisive tone reminding Joss of his pa, “Tollison’s pa came from Virginia in the 1850s an’ brought a whole passel of workers with him—slaves he bought off o’ plantations. He gave all them slaves their freedom papers an’ put ’em to work here, plantin’ vines an’ peach trees alongside the berry brambles. Simon’s pa was one of the workers he freed, so Simon was born a free man.” The man narrowed his eyes, peering across the room at Simon. “Makes him uppity, to my way o’ thinkin’.”

  “Aw, Stillman, Simon ain’t so bad.” A man across the table pushed his spoon through the crust of his fist-sized serving of cobbler. “He don’t lord his position over anybody. An’ he knows grape-growin’—spent his whole life in the vineyard—so why shouldn’t he manage things? He’s got more sense’n you an’ me when it comes to what’s needed around here.”

  Stillman rose half out of his seat and clenched his fists. “You sayin’ a colored’s smarter’n me? That what you’re sayin’, Rouse?”

  Joss leaned away, tense and ready to join a fracas if it erupted. But on which side would he fight—Stillman’s or Rouse’s? Part of him agreed with Stillman, but as much as it irked him, he also saw sense in Rouse’s viewpoint. Uncertain, he held his breath, waiting to see what would transpire.

  Rouse dropped his spoon and held up his hands in surrender. “Ain’t gonna fight. You know Tollison’s rule—fightin’ gets instant dismissal.” He lowered his voice. “I need this job. Same as you do, Stillman.”

  As quickly as he’d flared, Stillman settled down. He plopped onto the creaky bench and snatched up an apple. Joss relaxed, turning his attention to his uneaten sandwich. It’d all happened so quickly, no one besides those at their table seemed to know a fight had nearly erupted.

  Stillman bit into his apple, chewed, and swallowed, his narrowed gaze pinned on Rouse, who went on eating with a hand that now trembled. After a few tense seconds, Stillman spoke again. “Ain’t Simon’s color bothers me so much as him drivin’ all over the place in that blamed cart. Rest of us hafta walk—Tollison don’t want us tramplin’ his ‘tender vines’ with wooden wheels or horse hooves. But Simon . . . he gets special privileges.”

  Rouse shook his head. “You holdin’ a grudge ’cause Simon uses that cart? Don’tcha think he’d ruther have two good legs to tote him from place to place?” The man shoved the last bite of cobbler into his mouth, then stood, his face sad. “There’re some things folks don’t got no choice over, Stillman, but we all choose how we treat people. Might do you some good to find a little Christian charity in your heart ’stead o’ bein’ so plumb hard-nosed.” He walked off and joined another table.

  Stillman muttered a foul oath and bolted off the bench. He tossed his cup onto the table near the double doors and stormed out. Joss watched Stillman go, relieved he hadn’t gone after Rouse. Stillman seemed to have a temper, so he’d best mind himself around the man—try not to rile him. Especially since he now knew Tollison would dismiss any man who started or participated in a fight.

  He faced forward, and his gaze landed on Simon, sitting at a table by himself. Behind him, black workers huddled together on benches. In front of him, white workers did the same. But there Simon sat, a part of neither group. Joss finished his sandwich, but more out of habit than hunger. His hunger had slipped away. Sympathy—a feeling he would never have expected—replaced the desire to eat.

  Rouse had asked whether Simon would choose to have a gimpy leg over two whole, hale legs. Even Joss, an uneducated dockworker from the poor side of New York, recognized no man would make such a choice. Joss paused, stopping to contemplate for the first time in his life that Simon had no choice over something else. His skin color.

  On Saturday morning, as dawn painted the sky all pink and soft, Ruth pressed Simon’s lunch bucket into his hand while planting a lingering kiss on his lips. He raised his empty hand to cup her cheek, using his thumb to caress the little hairs that curled tightly at her temple. So hard to leave her every day, especially so early, but he wouldn’t begrudge the job that required he be the first man to arrive and the last to go home. Pappy’d always said Edgar Tollison was an angel walking the earth, and Simon had to agree. What other white man would give a colored cripple such an important job? He wouldn’t let Mr. Tollison down.

  “Packed you the last o’ the sliced ham an’ three big chunks o’ corn bread.” Ruth pulled away to point at the little bucket, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Put a li’l surprise in there, too. Somethin’ to make you think o’ me when you oughta be thinkin’ o’ work.”

  Simon chuckled, giving her full cheek a soft pinch. “You tryin’ to get me fired
, thinkin’ on you ’stead o’ my job?” He bounced the bucket, pretending to try to peek beneath the frayed square of cloth hiding the contents. “Nothin’ in there gon’ jump out at me, is there?”

  She slapped at his chest, her deep chortle making him smile. “Only thing gon’ be jumpin’ is your heart, wantin’ to hustle on back here to me.”

  Simon tipped forward for a second kiss. “Woman, when the good Lawd handed out wives, He done saved the best o’ all for me. I love you, Ruth.”

  Her arms slipped around him, her face burrowing into the bend of his neck. “An’ I love you, too, Simon.” She stepped away, a grin giving her an impish look. “Now off to work with you.”

  Simon coiled his arm around her waist and drew her with him as he made his way to his waiting cart. “What’re you gon’ do with your day? Bakin’?” He smacked his lips, thinking about the rich molasses cakes and egg custard pies that often greeted him from the windowsill at the end of a Saturday, a treat for their Sunday dinner.

  “Goin’ to town. Gon’ try to look up Joss’s wife an’ chillun.”

  Simon’s steps halted. “What fo’?”

  “Just a visit.” Ruth’s expression turned wily. “Her bein’ new in town, she might could use a little woman-talk. ’Sides, our young’uns got along right good. She didn’t blink an eye at lettin’ hers run an’ skip on that porch with E.Z., Malachi, an’ Naomi right there in front o’ the whole town. Gon’ take her a present, too. Feel like I owe her a li’l somethin’ for favorin’ our’n.”

  Simon chewed his lower lip, concern rolling through his middle. “Jus’ be careful, will you? That Joss, he ain’t come right out an’ said he don’t want nothin’ to do with coloreds, but his standoffishness sho’ speaks it for him. Don’t wantcha gettin’ yo’self hurt, bein’ pushed aside by some snooty white gal.”