A Home in Drayton Valley

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  He worked his way along a deer-carved pathway through a stand of trees and brush so thick only slivers of sunlight penetrated. The sunbeams formed slanted pillars of shimmery dust. It was quiet there away from everything and everyone, cooler with the heavy cover of shade. Peaceful. Or it should’ve been peaceful. But the aching emptiness in his gut—the emptiness that had increased with Tarsie’s visit—traveled with him. Maybe the cool, sparkling, clear water would wash the uncomfortable feeling away.

  But even after washing himself from the top of his head to the soles of his feet, using the soap to scrub the majority of grime from his long johns, britches, shirt, and socks, and taking a leisurely swim to give his clothes a chance to dry out before he dressed again, he still hadn’t managed to rid himself of the dirtiness inside. He splashed his way to the bank and sat on a large rock, staring across the water with his chin propped up by one fist. All the scrubbing with the strongest soap couldn’t penetrate below his skin. The realization left him out of sorts. And more sad than he wanted to admit.

  The sun shone directly overhead when he wriggled into his damp clothes. Cook would have dinner going—probably something extra special, it being Sunday. After he ate, he’d take a nap. Maybe make up for some of the sleep he’d missed last night, lying awake fretting over his conversation with Tarsie. As he ambled along the narrow path, he heard voices—childish ones laughing and then a woman gently chiding followed by a man’s throaty chuckle.

  He tried to duck back out of sight, but he hesitated a moment too long. Simon Foster, his wife, and their children came up the path right toward him. The children skipped in the lead, with Simon and Ruth close behind. A large basket hung from Ruth’s arm and Simon carried a ratty-looking quilt. Heading for a picnic, no doubt. A coil of longing twined through Joss’s middle. How many meals had he eaten with Mary, Tarsie, and the young’uns on the trail? It’d been nice, all clustered together on a quilt on the ground.

  The two little boys, who led the pack, stopped and gaped at Joss. The biggest one pointed. “Ain’t that Emmy an’ Nattie’s pappy?”

  Ruth reached out and pushed the boy’s hand down. “Ezekiel Foster, you gots better manners than to be pointin’ at folks.”

  The boy poked his bare toe against the ground, shame-faced.

  Simon limped past his family, his smile wide. “We’s gon’ have ourselves a picnic down by the crick.”

  Joss squirmed in place, wishing he’d managed to escape before they spotted him. “I figured as much.” The scent of fried chicken reached his nose. Unconsciously, he turned his gaze on the basket. “I’ll get out o’ the way so you all can head down.”

  “Why don’tcha come with us?” Simon’s face glistened with a fine sheen of perspiration. It was shady here in the trees, but the long walk on his bad foot must tax him. “Ruth, she wrung the necks o’ two birds yestuhday. Got plenty.”

  Ruth’s face briefly reflected disapproval, but the expression disappeared so quickly Joss thought he might have imagined it. “Why, sho’,” she said. “We’d be right pleased to share.”

  Joss stood, uncertain. Chicken sounded good. The idea of not spending the afternoon all alone with his thoughts sounded better. And Simon knew God—how many times had Joss inwardly accused the man of sounding like a preacher? Maybe Simon could answer a few questions . . . if they had a chance to sneak off and talk. He wouldn’t say much in front of Ruth. She’d repeat it all to Tarsie.

  Tarsie . . . Joss swallowed hard. He sure wished things could be different for him and Tarsie. But if he’d messed things up with God, he’d messed things up even worse with Tarsie.

  Simon’s boy—the one they called E.Z.—sidled up beside his daddy. Simon’s hand rose and descended on the boy’s wiry hair. Gave it a pat. A loving pat. A lump filled Joss’s throat. Much as it pained him to admit it, he could learn an awful lot from Simon.

  “Thanks for the invitation,” Joss finally said. “I . . . I think I would like to have a piece of that chicken.”

  Joss’s response couldn’t have surprised Simon more if the man had picked up a rock and chucked it at E.Z.’s head. The way he stared at the boy, with his forehead all creased and angry-looking, Simon half worried Joss wanted to take after little E.Z. But then he agreed to eat with them. Would wonders never cease?

  “Well, c’mon then.” Ruth gave him a little nudge from behind. “This basket o’ food’s pullin’ on my arm. I’m ready to toss out that blanket an’ have us a set-down.”

  The children giggled, then dashed up the path, nearly trampling Joss’s feet as they passed. Ruth came alongside him, and Joss held out his hand.

  “Lemme carry that for you.”

  Ruth seemed to freeze for a moment, her lips flapping a bit as if fighting for words. But then, with a self-conscious chortle, she handed it over. “Thank you. It ain’t the chicken so much as the jars o’ pickles an’ such I put in there that’s weighin’ it down.”

  “It all sounds real good,” Joss said, his voice quiet and serious.

  Ruth scuttled on up the path, holding her skirts up above her bare ankles, and Joss followed. Simon trailed behind, shaking his head in puzzlement. A week away from Tarsie had surely broken something inside that man. Talking soft and gentle instead of loud and angry. And being willing to eat with a black family? Simon would never have imagined it.

  They reached the creek, and the children darted straight for the water. Simon called out, “You be careful, now—watch where you step. ’Member that busted glass little Nathaniel got hisself cut on.”

  “We’ll be watchful, Pappy,” Malachi responded. He took Naomi’s hand and the pair waded in together with E.Z. splashing more exuberantly a few feet away.

  “They’ll be fine.” Ruth took the quilt and spread it on the mossy ground. “Bunch o’ men came down an’ cleaned up all that glass. Must o’ been four, five bottles worth in all! I ain’t heard no hoorawin’ down here since, so I reckon we’s safe.” She snorted under her breath, taking the basket from Joss’s hand. “Fo’ now, anyways.”

  Simon sent a sidelong glance toward Joss. The man stood to the side, his solemn gaze on the children. What was he thinking, listening to Ruth disparage men who’d come down to the creek, drank themselves silly, then tossed their bottles aside without a care for who might come along later? He’d probably never know. Joss was one closemouthed man.

  Ruth filled the center of their quilt with the contents of the basket. Crisp fried chicken, biscuits, hard-boiled eggs, and jars of pickles, spiced peaches, and okra. Simon’s mouth watered in eagerness. He struggled down on one knee to lay out the plates. He placed them just so, then frowned.

  “Whoops. Only got five plates.”

  Joss cleared his throat and took one step toward the path. “That’s all right. I don’t gotta eat with y’all. I’ll just—”

  Ruth bounced up and caught his arm, drawing him to the quilt. “Me an’ Naomi’ll share a plate. Men.” She shot Simon a mock glare. “Allus seein’ problems where none exist. Sit down, Joss.” She turned to the creek and hollered, “You chillun get on up here now. We’s gon’ eat!”

  They came and flopped down at the edge of the quilt—Naomi in Ruth’s lap, Malachi between his folks, and E.Z. next to Joss. He beamed up at the big man, poking his tongue through the gap where a tooth had fallen out last week. To Simon’s surprise, Joss didn’t rear back. He didn’t smile, either, but he lifted his hand and gave E.Z. a little pat on the back. Hesitant. Like he wasn’t quite sure how to go about touching a child. The gesture made something burn in the back of Simon’s nose. How he wished the good Lord had given him the ability to read minds. He’d love to know what Joss was thinking right then.

  Ruth bumped Simon’s elbow. “Say the blessin’, Simon, so’s we can eat. These young’uns . . . an’ Joss . . . ’re hungry.”

  Simon started to bow his head, but Joss spoke, startling his head upward again.

  “An’ when we’ve finished eatin’, maybe you an’ me . . .” Joss swallowed. “I
mean, Simon an’ me, could have us a little talk.”

  Simon gave a quick nod, then closed his eyes to offer thanks for the meal. While he prayed, though, his thoughts tripped ahead. He’d wondered what was going through Joss’s head, and now it seemed he’d get to find out. He added a silent postscript to his prayer: Lawd, whatevuh it is he’s wantin’—an’ I’m afeared he might try to get me tangled all up in his an’ Tarsie’s troubles—give me wisdom in answerin’ him. Whatevuh’s gon’ be, let it be pleasin’ to You, Lawd.

  32

  Hitch up Ransom, Simon. I’s gotta get straight to town an’ tell Tarsie.”

  Simon couldn’t stop grinning. Ruth nearly twitched right out of her skin. She looked like a young girl again, eyes all twinkling and cheeks rounded up with her smile. But he caught her hand and drew her back down on the little bench tucked beneath the kitchen window of their house.

  “Now, Ruth, you know what I shared with you ’bout my talk with Joss is private. He’ll nevuh trust me again, you run in an’ spout it all to Tarsie.”

  Ruth’s bright smile turned into a pout. “But it’s only fittin’ she knows, her bein’ Joss’s wife an’ all. ’Specially since she’s prayed so hard he’d go seekin’ the Lawd.”

  “Oh, she’s prayed—I’m for certain sho’ o’ that. But they ain’t married up.” He explained the trick Joss had played, watching disbelief bloom across Ruth’s face. Then he added, “An’ ’sides that, Joss di’n’t make no decisions. Oh, he asked lots o’ questions. I answered ’em best I could. Gave ’im plenty to think on, I reckon.” Simon sighed, recalling the way Joss’s eyes had lit, then dimmed as he wrestled with accepting the truth that God loved him. Really, really loved him.

  Simon took Ruth’s hand. “You knows that story in the Bible—’bout seeds gettin’ dropped an’ some sprouted but some di’n’t?”

  “Sho’ do. I can even read most o’ it on my own now, thanks to Tarsie.”

  Simon gave his wife’s hand a squeeze, proud of her accomplishment. Maybe someday she’d teach him. He sure would like to read the stories out of God’s book all by himself. “Well, today I tossed a handful o’ seeds on Joss’s road. Others’ve tossed ’em befo’. He tol’ me his wife, Mary, she was a believuh. An’ o’ course we know Tarsie’s a believuh. So there’s been lots o’ seeds tossed. Now we’s just gotta pray Joss’ll let them seeds sprout.

  “But you cain’t say nothin’ to Tarsie.” Simon turned firm—something he rarely did with Ruth. “Joss, he don’t know what he’s gon’ do. Pro’bition comes an’ the vineyard closes, he says he cain’t stay ’round here. An’ Tarsie, she don’t wanna leave Kansas. So they might be partin’ ways. You go runnin’ tellin’ her Joss done talked to me ’bout the Lawd, it might give her false hope. No sense in that.”

  Ruth released a deep sigh. “I s’pose you’s right. But it sho’ would give her a lift to know he’s at least askin’.”

  “Ruth . . .”

  Ruth waved both hands in the air. “I hears you! I hears you! I ain’t gon’ say nothin’.” She grinned, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “But I sho’ is gon’ pray, long an’ hard, that them seeds get to bloomin’ in Joss’s heart. For the Lawd, but also for Tarsie. ’Cause, Simon, sho’ as the sun sets in the west, the girl be in love with that man.”

  Oh, Lord, why’d You let this love blossom in my heart for Joss when You knew he’d misled me?

  Tarsie used a sharp knife and turned the cheese she’d purchased for Joss into thin slivers that she layered on buttered bread. Two whole weeks, and he still hadn’t come home. She’d wanted to have the cheese ready and waiting for him, knowing it was his favorite, but if she didn’t use it soon, it would spoil. She’d already had to carve away fuzzy mold from the outer edges. It made no sense to throw out the entire block just because Joss was being stubborn. Tears stung her eyes as she created the sandwiches. Two of them—enough for the children. She wouldn’t be able to eat a bite of Joss’s favorite cheese without breaking down.

  She poured milk—canned milk, since the neighbor had decided not to trade with her anymore—into tin cups. Then she called the children in from the backyard, where they had spent the late part of the morning playing with the chickens in the newly built wire coop. Emmy had named them all, although Tarsie couldn’t determine how the little girl could tell Rosie from Posey. The chicks, with their oversized feet and prickly white feathers growing in over their yellow down, all looked alike to her.

  “Come here, now. Wash your hands and then climb up to the table.” She gave the directions kindly, but she heard the tiredness in her voice. The children had stopped asking her to play games or dance jigs with them. Somehow, she’d lost an element of joy for living. Even Ruth had expressed concern when she came in, alone, for her evening lessons, telling Tarsie, “You gots to buck up, girl—ain’t doin’ you or them chillun no good to have you mopin’ aroun’ all the time.” Tarsie knew her friend was right, but losing Joss had stolen something from her, and she didn’t know how to retrieve it.

  Emmy and Nathaniel dried their hands on a towel and dashed to the table, eager to eat. Nathaniel continued to use his toes to support his injured foot, even though the wound had healed nicely. She supposed she should insist he stop babying the foot, but she was too weary for a battle. So she helped him onto the bench and then prayed with them. At their chorused “Amen,” she moved back to the stove, pretending busyness so she wouldn’t have to sit down and think about the meals when Joss had sat catty-corner across from her and helped Nathaniel cut his meat or carry his cup of milk to his mouth.

  She stared out the window, lost in thought, dimly aware of the children’s chatter behind her. Despite the fact that he’d sent her away when she went to see him, she knew he cared about her and the children. A man who didn’t care wouldn’t arrange to have a dozen chicks and a bundle of chicken wire delivered, or hire someone to build a pen for the little cluck-clucks, as Nathaniel called them. A man who didn’t care wouldn’t leave the bulk of his pay on the stoop where she’d find it so she and the children could live in a little house while he slept on a pallet in the corner of a summer kitchen. A man who didn’t care wouldn’t stay in a town in which he hadn’t wanted to live just so he’d be close enough that he could make sure her needs were met.

  He cared. And she cared about him. But he’d still sent her away.

  “Why?” she whispered for the hundredth time in the two weeks since he’d stormed out the door. But she didn’t receive an answer.

  “Tarsie?” Emmy’s voice cut into Tarsie’s musings.

  “What?” she responded without turning around.

  “Can we go to the mercantile today? Remember you need buttons to finish my new dress. I wanna pick some out.”

  Had Joss been able to replace the button she’d torn from his shirt?

  “Can we go, Tarsie? Huh?”

  Tarsie sighed and offered Emmy a weary smile. “If Nathaniel will be wearing his shoes and walk all the way there and back again, then we can go. I can’t be carrying him.” She barely had the strength to carry herself these days.

  “He’ll walk, won’tcha, Nattie?” Emmy grinned and shoved the last bite of her sandwich into her mouth. “I want pink pearl buttons for my dress.”

  “As long as they don’t cost more than plain.”

  Tarsie tied Nathaniel’s shoes, loosening the bows when he complained. Emmy fetched the big shopping basket Ruth had made, and they set out. When they reached the edge of the business district, Emmy pointed.

  “What’s that?”

  Tarsie squinted against the sun and peered ahead. Some sort of red-and-white-striped tent had been erected in the middle of Main Street. An American flag hung from one side of it, flapping in the breeze. Men stood in a line under the sun, talking softly with one another and scuffing their boots on the ground. Although no sign indicated the tent’s purpose, Tarsie knew.

  “It’s a voting tent.” She searched the line for Joss, her heart leaping with hope. She wouldn’t b
e able to miss him, taller than most and with that thick thatch of dark, wavy hair. He would always stand out in a crowd. But no tall man with broad shoulders and a rakish mustache held a place in the line.

  “Can we go in it?”

  “Go in it?”

  Both children pulled at Tarsie’s skirt, begging. Tarsie pushed their hands away. “No. It’s for grown-ups.”

  Which way were the men casting their votes—to outlaw liquor or to keep it? She wished she could go in and peek at the ballots. But of course she couldn’t, so she cupped the backs of the children’s heads and gave a little push. “Come along, now.”

  With chins low and lower lips poked out, they complied. Emmy cheered up, however, when Tarsie allowed her to select a card with six pink pearl buttons from the little drawer in the dry goods area. They cost one cent more than plain buttons, but Tarsie decided it was a small price to pay to see such a beaming smile on Emmy’s face. However, when the children clamored for gumdrops, Tarsie remained firm in her refusal. Buttons were necessary to fasten Emmy’s dress. Candy they could do without.

  She stepped up to the counter and waited for the mercantile owner to finish whatever he was doing in the back room so she could pay for the purchase. The children leaned against her legs, pouting, but she ignored them. As she dug through her little coin purse, Emmy began yanking on her skirt again. Tarsie sent a stern look at the little girl. “Emmy, I said you cannot be having candy. Stop your pestering now.”

  But Emmy wasn’t looking at the candy jars. Instead, she peered toward the mercantile’s screen door, her eyes wide and an uncertain expression on her face. Bringing up one hand to shield her mouth, as if telling a secret, she whispered, “Tarsie? Papa’s here.”