by Lori Roy
As Daddy sat, chewing his biscuit, he studied Dale because he didn’t dare look at Juna. Even though Dale is old enough to take on a few chores, do some toting or gathering or even topping the tobacco if it hasn’t grown too tall, he still has dimples on the backs of his hands and his cheeks are pink. He has blond hair too and blue eyes, and he is polite when told to be so and says please and thank you and ma’am and sir.
“Take the boy,” Daddy finally said to Juna. “Take the boy and go on to the lower field. And you,” he said to me, “you go for those berries.”
Ellis Baine keeps on hollering at the brother who forgot the pegs. They’re already late getting this tobacco in the ground, and they damn well can’t set it without the Goddamn pegs. I listen to the sound of his voice through his chest. And the angrier he gets and the louder he yells, the more his chest lifts and lowers. I let go of the railing and leave my hands to hang at my sides. He smells of sweet tobacco and fresh-brewed coffee.
The engine slows, the road evens out, and when I open my eyes, one of the brothers, one who is a year or so younger than me, is staring at me and shaking his head.
Ellis drops the arm he had stretched across me and leans back against the railing where he started. My neck and chest are damp from our having been pressed up against each other.
“You get off here too,” Ellis says to the brother who is still looking for those pegs. “You can damn well walk back and get them.”
The younger brother jumps down ahead of me and walks off without offering me a hand. Ellis starts rattling off a list to a brother still on the truck, not jumping down so I can fall into his arms the way Juna is all the time doing. I tuck under my skirt, lower myself onto the gate, and slide on down to the road. I forgot to bring a pail or a bag for carrying the berries, and Juna never told me where to look. Sometimes she says they like the cool, damp dirt; sometimes they’ll favor a spot that is sandy and dry.
Ellis is still hollering about those pegs when the truck pulls away. I press one hand over my head to stop my cap from pulling loose and give a wave with the other. No one waves back. I walk on toward home and hope Abraham Pace finds Juna down in the field so she won’t be angry with me. I do believe it sometimes. I believe she makes the fire spark and that she can see things we don’t. I believe I might have made a mistake sending her to those fields.
5
AROUND LUNCHTIME, ABIGAIL WATSON comes knocking on my door. She is another reason Daddy will have sent Dale to the fields instead of leaving him to stay with me. Dale having a best and only friend who is a twelve-year-old girl doesn’t settle so well with Daddy.
Abigail moved here a few years ago with her grandparents after her daddy died. He had worked for Abraham Pace’s father’s farm over near Lexington. When Abigail’s daddy died, since her mama was already dead, Abraham’s father sent her and her grandparents to live here, where Abraham could watch over them. While Abraham’s father was a hard worker and had the land to show for it, Abraham was not, and so his father figured Abraham had time to watch over a family in need.
“Dale ain’t here,” I tell Abigail when I open the door. “Probably be home soon for lunch if you’d like to keep me company.”
Even on a warm day like today, Abigail’s grandma has dressed her in a long-sleeved dress. Mrs. Brashear believes in modesty no matter the temperature. Abigail tugs at one sleeve and glances around as if she might see Dale coming up the road.
“No, thank you, ma’am,” she says, tucking a thin strand of hair up under her white cap. There’s a certain look about a child who has lost both parents, a way of studying the world and worrying what next will go wrong. Abigail has it. Probably always will. “I’ll go see if I can find him.”
“Try the lower field,” I holler after her and then leave the door ajar because there is an especially fine cross breeze today.
A few hours pass when next I take a break from thinking about Ellis Baine and from touching my cheek where it had pressed up against his shirt. Nobody knew when I marked the day midway between my fifteenth and sixteenth year. Usually, the mama sees to it her daughter is readied for the day. The mama will brush her girl’s hair, maybe have her spend the day in a set of rag curlers and only brush them out as midnight nears. Even if the daddy will have no part, the mama will take her girl. Together, they’ll stand over the well, the cool air drafting up from the dark hole and giving them a shiver. They’ll whisper because they’re alone and a bit frightened by the night. And the girl will see her intended. Juna and I have no mama, and as such, no one but me thought to count out on the calendar. I went alone, preferred it that way. As I choose to remember it, and as I tell it to Juna and no one else, I saw Ellis Baine. If ever I could make a thing true, that would be it.
Dale would usually be moaning about an empty stomach by this hour and begging to go fishing or climb some Godforsaken tree, but he’s off with Juna, never did come home for lunch, so the house is quiet. Before they left, I packed cornbread and boiled eggs in a tin pail. In case they didn’t make it home for lunch, the bread and eggs would tide them over.
I think of Dale again and Juna too when Daddy sits down to supper. I spoon floury gravy over two leftover biscuits, dish up the fried corn, and leave Daddy to his eating. I open the front door and look toward the end of the drive.
If Dale does well today, he and Juna soon will spend every day in the fields. They’ll keep watch for the green worms and the horsemint. And then they’ll top the tobacco and later snap off the suckers, and both will come home with hands turned black from the gummy leaves. We’ll peel the grime from their fingers and scrub with a brush and lye soap until they’re clean, or near to it. Soon enough, I might have reason to be out on that road again, where maybe I’ll get another ride from Ellis Baine.
But today they were weeding and will have long since finished. It’s not such a long walk to the field, so I go there first. It’s a small field. Daddy doesn’t own much land, and straightaway I see Juna and Dale are no longer here. I cup my hands around my mouth and call out to them, but no one answers.
Abraham found her. That’s what has happened, and I know where she takes him. It’s on up the hill toward the Baines’ place and on the far side of the Lone Fork River. She could have picked a spot on this side of the river that would have been just as fitting and much easier to navigate for a man as large as Abraham Pace. His overgrown feet must struggle to step from rock to rock as he crosses the Lone Fork. Juna is lighter afoot. She would leap from one mossy stone to the next, never giving thought to slipping or falling or spending the day in soggy shoes. If Abraham loves her, Juna is all the time saying, he’ll accommodate.
There’s been so little rain, the crossing is easier today, and it makes me happy for Abraham. His feet must surely fit better on the rocks when the water is low. Once across, I hoist my skirt with one hand and begin to climb the bank, grabbing hold of a sycamore growing right at the river’s edge. Its brown bark crumbles and flakes off in my hands. I use the tree to brace myself, and once steady, I reach for the next. Higher up the bank, the sycamores give way to the elms. I climb higher still and listen before I look.
I am the older sister, so it should have been me telling Juna about the wants of men, but it was Juna who did the telling. Even though she isn’t so fond of the shape of Abraham’s face, the thought of him touching her and wanting her makes him appealing. Someday I’ll understand, she says. Someday, God willing, a man will want me in that same way. Every time she tells me these things, I think of Ellis Baine, and I hope, I pray, he’s the one who will want me.
Though Abraham is an odd sort, with his square chin and heavy brow, he wants Juna. He wants her so bad he will beg her from his knees to let him touch her skin where he thinks no one else has. He likes the softness of her belly and the shallow spot between her hip bones and the silky skin behind her earlobes.
In the beginning, Juna liked telling Abraham no because she was so inclined and for no other reason. It would frustrate him, pain him, she
would say, to pull away from her, and that made him all the more tempting. His face would turn red, and sweat would sprout across his wide forehead. He would be angry, shout at her, threaten to leave her, but always he would return because next time she might say yes. Lately, she has taken to saying yes because she likes the way Abraham’s hands feel on those secret places. Dear God, she likes the feel of it. She leans into his touch and forgets she is supposed to say no. She likes that his palms are calloused and rough and turn her skin red, almost raw, after a time. You can’t imagine such a desire, she will so often tell me. Not for the man but for his touch.
I’m afraid to hear what passes between Abraham and Juna, so I listen instead for the sounds of Dale. I listen for the twigs he likes to snap when he’s bored and sitting on the front porch. I listen for his footsteps that would surely be unsteady on this damp ground. I listen for his soft voice, his mumbling to himself as he stops up his ears and tries not to listen.
The poplars on the far side of the river are thick. The branches tangle overhead, casting a heavy shadow. Black mold peppers their white trunks, and slivers of sunlight dot the ground, which is cool and damp, never dries through and through. Several seasons’ worth of fallen leaves, glossy and slick from having started to rot, coat the ground and make for unsteady footing. As I near the spot where Juna and Abraham lay together, I step carefully so as not to slip and so as not to catch sight of bare arms and bare legs.
I don’t want to see them—Juna and Abraham—and yet I want to know. I want to know about the things that will drive a man to kneel before a woman and beg. I want to know what such desire looks like so I can find it, foster it in Ellis Baine. I wonder if all women can draw such a thing from a man or if it’s only Juna. I want to see, but I’m afraid, so I fight to keep my eyes on the ground and I call out for them.
“At least send Dale to me,” I shout. “Let me take him home.”
I hear nothing of Dale or the sounds I have heard Abraham make when begging and stroking and touching Juna. I press between the poplars until I reach the clearing where they meet. It’s empty. They’ll have long since finished with the tobacco. Long since. I drop to my knees, lay a hand on the ground, and take a full deep breath to slow my heart. It’s pounding in my chest because of what I thought I might see, and now it pounds because Juna said this was not the day for going to the field.
• • •
THE SUN IS an hour from setting, making it well past suppertime, when Daddy says we should go have a look. Blue and purple clouds stretch across the horizon, and the mosquitos are out. Last summer, we had the cicadas buzzing all the time, day after day. Folks say they won’t come again for sixteen more years, but I still find myself listening for them, thinking their brittle shells are crunching underfoot when I happen upon a dried-out twig or patch of brown leaves.
The air has cooled a good bit, and I’m happy for my sweater as we walk to the lower field. We find the hoes first, two of them, where the fence line meets the road. The work has been done. The ground between the rows of small plants, green and waxy still and just beginning to take root, is dark brown and freshly turned and free of weeds. The plants get taller as we walk farther into the field. It’s lower here, so the rain gathers. This is where the only decent tobacco grows.
Long before we reach Juna, we see her. Her white blouse has pulled free of her waistband, and her hair hangs loose down her back. We call out that we’re coming, but she doesn’t call back.
Daddy wears his leather gloves. They’re soft from years of wear. His hat rides low on his forehead, shielding his eyes, not from the sun, because it’s nearly gone from the sky, but from Juna. He lifts his chin so he can see out from under the brim. Thin skin stretches over his high, knobby cheekbones, and his eyes are set deep in their sockets. He’s had too little food for too long. Not enough meat. Not enough fat. Mostly beans and pone and wild greens laced with vinegar. He reaches Juna first. She is trailing her fingers over the tops of the rounded leaves. He touches her on the shoulder, and when she lifts her head to look at him, he steps away, stumbles to see her looking so. I take hold of her hands, roll them so the palms turn up. The creases on the insides of her knuckles bleed, and the tips of her fingers are red, raw.
“Where’s Dale?” I ask. “Where were you? I came before. I came and called out. Where were you?”
He’ll be sitting off to the side somewhere, snapping those twigs of his or picking at a long, slender blade of grass. He’s left Juna to do all the work, and she’s forgotten her gloves. Daddy will whip him for it.
“Where’s he gone off to?” Daddy says.
Strands of Juna’s long blond hair hang in her face. Her black eyes are like pebbles. She doesn’t look as if to recognize Daddy or me. She has gone too long without water, and maybe the tobacco has leached through her fingers, maybe too much, and so she doesn’t know her own family.
“He’s gone,” Juna says, reaching out to Daddy.
Daddy turns a shoulder and takes another step away so she can’t touch him.
“Where’s he gone off to?” Daddy says again, angry that his son is too soft and has a girl as his only friend and has clean hands and tender red cheeks.
“Dale’s gone,” Juna says.
6
1952—ANNIE
ANNIE STANDS NEAR the stove in Grandma’s kitchen. The air is thick and damp, steamy even. Every window is closed, and Grandma has not turned on any lights. Instead several candles burn, their wax just beginning to spill over. Dim light flickers on the pale-yellow walls. Long shadows fall from chair legs and table legs and from Grandma, who stands near the sink. Two cast-iron pots sit on the stove, a low flame burning beneath each, and clouds of steam rise. Grandma, wearing her best quilted robe and her Sunday morning slippers, is carving a loaf of bread.
“Water’s ready,” she says to Annie and tips her head in the direction of the two heavy pots simmering on the stove. “Will you see to it?”
Grandma’s long white hair hangs loose down to her waist. Wiry strands, frayed and broken off, frame her watery blue eyes. That long hair and the soft light from the candles and the tone of Grandma’s voice, pitched ever so slightly deeper than normal, make her look and seem less like a grandma and more like a woman Annie doesn’t know so well. Grandma gave Mama her name. Long before Mama married Daddy, Grandma knew Mama would be born a girl and named her Sarah. Watching Grandma now, Annie imagines she looks like the woman she was before she became a grandma.
Knowing she shouldn’t speak while the water is simmering, Annie nods to Grandma and sidesteps around the table where Mama and Caroline sit. The rims of Caroline’s eyes are red from all the crying, and she is letting Mama hug her and stroke her hair. She’s probably thinking about that husband-to-be of hers and wishing he were here to comfort her and protect her. Annie wishes he were here too because then he could get a good look at Caroline when she isn’t looking so pretty.
Before doing as Grandma asked, Annie glances at Mama, but she doesn’t shake her head or give some other sign of disapproval, so Annie opens the cupboard next to the stove, reaches into the back, and pulls out a small dark bottle. The glass is smooth and warm in her hands. She protects it from the light by wrapping her fingers around it, and holds it away from her body so as to not warm it. Grandma taught Annie to do these things always when handling lavender oil. She unscrews the bottle’s small lid, lays it on the counter, taking care not to touch the inner rim, and tips the bottle over the first simmering pot. One, two, three drops. She does the same over the second pot.
“Think the water’s got too much get-up-and-go, Grandma,” Annie says, even though she thinks no such thing. “Should I let off a little?”
Caroline doesn’t have the know-how and so won’t know what “get-up-and-go” means, and as bad as it is to use the know-how in a way that will make a person feel bad about not having it, Annie figures Caroline brought it on herself. She stole Annie’s vision, but someone is dead up there at the Baine place, and that’s wha
t Mama and Daddy will care about. They won’t trouble themselves with Annie’s visions, and Annie shouldn’t be troubling herself with them either, but she can’t stop thinking about Ryce and that dead frog and every kid who will want to know who she saw down there in that well and was he a boy who will want to kiss her. They’ll not believe her if she tells them Caroline stole her vision.
They’ll not believe Annie if she tells them there was a man—a dark-haired, blue-eyed man—who was meant for Annie. They’ll not believe Caroline saw him first because she always does things first or better or faster. Instead, they’ll say what a pity there is no one for Annie, no face in the bottom of her well. It will be worse than having the boys run from her. They’ll pity her. All of them. But when someone’s dead, no one will care about such things that trouble Annie.
Grandma leans over the pots, waves a hand through the steam, and coughs. The lavender will sting the back of the throat if the water is too hot, so maybe Annie is right after all.
“Sure enough,” Grandma says, giving Annie the soft sort of smile people give when someone has died. Later, Grandma will tell Annie what a good student she is and what a great knack she has for the know-how. Not everyone who has the gift has such a good knack. But Grandma will only say those things when Mama isn’t near enough to hear. “Just a smidgen though,” she says and gives a wink. “Want to keep a lively steam going.”
Lavender makes bees lazy, has a calming effect on them, and that’s why Grandma simmers it in this way. From daybreak to dusk, the bees light upon the bluish-gray blossoms that will soon enough burst into full bloom, and then they float, don’t fly, aimlessly, weightlessly back to their hives. Drunkards, Grandma calls them on those days when she watches the lazy dance from her kitchen window. The lavender soothes them. These are the most peaceful bees you’ll find. That’s what Grandma says, and she must figure the whole family is going to need a good bit of calming before the night is over.
