GodPretty in the Tobacco Field (12 page)

Deputy looked at me sitting on the bench and stepped in front of me. “Crocketts is wrong,” he whispered to Rose. “Sheriff saw Carter Crockett assault his girlfriend.”

“Again?” Rose grimaced. “Is she okay?”

“Yeah,” Deputy said. “Got a warrant for his arrest, but he's missing and so is his rifle. He's a dangerous cuss. Soon as I nab him, I'm hauling him into the can for a long sitting spell.”

F
earful for Henny, I hurried off to go find her.

In front of the Feed, folks were already gathering, buzzing about how Carter Crockett was missing and wanted.

I walked home in a cloud of dread. Three times I came to a full stop when I thought I heard something in a passing cornfield, and again at the fork in Royal Road, and then again over in Devils Bone, the creek on the other side of the road that circled and snaked around our property and out past town.

When I came to the tobaccos, Ada Stump popped out of a tall row, munching on a tomato. Seeing her red, wet face like that, almost jumped the bumps clean off my flesh. I knew she'd stolen it from Gunnar's vegetable garden. I scowled at her as she brushed bits of tomato off her cheek and ran off before I could ask after Henny.

Almost home, Rainey rounded the bend startling me again.

“There you are, girl. Gunnar sent me after you,” he said, black brows knitted tight, taking my bag. “Did you hear—they're looking for Carter? The sheriff was just here asking if we'd seen him—”

“Henny . . . Where's Henny?” I burst.

Rainey snuck peeks behind us before moving in close to pat my back. “Just a broken nose, Roo. She'll be fine.”

I sagged against him, relieved she'd be okay. “The sheriff said he had his gun.”

“Probably gone off to drink with the raccoons till it dies down. Let's go. Gunnar asked me to collect you and see you safely home.”

Lightning rumbled in the distance. He looked behind us first, then hugged my shoulder. “Come on, girl. It's going to storm.”

 

It did. For the next four days a hard, whipping rain soaked Nameless, leaving me with little to do other than to watch the tobacco grow in between taking care of Gunnar and the house. Gunnar paced the porch with his old Stevens 12 gauge double-barrel shotgun, on the lookout for Crockett or any of his kin.

Days of rain left the paint blistered on the old clapboard and then the downpour gave way to a drizzle. I couldn't see Henny, and worse, I missed Rainey.

On Thursday evening, Rainey came by with a bag full of cucumbers and a newspaper rolled underneath his damp shirt. Gunnar was up in his room, tucked in with the Bible, when I spotted Rainey crossing the field. I grabbed my quilt jacket and hurried out the front door and met him on the porch.

“Ma wanted me to bring these by,” he said, setting down a soaked bag. Cucumbers burst through and rolled out onto the wooden boards.

“I'm glad you made it over. Seen Henny or anyone?” I lit one of the hanging kerosene lanterns. Rainey took off his hat and shook the wide brim. He slipped out of his oilskin jacket and dropped it on the rocker.

“Nuh-uh. Take this, Roo.” He pulled out a newspaper tucked under his shirt and handed it to me.

“Gunnar's been missing his news. Thanks,” I said, holding it up to the light of the lantern, peeking at the latest edition of the
Mountain Sentinel News
. “Me too.” I thumbed through its six pages and stopped at an article. “Says we might finally be getting a mobile library to visit Nameless.” I perked.

“They'll need a good working bus to tote anything up and down these hills,” Rainey said.

“Here's the almanac for today, says so here,
Thursday, August 7
.” I pointed it out to Rainey.
Fair fishing, Castrate farm animals, Cut firewood, Set out potatoes and turnips,
it read. “You know Gunnar's really taken to those cukes of yours.”

“Ma said my papa ate the pickles for breakfast.” Rainey laughed low.

“Caught Gunnar just the other day having one with his morning coffee.”

Rainey put back on his hat, stooped to pick up the cucumbers, and stuffed them into my laundry basket on the porch. “Ma said to tell you she'll be by with her sewing stuff soon as she can. She's still working on the Parkers' drapes.”

I folded the paper and placed it atop the cucumbers, and said, “That'll be great. I haven't seen a soul. Sure wish I could see Henny.”

“Henny'll be okay,” he said.

“Are they still looking for Carter?”

Rainey scratched his chin. “I haven't heard or seen any of the other Crocketts around here lately . . . Land's quiet, except for one of the little Stump girls, soaked, playing along the creek line, looney kid. But Sheriff'll catch him. Don't you worry, Roo.”

It was hard to hold anything but worry in this gray weather. Henny, him, and now my winning crop could die.

As if hearing my thoughts, he looked up at the low, leaky clouds, and said, “Look at this soaking . . . Good thing July was dry. Listen, Roo, tell Gunnar I have to leave earlier than I thought. Got word I have my army physical up in Louisville on the eighth.”

“What—But . . . but that's tomorrow.”

“Yeah, I'm hitching a ride with Mr. Parker. Wanted to tell you good night 'cause he's heading out before daybreak and said he doesn't mind dropping me off on his way. I'll find a ride back the next day.”

“Sleep there? Where will you stay?”

“I'll check with the army doctors and see if they have a resting spot for folks like me.”

“
Louisville
.” For a second I thought about laying my head under all that city bustling and what it would feel like. I imagined those twinkly city lights would be beautiful, just like a star-packed night sparking over Nameless.

“Maybe you'll see Eve,” I said.

“Who?”

“Eve. That's the name the city couple gave to Lena's baby.”

“Ah, maybe so.” He frowned slightly, stuffed his hands into his pants pockets. “I saw Lena heading down to the Shake King . . . she looked pretty sad.”

“I haven't seen her.” I shuddered, pushing back the thoughts of the birthing. Instead, I said, “Wonder how big the city Shake Kings are?”

“Might be a lot bigger, maybe as big as the Feed.”

“Oh”—I raised a finger—“the store. Wait here, Rainey.” I slipped inside, hurrying upstairs. Across from my room, I could hear Gunnar softly snoring, see the light spilling under his door. Quietly, I went into my room and found what I was looking for.

I returned about a minute later and handed Rainey the Clark candy bar. “In case you get hungry,” I said, flushed.

“You sure?” He pulled his coat on. “I know how much you like them.”

His eyes lingered on mine. Scents of soaking earth, leaves, and warm jasmine pulled into the soft rain, sweetening the porch.

Rainey tilted his head, his face shadowed by the brim of his hat, eyes narrowing. It weren't no more than a few seconds, but long enough for me to bend into him and want more.
Rainey, six, Bur, five,
my fingers had played the paper folds. I hadn't reached my favorite number. Now, more than ever, I wanted that seven—his kiss—and question.

Rainey leaned closer, smelling like morning rain.

The wind lifted, swirling the hem of my dress, baring my legs.

His pant leg brushed against my skin.

Six
.

A milk moth circled above the lantern, bumping shadows against porch walls, dipping close to the licking flame. Our hands met and I pressed my palm to his and felt the heat in his touch. Silence swelled and spilled into the patter of rooftop rain.

Seven
....

Inside, a clatter of dishes snared the unfolding, magpied the wanting. Gunnar was up and rambling around the kitchen.

Rainey startled and tipped back his hat. He sighed my name, and whispered, “When I get back I have an important question to ask you.” Gently, he pinched my pinky finger. “Good night, Roo. Take care of that prize crop and I'll be back in two days.
Two
.”

He stepped back and broke the candy bar, giving me part of it. He was halfway down the steps before I could collect my dizzy mind and beg the answer.

From the darkened porch I watched him cross through the tobacco rows until the fog folded in and claimed him.

A few minutes later Rainey's violin cried across the rain-soaked field into the night as he played “The Wayfaring Stranger.” “
. . . I'm just a poor wayfaring stranger . . . travelin' through this world of woe . . . no sickness, toil nor danger . . . in that bright land to which I go . . . I'm going there to see my father . . . going there to see my father . . . no more to roam . . .
” His raw words climbed out of the horsehair bow and melded into the Kentucky skies.

A
muddy rain splashed into Friday afternoon, washing out the crumbly road up to Stump Mountain as it usually did, and with Henny trapped at home and Rainey gone, I needed a distraction.

Thinking about Rose, I snuck out the artist pad and began sketching spoons, stopping in between each picture to soak up a new thought. On each handle of the spoon, I drew a dollar bill. On the next fold I put Rose's old traveler, its dings and rust, and on the next, more spoons and a smiling Rose. When I was through, I tore it out of the pad, folded it, and then took the fortune-teller upstairs and put it into Mama's purse for the cure. It would be a good way to thank Rose for toting me to the fair.

Then I turned to the porch, squeaking the boards, cocking my ear for Rainey's homecoming—his violin.

When I saw something move behind the willow oak, I leaned over the rail, hoping. Soaked, Baby Jane rushed over with her basket of eggs. She stood at the bottom, shifting her weight from one leg to the other, chewing on her nails.

I was thrilled when Gunnar popped out the screen door and motioned her up onto the porch. Taking a seat, he rocked, and asked, “Miss Stump, are you selling those eggs or toting them home?” He crooked his finger.

“I-I'm s-sellin', sir—”

“Get your fingers out of your mouth and speak up,” Gunnar bristled, “and get on up here and let me see.”

Wary, Baby Jane climbed the steps. She lifted the cloth and took out an egg. “Sellin'. Be a nickel for four of 'em if you want 'em, sir. One nickel.” She bit on another nail.

Gunnar thrust three wiggling fingers in front of her face. “Three cents.”

Paling, Baby Jane looked down at the boards and brushed her toes across a plank, pulling fingers back to her mouth. The egg trembled in her other hand and rocked softly against her wet skirts.

I lit into Gunnar. “Eggs cost forty cents for a dozen at the Feed, Gunnar. Give her five cents,” I scolded.

“Highway robbery,” he growled, then raised his chin and flashed three fingers back to Baby Jane.

“Five.” I waved five fingers at him.

“Three.”

“Five,” I pushed harder.

Baby Jane's hands shook so bad, she dropped an egg at Gunnar's feet.

“Baby Jane's worked all week for those eggs,” I snapped.

“Working at cheating honest folks,” he clipped low.

A tear caught on Baby Jane's bottom lash.

“How could you?” I shot.

Me and Gunnar continued the argument until he went inside to get the bitters. When he smacked the jar down on the rail, Baby Jane startled and took off. For most of the afternoon we bickered.

Since the long rain, I'd already suffered the taste of Gunnar's bitter herbs twice for back talking, and it would've been a third if Abby hadn't interrupted and saved us both by stopping in to drop off a pile of socks she'd darned for us.

“Lord o' mercy,” she clucked, stepping onto the porch, “if this weather ain't making even the birds fussy. I can hear the barn swallows from my porch even.” She snuck us meaningful glances.

I dropped my sass. Gunnar grimaced. It was rare for Abby to come by without Rainey, and I was sorely disappointed to see her alone. Gunnar rose from the rocker, greeted her kindly, then cut me a warning look. I hung back watching.

“Abby, it's always a pleasure to have your company, but it's not a good evening to be out. Is everything okay? Rainey—”

She wagged her hand. “Fine, I reckon, but he's still not home, Gunnar. I wanted to get these socks back to you before I needed to build an ark to tote them across the field.” She set down her covered basket and slipped out of her wet overcoat.

Gunnar took her coat and hung it on the hook beside the screen door. “RubyLyn, where's your manners?” He turned and tutted. “Go get a towel—one of those pink towels for Abby, and clean up this egg mess.”

Had the rain drowned his brain?
Gunnar never liked anyone to use Claire's fancy guest towels in the downstairs bathroom. “You mean the company's-coming towels—Aunt Claire's?”

Abby pressed her lips together. Gunnar glared back his answer, shooing me away. “Abby, let's get you dry. Have a seat in the rocker and I'll go fetch us a cup of coffee,” he said.

“No need to fuss,” Abby said.

I went back inside, grabbed Aunt Claire's towel and took it out to the porch for Abby, and then cleaned up the egg with soap and water.

While Gunnar went in for coffee, Abby sat with me on the porch and tried to teach me about the crisscrossing and stitching, like so many times before. More than once I tangled it up, and when I dropped her wooden darning egg that Rainey had carved for her long ago, she calmly said, “Maybe another lesson, another day, chil'.”

Likely never. I was all thumbs when it came to sewing.

Gunnar came out with the cups, and said to Abby, “Don't know what they're teaching her in school. Fifteen-year-old girl can't even darn a sock.” He set down the coffee and went back inside for napkins.

“Almost sixteen.” I fussed after him.

Abby chuckled. “I'm sure your talents are waiting for bigger things.” She patted my arm. “How's the tobacco, RubyLyn? Rainey thinks it won't be long till harvesting. Hard to believe this season is almost done.”

“It can't get done quick enough, ma'am.” I flexed my hands.

“Rainey says your prize crop has shot up real fine. I've never been to the State Fair. Bet you win all the pretty ribbons.”

I held up crossed fingers.

Despite Abby's polite refusals, Gunnar insisted she stay for a late supper and sent me scampering to fix it. When we joined hands for Gunnar to bless the sinner who prepared the dinner—me—Abby scolded him with her eyes. Gunnar cleared his throat and mumbled an added blessing for our visitor. Abby squeezed my hand, and a satisfied smile rolled across her lips.

After the meal, they took their coffee and blackberry cobbler out to the front porch. Then Gunnar had me light the two lanterns hanging at each end of the boards.

A small woman with earth-darkened skin, Abby's soft brown eyes and easy smile somehow softened him, too, and many times I'd wondered why, since Gunnar tolerated very few people. I hurried to wash the dishes, then slipped back outside to watch them from the other end of the porch. Lazy, I rested against a beam.

They set their empty cobbler plates on the floor boards and settled into their porch rockers, watching the rain mist over Nameless.

Sierra, the orange barn cat, jumped onto the porch, mewing a greeting, brushing against Gunnar with her whiskers before settling at his boots. He'd never had a fancy for dogs, saying his cat worked more than three dogs and kept the critters out of his house, barn, and the vegetable patches. Sierra followed him everywhere, too, and you'd see her trailing behind his tractor even. Sometimes, Gunnar'd stop the tractor, get out and inspect one thing or another, sneak his eyes around to make sure no one was looking, then lift that old cat up onto the seat and let her ride home beside him.
Sometimes, I wished I was that old barn cat
.

“You make the best cobbler, RubyLyn,” Abby said, sipping her coffee. “Wasn't it delicious, Gunnar? Sure does have the skillet smarts, don't she, Gunnar?”

Gunnar grunted into his mug.

I took a seat on the floor, watching the rain, too.

“I pray Rainey didn't meet trouble,” Abby fretted. “He should've been home by now.”

“I'm sure he's fine,” Gunnar said. “Did he take that brown tie?”

“Yessir, he sure did,” she beamed, “and practiced that Windsor knot you taught him.”

Tie.
I'd never seen Rainey in anything but his old jeans and a soft blue chambray shirt, even when him and his mama set out for the colored church on Sundays. Maybe he was walking the avenues now. . . .

“I packed it in the satchel you lent him,” she continued. “Sure appreciate you getting it for him. I hope he found himself a safe room . . . Oh, Gunnar, do you think he found himself a safe place to sleep up there in Louisville?”

He rubbed his whiskered chin. “I imagine Rainey'll be fine as long as he keeps his mind on the business of the real war.”

“His mind.” Abby sighed heavily. “Just don't know what that boy's thinking, Gunnar. A fool mind he has sometimes. Going to the fighting like that in Vietnam when he could've been a smart boy and joined the navy before he got drafted.” She rocked a little, then asked him, “How many miles did you say it was to Louisville?”

“I reckon about two hundred fifty, maybe a bit more,” he said.

She took another deep breath. “Sure wish his papa was around to talk to him. The fool things Rainey takes a mind to. Wanting to be in the jungle like that instead of on a big boat.”

Gunnar shifted in his rocker, bent over, and scratched Sierra's ear. “Now, Abby, it's a wise man that knows to be shooting at what he can see.”

Even from my end of the porch I could feel her slapping his words with a glare.

I expected Gunnar to lay his executioner's stare on her, but he didn't—only lifted his mug, and said, “More coffee, Abby?”

Abby puffed up. “Should've given him a bus ticket to Canada instead.”

Gunnar chimed in about a Kentucky boxer named Muhammad Ali, who'd been arrested a few years back for evading the draft.

“Why folks call him the Louisville Lip,” Abby muttered.

Gunnar spoke a little about the brave troops in Vietnam and an ugly battle called Hamburger Hill until Abby shushed the talk.

He moved on and told about a prison execution that went wrong in another state, and one here in Kentucky until Abby shook her finger and took the subject to the weather. “Gunnar”—she lowered her voice—“let's not talk 'bout that. It makes you upset. Lighting on bad things is the devil's doings. You took the job to save your family's homestead, and when you saw the meanness in it, you tried to fix it.”

She fluffed up the soft collar on her plain brown dress, straightened her skirts, and shifted in the rocker. “Now when do you think this rain's gonna let up?”

Gunnar wouldn't let it rest until he laid the last word. “
Only
government job around at the time,” he grumbled. “But then I saw how bad things were with the condemned men—the rotten treatment of those poor lost souls. There's a right way and a wrong way to punish, and you start with the teachings of the Bible—”

“
Gunnar
.” Abby raised a brow.

I rubbed my jaw. I could picture Gunnar brewing up his bitters and dumping the potion into prisoners' mouths.

Gunnar nodded like a scolded child, rubbed his hands. “This rain takes a toll on the bones.”

“And soul,” Abby said quietly.

They went on to speculate about the weather some more and then chatted about the man named Neil Armstrong, marveling how he'd walked on the moon two weeks ago.

Abby said someone had seen it on the television, and she thought America had come a long way since the old days when they'd send monkeys and mice up there, and wouldn't she just love to have herself a television set one day so she could watch
The Johnny Cash Show
? The postmistress told her all about the show, saying she'd heard of it when visiting her kin in Ohio—and “wouldn't that be something to see a talking picture right in your sitting room? . . . Oh, and a telephone! I'd get me a pink telephone,” Abby added. “Talk to my Rainey anywhere. Now that'd be something grand!”

Gunnar actually chuckled and agreed it might, though he'd never seen the need for a house telephone.

“Love the sound of rain, but not every day. Gunnar,” she said, restless. “Why don't you go get your harmonica.”

He cleared his throat.

“Go on,” she poked, “play us a song. I remember when you and my Gus used to play together. Him with that old violin and you with the harmonica made some sweet music.”

“Afraid I haven't played in years and would only kick up the coyotes,” he said.

“Humph, you used to make them wild dogs sit up and howl. Especially when you played ‘Kentucky Babe.' Remember that?” Abby hummed a verse, motioned for me to join her.

Smiling, I shook my head no, the cut of missing Rainey digging deeper, his other song “Kentucky Lady” first in my heart.

“Rainey sings it just like his pa did.” She rocked and sang the song soft and sweet. “‘
Close your eyes, close your eyes and sleep. Skeeters are a-humming on the honeysuckle vine. Sleep, Kentucky babe. Sandman is a-coming to this little babe of mine. Sleep, Kentucky babe . . . You are mighty lucky, Babe of old Kentucky.
' ”

I found myself humming along to the old Kentucky lullaby.

Abby watered the last verse and suddenly remembered something else. “I hope Rainey doesn't lose his change for the pay telephone. Do you think the city will have—”

“Likely one telephone on every block.” Gunnar read her mind.

“Speaking of calling. Have you called on Mrs. Wise?” Abby asked.

“Maybe after housing,” Gunnar answered.

“That's what you said last year,” Abby reminded him. “She's a good Christian woman . . . could keep a good Christian house for you.”

Widow Wise lived on a mountain two hills over. Whenever she visited town, I could see she favored Gunnar. She'd stop him to talk about this or that, then let him know how lonely she was up on Wise Mountain. How maybe him and his niece could stop by for supper sometime? Once, she had him come over to kill a rabid fox on her land and she made him a covered dish to bring back home. She was sweet on him and I could see Gunnar was giving it some thought, too.