GodPretty in the Tobacco Field (16 page)

A
t four in the morning on Monday, Rose Law sped down State Road 1822 in black feathered satin high-heel slippers, a rustling waitress-red skirt, truck windows cranked wide, talking about undies and other unmentionables. The radio's staticky announcer called out the hour and his latest diddly.

Rose paused to swat at a cigarette ash landing on the Isadora Duncan scarf that teepee'd her neck and trailed down behind her small frame. Angling her face to the window, the wind dented Rose's big hair, ballooning her red polka-dot scarf while she took one last puff. Lazy blue smoke dimmed the dashboard lights, wrapped around the crashing lyrics of “Piece of My Heart” and Rose's flying words.

“And them Durbins . . .” Rose flicked her cigarette outside. “That Dirty Durbin—you seen her lately—haven't ya, kid?—

Lord!
Her always complaining about the sizes I carry. I told Dirty she may as well not buy any more panties, seeing she's hissy fittin' to squeeze her big twat into three sizes smaller. Shake King dirt, her and them hippies is!
Lord!
”

“
I want you to come on, come on, come on, come on . . . and take it,
” Janis Joplin screamed.

“Lordy-jones,” I bounced back, red-faced and grateful for the blackness of the rolling countryside and the dimness of her old Dodge Canopy Express automobile.

My mind spun with Rose's stories and here we'd only been on the road for thirty minutes and had this chatter, all before daybreak.

I pressed a hand to Mama's snakeskin purse resting on my lap and rubbed the skin, oiling it with my fingers to quiet my thoughts. Still fidgety, I brought my hand up to my chest and patted the paper pinned to my dress.

Gunnar had insisted I write my name on the tobacco paper and pin it to me, saying, “Do not lose it!” By the time he'd made me call back all his instructions to him, I couldn't remember my own name much less worrying about losing it for the folks I'd yet to meet. I plucked off the paper, folded it into tiny squares, and slipped it into Mama's purse.

Rose chuckled. “That Gunnar is something else, ain't he, kid? In my forty-four years on this ol' earth, ain't never met another the likes of him. I remember after your grandma, Mrs. Royal, died, Gunnar took on his baby sister. He used to do the same with her—wouldn't let your mama out of his sight unless he marked her up like a sign. Then she grew up . . .”

“Did you know my mama well?” I asked.

“Nah, honey, Gunnar kept his little sister busy on his farm till she was good and growed up. Quite the big brother to your mama. There was a big age difference 'tween 'em, too, something like twenty years. Your mama sure was a pretty thing, though. I do remember when your pa came a'courtin' they didn't waste any time getting hitched. Remember that purse, too. She always carried it. They married and moved over to Dearsome County.”

“Did you know him?” I remembered so little of them. Rose seemed a little surprised that I did, because I'd never talked to her about them. I'd never had this type of opportunity.

“Not too well. Only that he came from Laurel County, she was crazy about him, and that folks said he could sure preach some pretty words—said he could make snakes walk backward. Followed a strict Gospel . . . A fine handler. Talk was, he had himself a nice-sized following, too.”

Rose dug into her purse and pulled out a gold tube of Tangee lipstick. Swiveling the base, she brushed the red color across her mouth, smacked the paint into her lips, then leaned over and offered me a swipe.

Politely I shook my head.

Silence settled for a bit. We stretched it out with the radio and soon the bumpy mountain roads and whirr of passing pines lulled me to sleep.

Sometime later, Rose poked me and I jerked awake. “You've been squirming in your sleep. You okay?”

“Uh-huh.” It had been a fitful sleep about snakes stretched over a telephone cord, but I couldn't remember the rest.

“We'll be in Louisville soon,” she said. “Reach around there, kid, and grab that brown sack inside the back.”

I rubbed my face and sat up straight. Morning clambered over the hillside, kindling an ashy gold sky. Scents of hay and grass filled the air.

Yawning, I twisted around, parted the curtain behind me. I checked on my plant stretched out longways, propped up by a half-deflated spare tire. It took up most of the wagon's rear, leaving Rose's boxes stacked down the other side. I pulled out the bag and set it beside her.

With one hand on the steering wheel, Rose pushed it back across the wide bench seat toward me, and said, “Thought it'd look pretty on you. Have a gander . . . Go ahead and open it.”

I pulled out a soft cotton dress with a swirling print of tiny delicate strawberries running on leafy vines on a crisp white background. Below the sleeveless bodice a soft red belt fitted the waist and a full skirt gathered—it was a splendid flared bottom that looked like it could twirl the night away on big-city avenues.

“
Ohh
. Oh, Rose—it's so pretty . . .” I traced a finger over the berries. I hadn't seen anything this lovely, not even in the catalogs. “Pretty, but I . . . no, I couldn't.” Quickly, I stuffed the dress back into the bag and placed it between us. I pinched open the clasp on my pocketbook, dug inside. I touched the Kennedy coin from the First Lady.
Wasn't near enough
.
And I couldn't bear to part with it for something as vain as a prettier dress
....

“Try it on, kid. Don't want to end up using it for rags.”

“Using anything this fine for a rag would be sinful.” My old dress was faded, patched, and near busting at the seams from wash and wear. The clean tube socks I wore were stained from the fields, and the GodUgly patent leathers that Gunnar had picked up almost two years ago were scuffed and yellowed, even though I'd tried to clean them.

“Go on, honey,” she urged. “Gotta have you some fancy on when them judges award you a blue ribbon and take your picture.”

When I win the ribbon I can pay her back
. A smile burst on my lips. “Only if I can pay you when I get my prize money.”

“A birthday present, now put it on.”

“Birthday . . .”

“Sixteen soon,” Rose reminded.

I loved how Rose never forgot my birthday. Her and Abby were about the only ones . . . It weren't no big deal to Gunnar, he never celebrated his or anyone else's. Still, on mine, Abby would drop by plump cherries she'd picked from her tree, and I'd make my favorite pie with them: a cherry one with buttery latticed-top crusts, brown and bubbling full of sweet juicy cherries with just the right smack of tartness. In October, for Gunnar's, I'd bake his favorite, too, a cinnamon-dusted apple. On those two days each year, we'd share slices and an easy silence—the quiet, our gifts to each other.

“Thank you . . . it sure is a grand present, Rose.”

“Go on. Try it on.”

“Here? Oh no, not here—”

“Don't see any fancy dressing room out here, do ya? See that berm up ahead, kid? Hold on and I'll pull over, and you can change behind them bushes.” She laughed.

When she parked, I climbed out of her old green automobile and rushed over behind the thick brush. I pulled the dress out of the bag and held it in front of me. It only came down to my knees instead of, like mine, to the ankle. Alarmed, I held it up to the thin light of morning and could see through the white fabric.

With my fingers, I pinned Rose's dress to my shoulders. It felt short. I ran my hand inside the dress and stretched fingertips against the fabric, peering closely. What would Gunnar say about me wearing a daringly short see-through dress? I thought about him whipping Rainey for his sins—about the town whores, Dusty and Dirty, and that kissing fool, Dena . . .

“Okay, kid?” Rose hollered out the window.

Shaking my head, I walked back to the automobile and got in. “Rose”—I handed her the bag—“I can't . . . you can see through it. Folks could see my—well, and there's—”

“Huh? Here, let me see.” Rose took the dress back out of the bag and lifted it up to the windshield, then pushed a fist inside and ran it along the cotton. Shoving the dress onto my lap, she turned and climbed through the curtain, squeezing her wide hips into the back, muttering.

She slithered back up front and plopped down onto the driver's seat. I gasped.

In her hand was a Honey Girl slip the color of powdery roses—a blushing hint of the wild ones that grew in our fields. So beautiful that the thought of wearing it heated my face. The bodice gathered in the front, sheathed with delicate white lace, and the hem was trimmed in a pink satin ribbon. Never had I been this close to anything so pretty. Not even with Lady Bird in her fine fancy coat and gloves.

I got a fierce homesickness for Mama, for that long-ago day when she'd held me close to her own slip, and my eyes filled. “My mama had one of these fine slips . . . she did.”

“I imagine so, being the wife of an important preacher, she was.” Rose sniffled and tapped the dashboard clock. “Gotta scoot, kid, if we're gonna set up all my stuff and get your exhibit in.”

I nodded, wiped my eyes, and jumped out of the wagon. Undoing my buttons, I hurried over to the thicket. I laid my old dress on a twig and wiggled into the slip, its softness, cool and cradling like the morning breeze. Under the open sky, I took a deep breath and felt skin shiver against the satin.
Important things could happen in a slip like this.

Rose yelled out, “RubyLyn?”

“Almost through,” I called back, running my hands over the lace. “
Oh my
.”

Carefully, I slipped the strawberry dress on. A near-perfect fit and grand enough for a marrying day even.

I studied my Sunday church shoes, rolling a foot onto its side. One day I'd have me a pair of those heels that women always complained of hurting their feet. The prettiest pinchers in the world. I'd go dancing in the city with Rainey until my feet burned and I wore off the polish on my painted little piggies. I wiggled my toes inside at the thought.

I took off the tube socks. The shoes didn't seem as bad without them. I grabbed my old dress off the bush and ran back to the Canopy.

Rose whistled her approval, and I blushed and gave a tight twirl before climbing inside.

“Have you ever, Rose?” I breathed, fluffing up the skirt, smoothing, tracing the tiny strawberries. “Couldn't find a prettier dress in the Feed's catalogs, anywhere, I bet. It's so beautiful, thank you!” I dropped the socks onto the floorboard.

Rose grinned, then turned on the ignition and pulled onto the road. I saw her dab at her lashes. A minute later she reached over and nabbed my old dress and tossed it out the window.

“Rose, no . . .
no!
Gunnar will preach me a sinner's funeral—”

She cackled. “Tell Gunnar it is a
sin
to wear a rag when there's beauty to be had.”

The dress parachuted up and scalloped the blue Kentucky sky. I laid a hand down on my new dress baring my crossed legs, the silk-soft blush slip peeking out.

Leaning out the window, I looked up. The dress sailed farther away, taking Gunnar's
GodPretty
worries with it.

T
he city flagged the day with automobile rumblings and horn blasts and a busy crawl in its air as Rose drove us through downtown Louisville. I hurried to choke down the last bite of one of my cheese sandwiches I'd brought from home. Craning this way and that, I gaped at the long block of tall buildings.

“There's even a store that sells books, Rose!” W. K. S
TEWART
C
O
.—B
OOKS
—S
TATIONERY
—O
FFICE
S
UPPLIES
, the sign read.

“Look, it's as big as the Feed & Seed! Imagine! A whole store for books . . . just books? and looka there at that big one. Rose! Over there.” I jabbed my finger at another building. “All that for clothes?”

Rose laughed and slowed. “Look there, kid”—she pointed across me—“remember me telling ya 'bout the folk art they sell.... There ya go.” I followed her finger and sucked in a breath.
Leon's Art Studio and Fine Art
. It was a skinny building tucked in between the bigger ones, with a bright yellow awning hanging with the shop's name. In the window were pictures of landscapes, portraits, and there on an easel sat a large charcoal drawing of an outhouse in the weeds.

Giddy, I clapped my hands in astonishment.

“Lots of big doings round a big-doing city.” Rose perked. “Lots.”

“Ain't never been out of Nameless, unless you count going to see the president in Inez, and once when Gunnar took me with him to Loyall to look at a used tractor.” I whistled low.

Dressed in fancy clothes and looking important, people strolled into buildings. I smoothed down my new dress and hugged Mama's snakeskin purse closer. Why, wasn't that much fancy in all of Nameless's packed Sunday churches—or a courthouse meeting. Here it was almost eight on a Monday morning and folks weren't in the mines, out in the fields, or in the barn milking. They were at book and clothing stores doing important things.

Despite little sleep, I felt full of energy, like I'd drank a cup of Gunnar's black coffee.

A few minutes later we drove under a W
ELCOME TO THE
K
ENTUCKY
S
TATE
F
AIR
sign and stopped by a tiny shed. A sweaty man popped his head out the window, gave Rose a ticket, and pointed to a parking lot.

Rose pulled into a big grassy field and snugged her Canopy alongside other automobiles and trucks.

“Never seen so many automobiles.” I turned to Rose. “Reckon they're all here for the fair?”

“Uh-huh. Most folks in this permit lot got here on Saturday to unload, but they'll be a few stragglers like us coming in today. Let me fix myself up right quick,” she said, reaching around to the back and pulling out a bag with a canary-colored satiny blouse and matching heels inside. She hopped out of the automobile. I followed.

In a jiff she'd scrunched down behind the tailgate, wiggled out of her traveling blouse and into the clean one. Then she pulled out a pair of nylons from her pocketbook. Balancing against the tailgate, she stuffed her feet inside them, walking the hosiery tightly up her legs, wriggling, snapping her garter straps to them.

I handed her the heels.

“C'mon, kid, let's get your 'bacco signed in”—she put on her snazzy yellow shoes—“and then ya can help me set up my stuff. It's getting late.” She opened the tailgate, rearranging her boxes, and slid out a skinny wagon.

I gripped my Three States tobacco pail where I had my other cheese sandwich stowed for supper, and clutched Mama's purse. I took deep breaths of a world that smelled a lot like a Sunday dinner. Onions and scents of pie exploded, perfuming the grassy field.

Nearby, I glimpsed folks with their own carts, some dragging stuffed bags and boxes, others leading goats on rope and carrying caged chickens and other critters I couldn't get sight of.

Then, against the fresh morning light, I saw it way across the field, glinting against the morning sky. I stood loose-jawed and pointed.

Rose followed my finger. “That's the Ferris wheel,” she said. “Never seen one, huh?”

“Never,” I said, wishing Rainey was here to see it with me. It was like a big shooting star speckling over a summer day.

I watched the big wheel spin around once, twice, then nailed my stare to the ground to keep from dizzying my mind.

Folks walked past not even noticing the big metal contraption.

Rose must've sensed my stupor, because she patted my arm. “Let's go, kid, or they'll close your entry out.”

A couple in dapper clothes strolled past, laughing and chatting. The red-haired woman stopped and turned back. “Why, is that you, Rosie gal?” she called out musically, thrusting her shapely body our way.

Rose turned around. “Well, now, if it ain't Bonnie Kate!”

The woman hurried back to Rose and dotted her in small smacking kisses, then turned to me.

“This is RubyLyn,” Rose told the couple. “She's going to exhibit today.”

From behind her, the man mumbled a howdy while the woman looked me over, and said, “Hi, RubyLyn.”

“Hi,” I said.

“Now, ain't you something.... Looky here, Samuel, this is Rosie's little girl. The artist she's always telling us about,” the woman said.

The man tipped his straw hat my way. “
Rosie's little girl,
” he said warmly.

I set my Three States tobacco pail down, tucked my purse behind my back, and nodded, then half-curtsied, not knowing what to do, my face scalding with embarrassment. I wanted to correct them, but it felt good hearing them call me an artist and, even better, someone's little girl.

“Rosie showed us some of your drawings over the years,” the woman chatted on. “Masterpieces if I ever saw one. And, Rosie, I see you finally finished yours.” She poked her slender finger toward my dress.

Rose picked up my pail and set it on her tailgate. “Sure did.”

The woman said, “RubyLyn, we have us a little novelty store, Zachery's Novelty and Fireworks, in Tennessee. Maybe you'd like to put some of your artwork in there to sell? Come by the booth and I'll give you our address.”

Flattered, I managed to bob my head.

Rose shook hers. “Can't promise we'll have time 'cause we'll be leaving to go back to Nameless tonight. But I'll be sure and write it down for her, see if I can't drop ya off something the next time I'm in Tennessee.”

“Oh, Rosie, do try and stop by the booth for a drink at least,” the woman pouted. “Samuel brought along one of his fine bottles of Van Winkle. And you know ain't nothing better than visiting our Kentucky cousin, Old Rip.” She latched on to her husband's arm and flicked a wave over her shoulder as they strolled away.

Rose chuckled. “The Zacherys are good people. Bonnie Kate's a belle from the Tennessee sticks. Owns the biggest novelty store three states deep. Sells fireworks, Elvis rugs and mugs; you name it, they trade it. She gave me the material you're wearing.”

“You made this dress?”

“Sure did. Worked on it last year in the exhibit room on a friend's old Singer and finished putting on the buttons just two weeks ago. Knew it would fit ya, too.” She smiled sheepishly.

Warmed, I leaned over and pecked her cheek. “Ain't never owned something this beautiful. A grand birthday gift . . . I'm going to wear it every time I come back here so I can remember this first time,” I declared, suddenly feeling proud and stylish. “Thank you, Rose.”

“Work to do.” She fanned a hand in front of her flushed face, shooing me away.

I ran my hand down the front, admiring the perfect tight stitches I'd missed earlier. What a grand thing to wear this fine dress that was made right here at the Kentucky State Fair. Surely that was a good omen.

Together we lifted out my tobacco plant and put it on the wagon. I put on a pair of Rose's old work gloves, scooped up fallen dirt, and placed it back into the bucket. Rose guided the wagon through the rows of automobiles. I tucked my purse underneath my arm and rested my other hand on the Pepsi drum, steadying the tall plant.

When we passed by a big wooden platform up near the front of the exposition building, I stopped to gander. Rose stopped, too, and hitched a hand to her hip.

Sitting atop the stage were eight men and one woman in folding chairs. Another man wearing a white straw hat and yellow bowtie stood in front of them with a microphone, dandying himself back and forth in front of a crowd of onlookers.

The man motioned to one of the seated men on the stage. The tall man in bib overalls stood and took the microphone. The crowd hushed and the man let out a string of squeals, then another. Folks hooted and clapped.

Puzzled, I looked at Rose. She caught my eye, and explained, “A hog calling contest.”

After the caller was finished, another man in a blue cap stood and did the same, belting out screeches.

Then the announcer called for the lady named Emma.

Emma stood up, straightened her flowery dress, and stepped up to the microphone. The white-haired woman curtsied to the audience. She took a breath, tucked her arms behind her back, and let out a long string of quivering
soo-ee, soo-ee, soo-ee'
s, followed by a trail of quick musical yelps. The crowd cheered. The announcer came forward, took her hand in his, and raised them to the sky. He bowed to Emma, then pinned a blue ribbon onto her lapel. “Winner!”

Someone stepped forward and took a photograph.

Rose nudged me to move on. We pulled the wagon out of the crowd. I peeked back over my shoulder and saw Emma bowing to the audience, face lit up like a candle, a silky white slip hung inches below her colorful dress. She caught my eye and smiled kindly.

Blushing, I smiled back.

“Come on, kid, I want you to meet Freddy.” Rose led the wagon to the front of the exposition center.

I laughed when she pointed to Freddy, a huge wooden doll almost as tall as the building, wearing jeans and a denim shirt, sitting on a big haystack. A white picket fence surrounded him. Freddy had his hand half raised in a friendly wave.

Rose pointed, and said, “Now, if you get lost, RubyLyn, ya come wait here by Freddy till I can find ya, okay? He helps folks find each other. And be sure and check in here at suppertime to see if I'm around if ya can't make it back to the booths.”

Then all the sudden, Freddy said in a deep, smooth voice, “That's right, RubyLyn, lots of folks come to me when they're lost. If you're lost, just give a whistle. I like to get folks together.”

Stunned, I finally found my tongue. “Yes.
Yessir
.” I stepped forward and leaned over the fence, studying him. “
A talking doll
. . .”

Rose laughed. “That Freddy's a smart one, all eighteen feet of him.”

Someone rubbed my arm. I turned my head sharply. A tall man with dirty hair, wearing an oil-stained plaid shirt, pushed against me. “Hello, good lookin',” he said, his eyes traveling the length of me. His whiskey breath blew hot and ugly in my face.

Rose batted him out of the way with her elbows, squeezed herself next to me. “Don't mind the likes of him, he's carny trash.”

“Carny?”

“Works for the carnival rides. He bothers ya again, I'll sic security on him.” Then louder and to him. “Stay away from my girl.” She cut a mean eye toward the man, elbowing him farther away.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw another man slip in on my other side. I scooted closer to Rose as he gave a low whistle.

He tapped the fence, wagging a missing nub on his left hand. I couldn't believe it. Of all the people in Kentucky, I'd never thought I'd be seeing him again. Leaning against the picket fence, he stared at me. He had smiling blue eyes and wore tight-fitting jeans and a gray T-shirt that stretched across a broad chest and slim waist.

“Now ain't you a pretty sight for lonesome eyes,” he said with a lazy grin, rubbing his morning whiskers.

I looked closely at him, his slicked-back locks and easy smile. He sure had changed in two years.

Beside me, Rose loudly cleared her throat.

“Why, if it ain't Miz Rose . . . Rose Law,” he said, surprised, stretching his neck her way. “Thought I'd see you here yesterday. Hey, hope you brought a lot of musical spoons. I have a fella here that wants to buy a set.”

“Yup,” Rose said, “I'll be setting them up as soon as I take my charge into her exhibit.” She hooked my arm, in a hurry to leave. “Let's go, RubyLyn.”

“Exhibit ya say?” he said, looking at his watch and then back at me. “Why, Miz Rose, I'm working in the exhibits and I can escort her in.” He shot me a smile.

She squeezed between us and blocked him. “Time to go, RubyLyn.” She shook her head at the man. “No thanks, Mr. Crockett.”