GodPretty in the Tobacco Field (19 page)

“Paintsville. We're practically neighbors.” She lit up.

“Paintsville? But I thought maybe you was a city lady and all—”

“Mountain woman,” she said proudly, bending slightly, moving a hand down her knee, fluffing the dress fabric over the small hitch of her pretty peeking slip, “and educated at Centre College.”

“
Centre
.” I looked up at her old face, crinkly eyes remembering teachers' talk of the fine college. I peeked back at her winning ribbons. “That's sure a lot of prizes, ma'am,” I whispered in awe.

“A lot of faith, practice, and patience, sweetheart,” she said. “You showing something?”

“Yes, ma'am, my tobacco. I can't wait till I get one of those ribbons.”

She plucked a rose from her bunch and gave it to me. “Faith, practice, patience, sweetheart,” she chimed sweetly before moving on.

I looked at the delicate rose with tiny, sharp thorns, then back at her speck of flashing slip hanging below. It reminded me of Emma, meadow soft and mountain strong.

Straightening my shoulders, I called upon faith, letting it steady my bones and claim some surety. A minute later I walked into the exhibit building.

Next to the eight tobacco plants, seven boys of different ages waited.

Two important-looking men stood chin-to-chin talking. I peered at the judge badges pinned to the breasts of their white jackets.

The boys huddled together in a circle, stretching their necks to peek at the judges in bowties.

The slap of my shoes smacked, echoed throughout the quiet hall. The judges glanced up, then turned back to their clipboards. The boys gave a curious look, before taking back up their conversations.

Relieved that Cash hadn't followed me, I took a spot nearest the plants. My tobacco looked fresh, strong, and promising.

In my mind, I practiced my thank you, mouthed a prayer, and waited for the announcement.

Faith, practice, and patience
. I twirled the rose in my hand.

One of the judges called loudly, “1004.”

I looked over to the boys and scanned their pinned-on numbers.

The boys looked at their own tags, each other, and all around to see who the judges were calling.

“1004,” the judge said again. “Bishop?”

“Right there,” Cash said as he swept past me, hiking his thumb my way before taking a spot beside the other judges.

F
aith, practice, and patience,
the words juggled into air, squeezing.

The old judge looked at Cash, then back to me, nodded and scribbled something down on his paper. He lifted his pen and pointed. “1004. Step up here, 1004 . . . Yes, you, Miss Bishop.”

I blinked and climbed out of the cloud of Emma's words.

“Miss Bishop,” the older judge with a white bow tie said, “is this your plant in the Pepsi container?”

“Yessir.”

“A fine plant you got here, ain't it, Tom?”

Tom, the judge with a long droopy mustache, wearing a green bow tie, murmured a soft “yessir.”

A sappy smile weighted my cheekbones.
Faith
. . .

Cash shifted and pinned angry eyes to mine.

I set my mouth tight and looked away.

“Yessiree,” the judge in the white bow tie said, “you got yourself a fine plant there, miss. Must've taken a lot of work and years to learn this fine a'planting.”

Practice
. I drew myself up taller, mumbled a shy thank you.

“Yessiree,” he said again, “lotta patience to grow burley this good . . . Admirable, young lady. . . .”

Patience
.
Patience. Patience
. I felt myself bursting—my toes wiggling, stretching—my fingers tap, tap, tapping the rose.

“I say the blue goes to Miss Bishop, this year.” He grinned. “Whatta ya say, boys?”

Judge Tom nodded. “I say that's exactly right, sir!”

I couldn't help but nod, too.

Then Cash slowly wagged his head, stepped forward with a tiny book, and laid it on the judge's clipboard. “Page three,” he said, cutting me a sharp look and taking a badge from his back pocket.

His eyes never left mine as he pinned it onto his shirt.

C. C
ROCKETT
—AG JUDGE, it read.

Judge
. A breath caught in my throat.
Oh
. . .
he's an Ag judge
. . .

“Page three? What's this, Crockett?” the judge asked.

“The deadline, Judge.” Cash thumped the book. “Girl done missed her exhibit deadline.”

“Hmm?” the two judges grunted.

“Page three states that all exhibits must be on the fairgrounds and tagged by six a.m. August eighteenth, to be eligible to show for judging and any awarding of a ribbon and cash prize . . . She didn't get it in till midmorning,” Crockett rattled. “Late.”

Sweat circled my neck, dampened my chest. “Wonder what your judges will say about your timing, young lady . . .” the lady at the entry table had said.

The crowd of boys scooted over to the judges, murmuring, craning to glimpse the handbook.

“See here, Crockett,” the older judge said, pointing to my plant, “this is the best burley I've seen in years. Right, Tom?” He slipped a finger under his bow tie, stretching the collar, angling his reddening neck toward the ceiling.

“Indeed it is,” Judge Tom affirmed, adjusting his spectacles. “In my twenty years, ain't never had the rule invoked.” Big-eyed, he glanced at Cash. “Yessir, best burley this building's seen in quite a while.”

“Says right there in them rules, it
ain't,
” Crockett spat. “Unless you want me to go get Mr. Harlinger to explain his official rules . . .”

From behind me, a boy said, “Had my entry in 'fore first light. Don't seem t'all fair.”

Another grumbled, “Mine's been rotting in this stuffy building since Saturday morning.”

And another, “Two long days without sunlight for my plant. Made two trips for it, too. Tain't a bit right.”

I looked down at my rose, its crimson head shaking, tapping faster and faster against my side, petals falling.

“Here now, boys!” the older judge hushed. “I'll be the judge of what's fair!
Pauline!
Pauline, over here,” the judge barked, motioning across the room to the woman at the entry table.

Pauline jumped up from her seat, straightened her skirt, and hurried over to the judge. “Yes, Judge?”

“What time did you sign this gal in? 1004 here?”

My knees banged along with my heart so loudly that I thought folks might hear the clanging.

She pinched her lips, looked at me kind of pitifully, and that's when I knew she would remember the exact second.

“It was 10:04, sir . . . today, Judge . . .
four hours and four minutes late,
” she said, darting her eyes at my tag before dropping her lids.

Ten o four. Mon 1004.
I sucked in a breath, pressed my hand over the badge. She'd assigned the time to reflect my late arrival.

“Ten o four?” he called back.

Pauline touched his sleeve. “You know how it is, sir . . . some of these . . . these hill people can't even read or write, so I, well—”

Drifts of boyish snickers punched the canned air.

Shame filled up and rumbled inside me. I lowered my head.

“Very well, Pauline, that's all,” the judge grimaced.

Pauline gave a curt nod and left.

Cash tucked teeth over a tight grin, crossed his arms.

The older judge huddled close to whisper to Judge Tom.

After a few seconds the two men parted.

Judge Tom took out a white hankie from his back pocket and wiped his forehead. Then he stuffed it back, pulled out a blue ribbon from the stack fastened to his clipboard, and cleared his throat. “First Place. 2322. Franklin.”

Faith withered
.

Cash raised a smug brow.

“1805. Leakman. Second Place,” Judge Tom announced, and held up a red ribbon.

I pulled off my badge, then crumpled and tossed it to the floor.

“And it's 1123, Tim Dooley, for Third Place.” The judge dangled the yellow ribbon.

The room tilted a little, my ears roared. Stepping away, I felt Cash's hand land on my shoulder. “Ain't so royal now,” he whispered thickly.

“Sprocket mouth,” I shot back, knocking his hand off, blindly making my way to the ladies' room.

I don't know how long I stood there in the tiny stall, my breakfast and dinner swirling, disappearing down the toilet. Cussin' and a'fussin' the Crocketts. Spent, I sagged against the door, wiped my face with tissue, gulping down dry air.

A light knock startled me.

“RubyLyn,” a soft voice called. “It's me, Ellen. Saw you come in, but when I didn't see you come out, I got worried. You okay?”

I found my tongue and gave a wobbly “fine,” then opened the door and stepped out.

“That's good,” she said, looking me over. “Saw you passing me, looking peaked.”

“My dinner,” I fibbed, “didn't set right.” I touched my clammy forehead.

“Want me to go find your mama for you?”

“Mama . . . ? No, no. I'm okay.” I tried to smile.

“Okay, if you're sure.” She patted my shoulder. “Sure is a pretty rose,” she said, noting the flower in my hand.

“Yeah, and thanks, I'll be better in a bit.” I set the rose and my purse down on the seat beside the sinks, straightened the collar on my dress.

“Hey, won me a blue ribbon with my knitting.” She pointed to her chest. “How'd your tobacco do?”

She'd been late like me, but I was glad she won. Shaky, I said, “That's real nice, Ellen. I—”

“Ellen, Ellen,” a woman's voice floated in, hovering. “There you are, sweetie! Say good-bye to your friend, we're leaving for supper.”

“Well, hope you feel better. Bye, RubyLyn,” she said, smiling. “Maybe I'll see you around before we go home.”

I nodded and offered another wobbly smile.

At the door, her mama straightened her pinned ribbon. Then the woman bent down to kiss her daughter's cheek. Beaming, they locked arms together and left.

Wasn't a day that went by that I didn't miss her. But standing here alone in this big echo-slapping building, I missed Mama worse than ever. I closed my eyes and felt the tears pressing, piling on the years of loss and loneliness.

Clutching a fist to my chest, I pounded back the low chirp of Patsy's song, striking once urgently, twice, and a third more fiercely.

A black cleaning woman wearing a starched gray dress and heavy black shoes walked in with a stack of paper towels, pulling me out of my misery. Silently, she offered me one before stuffing them inside the hanging box. Grateful, I took it and wiped my nose. I noticed she had the same coloring as Rainey. Pinching another glance at me, she toweled the water off the sinks and left.

Thoughts of Rainey leaving me alone in Nameless pushed in, crowding. I picked up the rose, clenched it in a fist. Wincing, I flexed my fingers, loosened, tightened.

The petals and stem fell, littered the floor. My fever'd palm smarted, scratched, and blood-specked from the thorns—my chest aching from the thrashing.

“D
amn all Crocketts,
” I scratched out, bent over the ladies' room sink and washed my face.
Rose had been right
. I wondered what she would say when she found out I'd been disqualified because I hadn't even bothered to read the rule book. Here she'd made me this nice dress and toted me all the way up here.

I left the restroom and crossed the big hall over to the plant exhibits. I stood there a long while staring at my tobacco, the Pepsi drum Rainey had shined and filled so carefully, now nicked and dented. Dirt spilled out beside it. Leaves scattered about. Then I spied it, and hot anger crawled up my neck, warming my cheeks. Peeking out from under the drum was Cash's hankie. I pushed the tobacco over to the trash can and left it to be put out with the garbage.

A minute later, I opened the metal doors and escaped outside, a blast of candy and onion scents almost sending me back.

I huddled inside my thoughts alongside Freddy. After a few minutes, Freddy called out, asking if I was lost. I shook my head and decided to head toward Rose's booth, stopping to glance at the different wares and listening to the barking pitches. Anything to distract me from my gloom.

I passed the booth of Rose's Tennessee friends. Bonnie Kate sat perched on a metal stool wearing a glittery tiara on her head, smoking a long filtered cigarette while her husband sold their wares: stiff aluminum crowns with sparkly plastic stones, little boxes of sparklers, and pictures of Elvis Presley. “Be a State Fair Princess—A Crooning King—Get your best sparkle from Zachery's Novelties and Fireworks,” he barked at the passersby. Bonnie Kate caught my eye and smiled.

I lifted a polite one back and moved on to the next booth. One man in overalls sold spices at his stand. Next to that booth, a gray-haired woman with a lodestone hanging from her neck sold jellies and jams. I lingered at her counter, studying a jar of pawpaw jelly. A small basket holding two rocks cozied up to the stacks of jars. She picked up one of the reddish brown stones and placed it in my hurt hand.

“Here you go, child,” she said, sneaking her old eyes to my scratched hand. “Take you a madstone back home. Cures the fevers, mad bites, stings, and more. Special 'cause it comes from the belly of the ghost deer, it does.”

“Thank you, ma'am, but I don't have the money.” I held it back up to her.

“Bad luck to sell a madstone.” She pushed my hand away. “Can only be given. Got that special one from down round eastern Kentucky,” she said. “Nameless.”

Surprised, I said, “I'm from Nameless, Kentucky, ma'am. But I ain't never seen an albino deer before.” I flipped it over. “My uncle said he saw one when he was a boy, though.”

“Well, there you go. The stone knows its way home. And Lord-love-Betsy-and-her-babies, Nameless sure is a pretty place!” She peeled back a toothy grin.

I rubbed the stone, and told her, “Back home, Mr. Turner has a rock he found in a catfish head, and he said it cured sore eyes and got rid of dust gathering in them. Keeps it sitting close to his tobacco paper press. And Oretta, that's our midwife, always wears a cock-stone around her neck. Says it will protect the babies she delivers.”

“Sure will,” the old woman said.

I examined the madstone, turning it over several times before I thanked her and tucked it into my purse.

Ellen and her mama passed by me, chatting in smile-filled song.

I wondered if there was a stone for the things I'd been afflicted with. I was feverish with the sadness, a longing for my parents, Rainey, and a longing to live here in the city.

I passed a few more booths, stopping beside a smiling couple in front of a covered stand. They pointed and peered at strips of tiny photographs. Curious, I looked up at the Strike a Pose Photomatic! 3 Instant Photographs! booth. Behind the red half curtain, I heard a woman's giggles and looked down and saw her sitting on a man's lap. They spilled out laughing, the black man's shoulder pressed close to the white woman's arm.

I watched as they strolled away. Except for a few old farmers and their wives, folks hurried past the couple without so much as a blink and nary a stink—and not a soul came forward to give a whipping.

I stood there gawking a good while until an applause jolted me out of my thoughts. I edged toward the noise. In front of a large booth, a group of kids about my age lowered their clapping hands and listened to the pitchman who ran it. Some of the boys in the group wore navy-blue corduroy jackets with a gold eagle emblem on the back.

A F
UTURE
F
ARMERS OF
A
MERICA
banner hung across the booth. The man behind the stand also wore the nifty blue jacket. A corn-yellow tie hung neatly over his pressed white shirt. I stood back and watched. Three girls wearing green pinstriped dresses with four-leaf clovers on breast pockets came up behind me. The man talked about agriculture education being important, about being a good citizen, and how important a job it was to feed so many. How to grow better crops and different crops. Then he recited a creed that told what things the farmers' club believed in.

“ ‘
. . . I believe in less dependence on begging and more power in bargaining; in the life abundant and enough honest wealth to help make it so—for others as well as myself; in less need for charity and more of it when needed; in being happy myself and playing square with those whose happiness depends upon me . . .
' ”

The Future Farmers of America spokesman told everyone the important creed was written by an author named E. M. Tiffany, 'specially for his club, and then went on to say that for the first time ever, females could have membership. “Including 4-H females,” he pointed and said to the girls behind me. The girls in the neat pinstripes giggled, and he waved his hand at them, and also to me, to come forward.

The boys spread a path, clapping politely. I accepted the spokesman's pamphlet and a packet of fat sunflower seeds.

Somewhere behind me I heard a baby's squall trailed by familiar voices.

Turning, I saw them beside a toy booth. Mr. and Mrs. Emery bent over a baby buggy, tending to Eve.

Half-hidden behind fairgoers who were milling around the table, I watched the family.

“There there, sweet Eve,” they prattled to the baby. Mr. Emery's arms were filled with stuffed toys. The bottom of Eve's periwinkle-blue buggy burst with more playthings. Mrs. Emery picked up the baby and gently rocked her.

“Is she okay?” Mr. Emery asked. “She's not sick, is she?”

Alarmed, I took a step toward them.

“She's fine, darling,” Mrs. Emery assured, lifting the baby higher for a better glimpse. “Just a busy day for our daughter's first State Fair . . . Come on, little one.” She smiled. “We better get you home. Tomorrow's another busy day. There'll be more fairs.”

I breathed a sigh of relief.

Mr. Emery cooed and wiggled a stuffed doll in front of Eve. “Lots more fairs for our fair princess,” he said, kissing the baby's forehead. “Let's go home, Eve.” He tickled Eve's belly. “We've got the dressmaker coming bright and early so she can make our girl the most beautiful baptismal gown in the world. Yes, the most beautiful for the most beautiful.”

Eve whimpered a little.

“You're my princess, and Daddy's here to protect you,” he comforted.

Eve quieted and smiled at her daddy. I smiled, too.

Mr. Emery babbled on.

I opened my purse and pulled out the madstone. Maybe if Eve had this special stone it would protect her like Oretta's cock-stone that had been taken from the knee of an old fighting rooster.

I raised my hand, waving. “Mr. and Mrs. Emery,” I called.

Mrs. Emery spied me. Surprise flashed in her eyes. Then just as quick, deep worriment took hold and disgust pinched her mouth.

I waved again. “Ma'am, it's me, RubyLyn.”

Quickly she turned and tucked the baby back into the carriage. “Time to go, darlings,” she said, skittering away. Mr. Emery followed her, a tied-on balloon tailing behind them.

I waved once more, wanting to see Lena's baby one last time. To give Eve this madstone for protection. To leave a part of me and Nameless and her family back home with her . . . But Mrs. Emery looked at me like I was dirty. I looked down at my dress
. How could she not speak when I was wearing this fine dress with a fine lady's slip like her . . . ?

Mrs. Emery gave one last nervous look over her shoulder, leaving me to lower my hand, tuck it close to my side. Blinking back the stinging dampness, I turned my gaze and saw Cash push beside the couple, heading straight my way. I meant to grab him and give him a piece of my mind, but he didn't even notice as he whizzed past me, him so full of his fire to follow a girl in a white blouse, navy skirt, and fast wiggle.

I glared after him until a whistle turned my attention. A balding man in a bright green Paramount Pickle T-shirt with a pickle-shaped whistle around his neck motioned me up to his booth. Grinning, he passed around a plate of free pickles to me and a few others. Hungry and knowing it would be a long time till my next meal, I grabbed one.

I took a small bite. It was crunchy and delicious—and almost as good as Rainey's. The Paramount Pickle man talked about his company in Louisville and how lots of folks liked pickles. He told us that people with land could work with his company and produce great tasty pickles—
the country's best
. He ticked off big numbers—the money that hardworking pickle farmers could make.

Then the friendly pickle man passed out a packet of cucumber seeds and a flyer with his company name and information. I studied the green paper with its border of pickles and line touting, “Be a Sweet Pickle and Grow Paramount” before stuffing it and the seeds into my purse with my other things.

I walked out of the rows of vendors. Leaning against the wall, I munched on the rest of my pickle and watched the fair people.

Everyone laughed or packed a smile. Some talked with hawkers, tried the games, and bought the goodies. Others rushed to the next fun thing with that once-a-year excitement only a fair could bring.

I didn't belong in this place, but somewhere else, a darker place where troubled folks had no laughter for this day or tomorrow.