Hell With the Lid Blown Off (5 page)

Beckie MacKenzie

“I reckon you saved my bacon, Miz Beckie.” Ruth was sitting on the very edge of her chair in the parlor, across from Beckie, who seemed remarkably unaffected by the incident. Marva scuttled around the room, fluffing pillows behind Ruth's back and pouring tea to soothe their nerves.

“Oh, I doubt if you were in any real danger, Ruth dear. Boys will be boys. But I won't have any truck with such unseemly comportment.”

Marva refrained from comment, but she did emit a derisive snort.

“I don't know, ma'am,” Ruth said to Beckie. “That bunch is trouble for sure. Cousin Scott says he's got to keep an eye on them all the time. They're always up to mischief. He's always got one or another of them in the jail overnight for vandalism or fighting. He says it's just a matter of time till one or two end up in prison. My money's on that Hosea.”

Marva spoke up. “Well, you keep shet of that Jubal, Miz Ruth, honey. If there was ever anybody looking to do harm it's Jubal Beldon, always telling nasty stories about folks whether they was true or not.”

Ruth was surprised at the rancor in Marva's voice. “What do you mean, Marva?”

The look Marva gave her suggested that she thought she had said too much and didn't intend to be drawn into any more open criticism of a white man.

Beckie waved her hand. “Oh, Marva, quit fluttering around and sit down. If you've heard something about Jubal that dear Ruth should know, you'd best tell us.”

Marva relented and perched herself on an ottoman. Never had anything to do with the man, myself,” she said. “But I expect he said something to some kin of mine that made her quit working for a white family she liked. Don't matter if it's her fault or not. A colored girl can't be too careful about that kind of thing.”

“When was this?” Ruth asked.

“Oh, a couple of years ago, at least. I ain't thought about it since.” And that was all she was going to say about that.

Beckie shook her head. “Now, Ruth dear, a young lady must take great thought of her reputation. Next time a lad gives you any lip, you just lift your head high and plow right on by as if he wasn't there.”

“Why do you think they did me like that, Miz Beckie? I wasn't doing anything to bother them.”

Beckie gave her a knowing look. “Dear heart, boys will do anything to get the attention of a pretty young woman, even if they're too jugheaded to know the right way to go about it.”

Ruth was startled at this pronouncement. What kind of idiot scared a girl to make her like him? It was pitiful, in a way. But it was hard to maintain a Christian attitude toward Jubal and his gang when they took such pleasure in the fear of others. And when did she become a pretty young woman?

Jubal Beldon

After the confrontation with Beckie MacKenzie, the Walker boy peeled off toward home. The Beldons continued on together, riding south until they reached the road that led to Morris and turned west, heading for their own farm. Nobody said a word as they rode to the corral and unsaddled their mounts.

Jubal threw his saddle over the top rail of the fence. “Zadok,” he said to the younger brother, “that feeder is low. Bring up another bale of hay.”

Zadok headed for the barn without comment. Hosea turned to follow him, but Jubal said, “Not you.”

Hosea halted in his tracks, his head lowered and fists clinched, until Zadok was out of earshot. He turned around to face Jubal.

“Don't you never sass me again.” Jubal's tone was menacing. “When I say stop your mischief, you stop it.”

Hosea was only a year younger than Jubal and much better looking, with his even features and clear brown eyes. And in his own opinion, infinitely smarter. He was also smaller in stature, though that had never daunted him. Jubal had ridden roughshod over him all his life and their father had always taken Jubal's side. In fact, their daddy had seemed to enjoy seeing Jubal beat the wadding out of his younger brothers. Not that Hosea hadn't given as good as he got. When they were boys, Jubal never failed to get the best of him, but once they grew up, their fights were usually fifty-fifty propositions. After the old man died, Hosea had briefly held out hope that all the brothers would be on a more even footing, but it hadn't worked out that way. The old man had left everything he owned to Jubal and the younger brothers were too cowed to say anything about it.

Hosea's nostrils flared with hatred. “Or what?”

His hostility seemed to amuse Jubal. “Or I'll knock your teeth so far down your throat that you'll be chewing with your belly button.”

“You want to try it?”

A childish shriek caused them both to start. “Mama, Jubal and Hosea are fixing to fight again!”

They turned to see their five-year-old sister Lovelle hanging over the corral railing, her rag doll dangling in one hand. Jubal casually slapped her off the fence. “Git, you little brat!” She sped off toward the house, crying for her mother.

Hosea was distracted just long enough. Before he knew what had happened, he was on his back in the dirt, staring at the sky and seeing stars in the middle of the day. He didn't have time to register the searing pain in his jaw. He didn't have time to register anything; not to think or plan or consider how to defend himself. Jubal kicked him in the side and he rolled into a fetal position, gasping for breath.

There was a pause, long enough for Hosea to realize that Jubal could kick him to death and there wouldn't be anything he could do to prevent it.

But Jubal didn't kick him to death. He didn't say anything, only turned around and walked away without a backward glance.

Hosea lay in the dirt for a little while, trying to catch his breath, as tears of pain and humiliation dribbled down his cheek. Eventually one of the horses wandered over and nosed him, curious. Hosea lifted himself to his hands and knees, then slowly got to his feet and stood with his arm over the horse's neck for support. He could see his mother standing by the back porch, comforting his bawling sister. Jubal was nowhere to be seen.

The wild, formless, burning resentment that Hosea had lived with all his life was no different after the beating than it was before. But he had learned a lesson. Don't give your enemies any warning before you strike.

Trenton Calder

I would no more have gone to eat dinner with Wallace
MacKenzie than with Kaiser Wilhelm himself if Ruth hadn't invited me. Of course, if Ruth had invited me, I'd have had supper with the Kaiser, the whole German Army, and the Turks, too, as long as she was there.

I don't believe I had ever set foot in Miz Beckie MacKenzie's house before that evening. Her and me hardly ran in the same social circles. The most important things in Miz Beckie's life were her family, her music, and having Scotch blood. I never knew anybody so proud of the folks she came from.

Miz Beckie herself was born in South Carolina before the War Between the States, if I remember right, and she sounded like it. Except that she was always using these strange Scotch words. I think she had an idea that it made her sound interesting, but as far as I was concerned it just made her hard to understand.

That evening she was as gracious to me as if I'd been a regular gentleman. For Ruth's sake, I expect. Wallace shook my hand and pounded me on the back like I was a long lost friend, but he spent the rest of the night making sport at my expense. His fancy education hadn't changed him any. He was still as annoying as he had been when he was a brat. His friend Randal was another story, though. A fine fellow, it seemed to me, quiet and good-natured with a sharp wit. Made me wonder how him and Wallace got to be friends.

Ruth had made up quite a spread for the five of us—the fattest, juiciest pork chops I ever saw, with pan dressing, little creamed onions with tiny new potatoes, and cucumbers in vinegar. After we had all eaten ourselves silly, Miz MacKenzie said we should adjourn to the sitting room before dessert.

We mostly talked about the war in Europe and whether America was going to get in it, a topic which I thought wasn't all that good for digestion. But Wallace was on a tear about it, and whatever Wallace wanted to talk about was what we talked about. Ruth never liked to hear about the fighting but Wallace's grandma seemed as excited about him going off on a great adventure as he did. I've known folks like that, who don't have much of a handle on how things really are. Randal had a comment or two but Ruth didn't have much to say. When she stood up to bring in the dessert, I went to help her.

We passed through the dining room on our way to the kitchen, gathered up some of the plates off the table and took them into the kitchen. She wouldn't let me help her do the dishes. I tried to tell her that I sure had plenty of practice since my mother didn't believe that a boy ought to sit on his backside when a meal was cleared up any more than a girl. Ruth just scraped and stacked the plates and cups nice on the cabinet, and I sat at the table and watched while she sliced pieces of cake. She put them on fancy little dishes to carry back into the sitting room, along with a silver pot of coffee and a bowl of sweetened heavy cream.

Miz MacKenzie gave her a sly look when we came back in, Ruth carrying the big silver tray and me trailing along behind her with my hands dangling by my sides like a blockhead. Ruth put the tray on the tea table and passed around cake and coffee before she sat down next to Miz MacKenzie on the blue velvet settee. I perched my long self on the only open seat available, an ottoman next to the fireplace, and balanced my plate on my knee.

I don't know what her and Wallace and his friend had been talking about while we were gone but I reckon the war talk was done, because as soon as we were settled Miz MacKenzie commenced to questioning me about my family and my plans for the future. I didn't mind. I figured I could use the practice. If things went between me and Ruth like I hoped, before long I'd be answering for myself plenty to her daddy and mama.

When she went to ask me if I planned to join the Army, though, I didn't rightly have a good answer. Lots of people I admired were dead set against us getting involved in any war, but I knew that if we got into it I'd probably have to join up sooner or later. And in fact, after the U-boat attacks on American ships had started the year before, I had told Scott that I was eager for the adventure. But in spite of all my big talk I wasn't as keen to fight any more. The idea of leaving Ruth just when I had found her didn't much appeal to me.

My half-hearted answer served to get Wallace to rattling his saber again. “I'm eager for the warrior's life, Trent. It's the best way I know for a man to test himself, to come face-to-face with his demons and do battle with them. To find out what he's made of.”

I heard Randal sigh, but he didn't say anything. Neither did I. Boynton wasn't much of a Sodom or a Gomorrah, either, but since I had been a deputy I had seen enough violence and foolish behavior to do me.

“A soldier's life can be verra noble,” Miz MacKenzie said. “It's a life of great sacrifice, laddies, for the peace and safety of others.” She eased herself back into her big armchair. “Both your grandfathers were soldiers in their time, Wallace, and your father, too. All acquitted themselves proudly on the field. My Dada, your great-grandda Hamilton Bruce, was a field surgeon with the 42nd Regiment of Foot, and fought under General Campbell at the Battle of Alma in fifty-four.”

“Was that before he became an Admiral along with Nelson and then King of Scotland, Gram?” Wallace had heard it all before. He was teasing his grandmother, but Randal leaned forward.

“In the Crimea?”

Miz Beckie's eyes got wide. “Aye! Do you know about the Battle of Alma?”

“Medicine is my avocation, but history is my passion,” Randal said. “That battle was a turning point of the Crimean war, largely due to the Black Watch.”

Wallace flopped back in his chair. He looked put out, but he sounded amused. “Here we go again! You'll be sorry you got him started, Granny.”

“What is Black Watch?” Ruth asked.

Randal turned to look at her. “That's the nickname for the British Army's 42nd Regiment of Foot. They're called that because the tartan they wear is so dark.”

As far as I was concerned they might as well have been speaking Chinese. I had never heard of Crimea or the 42nd Regiment of Foot, and when it came to tartan, I had no idea what they were talking about. I'd have asked if I weren't ashamed of being so ignorant.

“Mama has a little piece of tartan cloth that her I-don't-know-how-many-greats grandfather brought over with him.” Ruth made a little square with her fingers. “It's about yea big, kind of gray-brown, now, all faded. We don't know exactly what it was for, but the family story is that he was forbidden to have it in the old country and kept it hidden under his shirt until he came over here.”

“Isn't your mother's maiden name Gunn? That's a Highland name, you know.”

Wallace clapped his hand to his forehead. “Oh, no, Ruth! You've opened the barn door! Neither Randal or Gran can be stopped now.”

Randal laughed, but Miz Beckie was affronted. “Well, Ruth dear, apparently Wallace has heard enough about tartans to last him a lifetime.”

“I don't know, Miz MacKenzie,” I said. “I'd like to hear about it.”

Wallace stood up. “That's it for me.”

His grandmother waved him back down. “Don't be rude, Wallace. Don't worry, we won't bore you. Thank you, Trent. Perhaps you'll come back for tea someday and I'll tell you and Ruth all about it.” She turned to face Randal. “I still have my father's Black Watch regalia, Randal dear. He kept his entire uniform, from bonnet to ghillies. I'd never part with it for anything.”

Randal straightened up, interested. “Oh, I'd love to see it, Miz Beckie.”

“So would I,” Ruth seconded, and I put in that I'd be interested in getting a gander myself. We all shot Wallace a sour look, but instead of throwing cold water on the proceedings, he volunteered to go upstairs and fetch it.