Pages of Promise (13 page)

“Funny she didn’t say anything about it at the reunion,” commented Pete.

“It’s what she always said she wanted, and Dad knew somebody at International News Service who would give her a start on his recommendation, in spite of her being a woman and being so young,” replied Jerry.

“So, she’s in London learning to write what she calls news-briefs—condensing stories into one-sentence fillers. Sounds exciting, doesn’t it?” Bonnie laughed. “I’m not sure it’s quite what she expected!”

“What about her and the fella Jake she brought to the reunion?” asked Leslie.

“Well,” Jerry answered, “something happened, but neither Stephanie nor Dad are saying what, if Dad even knows. He just says she’ll do well—after all, she’s got all of his talent.”

“Amos never was broke out with modesty, was he?” Pete smiled. “He used to boss the lot of us around just because he was the oldest. He’s a pretty smart fella though. Anybody that wins a Pulitzer has to have some sense. What about Robert?”

“Going great guns. Off every night playing somewhere with his band. I don’t know how he keeps going. He sings all night and plays the piano. Every kind of little place where they can get fifty people together. Then they pile into cars with half a dozen other singers, and they head on out.” He shook his head. “It’s not a good life, but he’s all caught up in it.”

“And what about Richard?” Leslie asked. “I take it he’s still down on the farm with Logan?”

“Well, he’s still in Arkansas, but he’s not living with Uncle Logan.”

Peter lifted his head. “Where’s he living?”

“You remember Uncle Logan told us about that group over on the Cartwright place? Richard’s been staying with them for the past few months. I don’t know. It worries me a little bit. It seems like such an aimless way to live.” Jerry drummed his fingers on the table nervously, then shook his head. “He went into a shell, I think. It was pretty rough on him in Korea, but Uncle Logan thinks he’s coming out of it now.”

“Does his wound bother him any?” Leslie asked.

“Some, I think, but you know scars on the inside take even longer to heal. In any case, he’s planting cucumbers or something now. You can’t spend your life growing cucumbers.”

Pete laughed and said, “Nephew, you and I planted our cucumbers, only worse. Don’t worry about it,” he smiled encouragingly. “He’s got a good foundation. He needs time to uncoil, I suspect. He’ll be himself again.”

Richard moved down the long rows weeding the garden and thinking of nothing in particular. It was a habit he had gotten into, and it served him well. The memories of the war already came back less vividly. The smiling young soldier that he had killed still floated through his dreams sometimes, and he thought of men in his squad, and he thought about Jack Smith almost every day. But the keen edge of hurt had begun fading away. The radio kept him up on the news from that other world. He heard names of hills he’d fought on, still trading hands. The truce talks were in their third year. They stopped and started so many times Richard couldn’t keep up. In April, prisoners of war had been exchanged, which was the only concrete progress so far. No one had any expectations about how much longer the fighting might go on.

He chopped at the grass, paused, pulled a file from the back pocket of his jeans, and put a razor edge on the hoe with four quick passes of the file, a new skill he had picked up. He moved on down the row and stopped to look up at the sky. A red-tailed hawk was circling overhead, and for a moment Richard thought,
If he’s after the chickens, I’ll have to discourage
him.
But he saw the hawk was far away from the house. It fell like a plummet and did not appear again.

Having finished in the garden, he moved on back toward the house. He washed up outside at the faucet and went around to the back door, where he found Granny examining Harry Tate’s catch after a night out on the river.

Granny was looking at the enormous snapping turtle that Tate had dumped out on the ground, and she spoke quickly, as she always did, running her words together. “Don’t let that scoundrel get away!” she said to Richard. “We’ll have him for supper tomorrow night. Now, what you have to do is put a stick out there and make him bite it! Here, let me get the ax.” She stepped to the side of the house, picked up a double-bitted ax, and by that time Richard had enticed the turtle to stick its head out and bite into the stick. Instantly the old woman swung the ax. It flashed in the sun, and then the turtle’s head was separated, and the crimson blood stained the dark ground. “Take that head away! It ain’t fit for nothin’!” Granny said. She looked up at Richard and asked, “Boy, you know how to cook turtles?”

“Don’t think I do, Granny.”

“Well, you come along, and I’ll give you your first lesson. Pick up that varmint now. Harry, you go get those fish cleaned,” she ordered.

Richard picked up the huge turtle, and they walked out to a black pot where a fire was already kindled. She had Richard put the turtle on the grass, then bring several buckets of water, and when the pot was filled and at long last boiling, she said, “Now, dump him in there. You come back when he’s been boiled good and cut all the meat loose from the shell. Gut it and cut it into chunks, then you fill that bucket and put some salt in it and soak the meat all night. Tomorrow I’ll show you how to cook it. Tastes mighty good.”

“I bet it does, Granny. I’ll see to it.”

Later that afternoon, after Richard had prepared the turtle meat as instructed, Laurel stopped him as he headed for the barn.

“I’m going to take Johnny down to the creek and fish. Why don’t you come? You look so hot and sweaty.”

The invitation sounded good, and he said, “Well, I think I will. Maybe go wading.”

“I always do that,” Laurel said. “Let me get Johnny, and we’ll go.”

Fifteen minutes later, they were standing barefooted in the water watching Johnny splash happily in the fresh, running brook. It was a clear stream, spring fed, and it felt very cold to Richard’s feet. “Cold enough for trout,” he said. “I’ll bet there’s some in here; doesn’t take a big stream for trout.”

“You can ask Tom. He knows all the fishing spots around here.” Laurel was wearing a long skirt, as usual, but she hiked it up so that her legs were bare to the knees. They appeared startlingly white compared with her arms and face and neck, which had been tanned into a golden tint by the hot summer sun. Afterward they fished for a while but caught only a few small sun perch. They sat idly in the shade of a spreading hickory tree and were quiet for a long time. Laurel asked, “What are you going to do, Richard?”

“Haven’t thought about it.”

His answer somehow pleased her, and she pulled her legs under her, tailor fashion, and leaned over and stared into the water. “Look at the minnies,” she said. “They’re like little silver darts. Pretty.”

Richard almost said, “Well, so are you pretty,” but he held back. “I don’t know as I ever want to do anything. I don’t right now, except work in the garden and fix the truck.”

Laurel looked at him and smiled. “You know, I feel more secure here than I ever felt in my life. My daddy was a tenant farmer, and we moved from one shack to the other as far back as I can remember. I have three brothers and sisters, but they’re all scattered now.”

“What about your parents?” Richard asked. Laurel did not answer, and he knew she would not. She had a way of breaking off conversations when she did not want to respond, and he said nothing more.

When they got back to the house, Henderson asked, “Catch any fish?”

“Just little ones. Didn’t even keep ’em.”

“Just fishing in the wrong place. I’ll take you out someday, and you’ll bring in pole benders.” He hesitated then said, “Richard, would you mind taking a load of vegetables into town tomorrow?”

“Sure, why not? What’ll I do with them?”

“We sell ’em by the roadside. Just park somewhere close to the general store, and people will stop and buy ’em. We need a little cash money.”

“Don’t know if I’d be any good at selling anything.”

“Laurel can go with you, can’t you, Laurel? She can do the peddling. All you do is drive the truck and sit around and wait.”

“That sounds good to me,” Richard said.

“I’ll pack us a lunch so we won’t have to eat at the cafe,” Laurel said eagerly.

It was ten o’clock before Richard got the old pickup running. Tom helped load it with squash, tomatoes, young potatoes, and cucumbers. Richard got in, and Laurel climbed in beside him. He started the engine, and they chugged off down the rutted road, still wet from an overnight rain. He drove slowly, pampering the old Dodge. When they reached the main highway, he said, “Where do we set up shop?”

“Oh, anywhere along here.”

Pulling over to the side of the road, he followed Laurel’s instructions. They set up a table with folding legs, and she set out some of the vegetables on it in an attractive arrangement, and he put up the sign that read, Fresh Vegetables—Cheep! He smiled but said nothing.

Midday passed swiftly. Richard had brought a book that Tom had given him, a book of poems by Gerard Manley Hopkins. He struggled with it for a while. Quite a few cars stopped, and he got up and helped Laurel wait on the customers.

During a season when no cars seemed to be on the road, she came over and sat down beside him in one of two folding chairs they’d brought. “Is it a good book?” she asked.

“How should I know,” Richard mused. “It’s over my head.”

“Read me something, Richard.”

“Well, here’s one that I can understand a little bit. It’s called “Heaven-Haven.” He read slowly and clearly:

I have desired to go
where Springs not fail,
to fields where flies no sharp and sided hail
and a few lilies blow.
And I have asked to be
where no storms come,
where the green swell is in the havens dumb,
and out of the swing of the sea.

“That’s so pretty,” Laurel exclaimed.

“It is, isn’t it? I never wrote a poem in my life. Don’t think I could.”

“Tom does, but he doesn’t let anybody read them very much. He wrote one about me.”

“I’d like to read that one.”

She grew suddenly remote and said, “Maybe I’ll let you read it some day.” She looked down at her hands and shook her head. “That man just knows what’s on the inside of people. That poem said more about me and what I’ve been and what I am now than anybody has a right to know.”

“I guess poets are that way. What do you think this poem’s about?”

“Let me see.” She moved her chair closer and studied the book, turning it toward her. She was wearing a short-sleeved light blue dress with a dark green belt. It was not the long dress that she usually wore, for the skirt came only to her knees. It was more form fitting than her other garments, and Richard felt aware of her in a disturbing way. Her arm was warm and firm against his forearm. “A nun takes the veil,” she read.

“That’s the subtitle,” Richard offered. “What do you make of the poem?”

“It sounds to me like it’s a woman who’s tired of the hard things she has to face, and she wants to go where things are easier. Isn’t that what it means, ‘where Springs not fail’? There’s no sharp hail, and there are few flowers there.” She looked up at him, and he was again struck by the beauty of her large violet-blue eyes. They were her best feature, though she often kept them lowered.

“I guess it does, but it doesn’t have to be a woman.” He started the poem again and shook his head. “That describes me pretty well, I guess. I don’t want to become a nun or a monk, but I guess that’s what the Vine is to me. There are a few lilies, and there’s no sharp hail to cut me to bits. No storms, just a place where it’s calm and peaceful. I guess that’s what I’m looking for.”

“That’s what we’re all looking for, isn’t it?” She suddenly became conscious of her arm on his and took it away, flushing slightly. “Anyway, it’s a good poem.”

Richard felt embarrassed by the contact and said, “Let’s go into town and get something cold to drink to wash those sandwiches down.”

“We’ll have to pack up all the vegetables.”

“That’s all right. After we eat, we can set up on down at the crossroads. We’ll get people going both ways.” They packed up and drove to the small country store. There were two gas pumps out in front, both of them rusty, and the weathered gray frame building was decorated with RC Cola signs, as well as advertisements for Redman Chewing Tobacco and other delights.

They entered the store and were struck by sounds of a song called “Moving On” by Hank Snow. The radio was loud, and gathered around it at the counter were four young men drinking soda and talking loudly over the music. Richard paid them little attention, for they seemed to be arguing about the results of a horse race that some of them had been involved in. He moved to the cold-drink box, opened it, and picked a Nehi cream soda for himself, then looked around for Laurel. She was moving along a glass case that had an assortment of knives, inexpensive jewelry, and a few wristwatches and clocks. “What will you have to drink, Laurel?” he spoke up, lifting his voice over the music and the talk of the men.

Three of the men were wearing overalls, faded and well-worn. The other wore a pair of brown trousers and a dirty T-shirt. He was the biggest one. “Well, now. What have we got here?” the big man said loudly, leaning back on the counter, a red strawberry drink in his hand. “It looks like some of them so-called farmers from over by the river. Is that right?” he lifted his voice. “You folks from that farm over there?”

Laurel moved over to the cold-drink box. “I’d like an RC Cola,” she said to Richard.

“Hey! I’m talkin’ to you!” the big man said. He winked at the man next to him, a tall wiry fellow with eyes too close together and a shock of yellow hair. “I hear tell the menfolks do pretty well. Have the women any time they want ’em—any of ’em.”

“Is that right, Alvin?” The tall wiry fellow grinned. He spat on the floor and said, “Wouldn’t mind payin’ a visit.”

Richard walked up to the counter and cast a look at the four loafers before he turned to the clerk, a rotund man with gray hair. “How much for the drinks?”

“Five cents each.”

Richard fished the change out of his pocket, put a dime down, and turned, saying, “Come on, Laurel.”