The Dirty Parts of the Bible (16 page)

“You can have it then,” she said, flipping her fingers through her hair. “It gets hot as hell in the sun—I’d cut it
all
off if Mama would let me.”

“Looks like you’ve made a good start.”

It was about the tenth stupid thing I’d said that day—I began to remember why I usually kept my mouth shut around girls. Desperate to find a way out of the hole I was digging, I leaned forward and touched the top of her head. “I like short hair, too. I think it’s cute.”

Her frown broke into a smile. “Cute. Like Toby.”

She had me now. Toby it was.

+ + +

Despite her odd looks, something about Sarah captured my fancy. Maybe it was her eyes. On first glance, they looked buggy—too large and round for her face. On second glance, they seemed sad and deep. On third glance, they caught me looking—and I suddenly took an intense interest in a jar of strawberry preserves.

After lunch, Craw sauntered up to us wearing a grin as big as Texas. “Howdy, y’all! How do I look?” I hardly recognized him—his fire-tinged black derby was gone, and in its place was a huge, silvery-white cowboy hat. Even Sarah smiled at the transformation.

“I rode my ol hoss up to the trading post,” he said. “Don’t you laugh, boy—I said
hoss
. And I done brought back some fancy dry goods for y’all.”

“I hope they didn’t charge you for that accent,” Sarah said. “You got gypped.”

Craw asked me to close my eyes, then put a silver Lone Star belt buckle in my hands. “That there’s to hold your chaps up.”

Then he asked Sarah to do the same, and he slipped a beaded necklace over her head. When she opened her eyes, she laughed. “This isn’t a necklace, silly. It’s a rosary.”

“Well, I thought it was mighty purdy,” Craw said. “Just like you.”

Sarah slid her fingers over the wooden beads and the gold crucifix. “It is pretty,” she said. “The nuns gave me one when I was a girl, but I lost it years ago.” Then she threw her arms around Craw’s neck.

The lucky bastard—he
did
have a way with women.

“Well I’m glad you like it,” he said. “Cause it cost me half my wages and three gold teeth.”

+ + +

At afternoon’s end, we loaded the empty crates onto the truck and got ready to head home. Craw was on his best behavior—he didn’t even argue when I gave Sarah the key. I sat in the middle again, pressed up against Sarah. Of course, I was pressed up against Craw, too, but my mind was on Sarah.

As the truck rumbled over the bumpy road, her sun-warmed hair brushed against my cheek. I closed my eyes and breathed in her scent; it was warm and fresh, like a cat that’s been lounging in the sun. A girl would probably be insulted if you told her she smelled like a cat, but to me that’s a compliment.

Just a couple miles from the farm, we hit what felt like a log in the middle of the road. Sarah let out a sharp yell and ground the brakes to a stop. “Dammit,” she said, “I didn’t see it coming.”

“What the hell was that?” Craw asked. “Another Hoover hog?”

“If it was,” I told Sarah, “you’d better not look back. It won’t be a pretty sight.”

Sarah closed her eyes and pressed her forehead against the wheel. “I hope I didn’t bust a tire. Mister Henry will not be happy.”

I volunteered to get out and check. The front tires looked fine, and when I walked to the back I didn’t see any slaughtered armadillo in the road. I gave the rear tires a kick, then knelt down and peered under the truck bed. “I see something. Looks like a pipe fell off.”

From up front, I heard Sarah groan. I got down on my belly and slid my head under the truck. Not only was there a large pipe on the ground, the truck was making a strange sound, too.

“Kill the engine,” I yelled.

Sarah yelled back. “It’s already off.”

“Well you must’ve really busted it,” I said, “cause the damn thing’s still rattling.” I crawled forward, dragging my belly over the dirt, and stretched my arm towards the pipe.

Finally, my fingers made contact. It felt too soft to be a pipe—a rubber hose? The rattling noise grew louder. And then it moved its head. It wasn’t a pipe, or a hose—it was a rattlesnake with a body as big around as my thigh.

I leapt off the ground and banged the back of my head against the truck bottom. As I scrambled backwards, the snake followed, his neck gliding towards me. I jumped to my feet and waved my arms, slowly stepping backwards.

Craw turned around in his seat. “What the devil’s got into you, boy?”

Afraid to make a sound, I mouthed the word—“S-N-A-K-E.”

Sarah looked at me sideways. “Cat got your tongue?”

The rattler poked its head out from under the truck. That diamond-shaped head was bigger than my fist. Desperate, I whispered—“
Sssnaaake
” and made a slithering motion with my hands.

Craw scratched his head. “Schnook? Schnape?”

But Sarah’s eyes widened. “Don’t move.”

She ducked under the seat, then surfaced with a shotgun. Craw threw up his hands. “Whatever this game is, I give up.” Agile as a cat, Sarah jumped onto the back of the truck and hopped over the crates.

Below, the great snake coiled and lifted its head to strike. Above, Sarah steadied the gun on her shoulder. It seemed to be pointed directly between my legs. I saw her rosary glinting in the sun, Jesus swinging back and forth between her breasts—then I pinched my eyes shut and braced myself for God’s judgment on my sex-obsessed mind. The only question was whether my manhood would be destroyed by snakebite or gunshot. One moment more, and I’d never have to think about that part of me again.

My eardrums burst and a shower of gravel peppered my face. A second shot exploded at my feet, then a third. I couldn’t see anything for the dust. Sarah jumped off the truck, ran to edge of the road, and fired two more times into the grass. “Damn it all—he got away!”

My whole body was numb and trembling at the same time. I grabbed my crotch to make sure everything was still there. Yes, thank God, she’d missed.

CHAPTER 21

I
F
Craw was right about old houses being haunted, the Henry farmhouse was especially so. It was built in the 1860s, and several generations of Henrys had left their footprints and fingerprints on the wooden floors and plaster walls. Walking down the hall to my room, I passed under the watchful eyes of my ancestors—rugged, stern men and women staring out from gilded frames. Many nights, I lay awake with the sense that I wasn’t alone; but that didn’t frighten me as long as I didn’t see any dead people walking around.

The day after the market, though, I was jolted awake by the sound of a screaming baby. I sat up in bed shaking and sweating, waiting to hear it again, but the only sound was the creaking windmill. Must have been a dream, I thought—probably brought on by seeing that snake. I relaxed against the headboard and waited for my heart to calm down.

Then
—“Mama! MaaMaaa!”

That, sure as hell, was not a dream. I jumped out of bed, threw on my pants, and ran down the stairs.

When I threw open the back door, there was Sarah wrestling in the dirt with a little white goat. She gave a startled gasp and the goat broke away. “Dammit—you spooked me!”

I rested on my knees, panting. “Your goat spooked
me
. It sounded like a baby screaming out here.”

Sarah laughed. “They do sound like babies—I guess that’s why they’re called kids. But thanks to you, I’ve got to catch him again.” She spun around, stamped her foot, and called out, “Hoppy! Hoppy, you come over here this instant!” Then she looked back at me. “Well, don’t just stand there, Toby.”

And so the two of us ran across the yard chasing the escaped goat. Finally, I cornered him against the cellar. “Give it up, Hoppy—you can’t run forever.” I crouched down. “We won’t rest till you’re back in the pen. You think you can make a break for Mexico? Our guards will gun you down.”

Sarah ran up from behind. “Trying to reason with a goat?”

“Shhh,” I said. “It’s just a stall tactic. Get the lasso ready.” As we kept perfectly still, Hoppy bent down to chomp a tuft of grass. “Now!”

Sarah tossed her rope and pulled it snug around his neck. The goat leapt and kicked but it was no use—we had him. In our moment of celebration, I hoped for a hug. “We make a good team.” I glanced at her.

Sarah reached out and slapped my shoulder. “Sure do—you and Hoppy.”

+ + +

I followed Sarah to the animal pens. “So you’re here every morning? What all do you do?”

She yanked the wayward goat back in line. “Come along. I’ll show you.”

After Hoppy was safely behind bars, Sarah tossed some fresh hay to the goats. I grabbed some straw and fed a couple kids out of my hand. “Do you have names for all the animals?” I asked.

“No—just Hoppy. I call him that cause he’s always hopping over the fence.” She pitched another armful of hay over the fence. “Then there’s Old Squeal, the hog. But I don’t have to deal with him, thank God. Mister Henry feeds him all the scraps and leftovers.”

Next, we walked to the chicken pen and Sarah gave me some corn to feed them. As soon as the kernels hit the ground, a large, redheaded chicken pushed all the others out of the way and snatched them up. “Wow—I’ll bet you get some big eggs out of that one,” I said.

Sarah laughed. “Don’t you know the difference between a hen and a rooster?” My cheeks flushed—I didn’t even know about sex in the animal world.

She pointed to a smaller, black chicken in the corner. “He’s the only other male. All the rest are girls.”

“What happened to his tail?”

“The big one pecked all his feathers off, just to show him who’s boss.” She sighed. “Boys—they’re all alike.”

Sarah ducked inside the hen house for a minute and collected a basketful of eggs. Then we headed back to the goat pen. “Milking time,” she said.

“Don’t ask me to help—I can’t tell the girls from the boys.”

Sarah led a mama goat with a heavy, swinging udder out of the pen and over to the milking bench. “Sure you don’t want to try? It’s easy—just watch.” She grabbed two nipples and pulled them back and forth; soon, her pail was half-filled with frothing milk.

She stood up and pointed to the bench. “Your turn.” When it became clear that she wasn’t going to take no for an answer, I squatted down on the bench and gingerly wrapped my fingers around warm goat flesh. I couldn’t help but wonder: if she kicked me in the head, would I see Jesus like my father had?

I didn’t want to tell Sarah, but it was the first time I’d ever touched anyone’s nipples. They were soft as suede leather and stretchy as rubber. Did girls’ nipples feel like that, too?

I gave a tug, but nothing came out. “I think this one’s empty.”

“There’s plenty left,” Sarah said. “You’ve just got to pull harder.”

So I tugged again. And again. Finally, the goat bleated
—“Maaaa!”—
reared back, and gave a mighty kick. The pail went flying and I tumbled over backwards.

I didn’t see Jesus, but I did get a good soaking. Milk streamed down my shirt and pants, and I knew there was no way was I going to get a hug from Sarah now. When I turned to face her, she was bent over laughing. Her collar hung low enough that I could glimpse her breasts jiggling like two apples on a wind-tossed branch—and that lovely sight made all my humiliation worthwhile.

I got out of the way while Sarah finished the job. I couldn’t blame the goat for not wanting me to pull her nipples—even an animal could tell that I didn’t understand the first thing about breasts.

I was obsessed with breasts, but I had no idea why. I still am, and still don’t. What are they, anyway? Built-in baby bottles. So why are they so attractive? Is it their roundness and softness? If women had only one breast and several nipples, like a goat, would breasts lose their charm? If women had udders on their bellies that swayed as they walked, would men still watch and whistle?

All I know is that a woman’s breasts are the centerpiece of all that’s beautiful, intriguing, and delightful about her. It’s true even of small-chested girls like Sarah.

+ + +

After Sarah filled two pails (or, rather, the goat filled them), we carried the milk and eggs back to the cooling shed. Wilburn and Millie didn’t have an electric freezer, so they kept a small shed packed with ice blocks buried in straw to make them last. Sarah put one pail of milk and most of the eggs inside, but kept the rest out. “I have to take these back to Mama,” she said.

It was a long walk down to the houses where the hired help live, but I volunteered to go along. Being Sunday, there wasn’t any work that I needed to be doing; and besides, there wasn’t anything else on the farm as interesting as Sarah.

As she gathered up the eggs in the front of her dress, I picked up the pail. “I’ll carry the milk.”

“All right,” she said. “Just see that you don’t spill it again.”

“
I’m
not the one who kicked over the bucket—your goat did.”