When the Tide Ebbs: An epic 1930's love story (A Grave Encounter) (16 page)

“You mean
her
, honey. Dabney had a little girl.”

I ran my fingers through my hair. “But you referred to the baby as he. You said
he
has black hair,
he’s
not red,
he
this and
he
that. Did she have twins?”

“Land sakes, no. She never got big enough to have twins. I reckon I have a habit of saying ‘he’ when it comes to babies. I should’ve said ‘her.’”

My stomach churned. “Well, that takes the cake.”

“Whatcha mean, sugar?

“I can’t believe she’d give away her own flesh and blood.” In my way of thinking, it put Dabney on the same low level as William Lancaster IV. How could a parent walk away from one of their own?

Mama’s countenance fell. She reached over and laid her hand on my arm. “Kiah, sometimes it takes more love for a mother to part with her child than it does to keep him . . . or her. There’ve been times I wondered if I made a mistake by not letting somebody adopt you who could give you more’n I had to give. The way I see it, keeping you was a selfish act. If I’d given you up to some nice family who coulda done for you, you woulda faired better. Oh, but I wanted you so much. I couldn’t bear to let you go. So don’t feel harshly toward Dabney. I’m sure she did what she deemed best for her little girl. The Pruitts are fine folks and they’ll give the baby a good home. It only takes looking at their daughter and seeing how fine she’s turned out to know Dabney did the right thing. That baby is going to have a good life.”

Mama was right about one thing. Zann Pruitt turned out fine. I’d been bothered by the fact she hadn’t written as much as I’d hoped she would, but school would begin soon, and I’d be able to see her every day. I bought a box of chocolate covered cherries for her when I went to Mobile. I wrapped the box in pink paper and tied it up with a green satin ribbon. I was pleased. It looked frilly, like something she’d pick out. I’d saved it to give to her on our first day back at school as a welcome home present.

I waited impatiently for school to begin again, counting the days. But eight days before we were to start back, my world tumbled down like a stack of dominoes.

Mama got up Sunday morning and dressed for church, like she always did. I almost decided to go with her, I was so eager to see Zann. I would have too, except for the fact I didn’t think I could stomach sitting on a pew and listening to her father spout off what the good book says with me knowing his evil little secret. I wouldn’t want to upchuck in the aisle, which was likely to happen if forced to look at him and listen to his sanctimonious lecture. I put Mama off in front of the church and parked the wagon under a shade tree in the orchard. I hoped to at least get a glimpse of Zann, either going in or coming out of the church.

It was past time for church to begin, and I hadn’t seen a single soul come out of the Pruitt’s house. Not the parson, nor Mrs. Pruitt…and not Zann or Dabney. I wondered why the organ had not begun to play. I swatted gnats, and groaned. Why was it taking so long for church to begin? Were they waiting for the parson? The sooner they started, the sooner I could get back home. The temperature must have reached 100 degrees. Sweat poured from my brow. If Mama hadn’t been so frail, I would’ve driven the wagon back and let her walk home. It wasn’t too far to walk, but Mama wasn’t feeling herself lately. Why was everything so quiet? It seemed eerie. Though I’d never admit it to anyone, I always enjoyed listening to the singing. My favorite was a tune called
I’ll Fly Away
. I’d learned that one by heart. Sometimes, waiting for Mama to come out of church, I’d sing with them, but only because there was no one around to hear me. The Wright brothers had been my heroes for as long as I could remember. I tried to imagine the thrill of flying away, though I preferred to do it while still alive, and not “when I die, Hallelujah bye and bye.”

Finally, the organ begin to play. Not some peppy tune like “
I’ll Fly Away
,” but mournful sounding. Maybe it was a different pianist. Then minutes later, the double doors to the little church opened and I could hear sorrowful moans clear across the road. I watched as men wrapped their arms around their wives in a consoling fashion. What was going on? Why was church letting out early?

Mama trudged slowly toward me, holding a handkerchief to her face. I jumped down and helped her on the wagon. “What’s wrong, Mama? What happened? Why is everyone crying?”

I could see she was too distraught to speak.

“Mama, please. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Kiah, just take me home, honey, and I’ll tell you when we get to the house. I’m too choked up to talk about it right now.”

I let her be. The news couldn’t be all that bad, but Mama was carrying on as if she’d had a young’un to die. Peculiar how she could be so strong at times and other times she’d fall apart over the least little thing.
The widow Jones.
Sure, that was it. Mama told me earlier in the week the widow had been diagnosed with consumption. No doubt, she’d passed on, which would account for all the tears. The widow was highly regarded in the community. Her late husband served as the preacher in Pivan Falls until he passed and that’s when Parson Pruitt moved to town to take his place.

I assumed church services were called off so the women could go to the widow’s home to get her laid out for viewing. Others would need to start preparing the meal for the relatives coming into town, as was the custom in Pivan Falls. Feeling I had my answer, I let it go.

Mama was quiet all the way home, and it suited me fine. I had things on my mind, and didn’t feel much like talking.

When we walked in the house, Mama hung her purse on a nail and said, “Maybe you ought to sit down, shug. I have some bad news.”

I didn’t see a need to sit. Maybe I should’ve felt more compassionate but I’d only seen the widow Jones on a couple occasions. I expected Mama to grieve. It was in her nature but I never expected the widow’s death to hit her so hard.

“Kiah, its just awful, honey. I really wish you’d sit.” Her lip quivered. She threw her arms around me and cried on my shoulder.

I patted her back and tried to sound sympathetic. “I know, Mama. I know.”

Mama held her head back and with her brow furrowed, she looked into my eyes. “You do?”

“Yes’m. I understand. You thought highly of the widow Jones. I’m sure she’ll be missed by the community, but she’s gone on to a better place. Right?”

I didn’t know how much I really believed about that better place, but I said it, anyway, hoping it’d bring a little comfort to Mama. Knowing she believed all good Christians got to go there when they died, I was stunned when my attempt to bring comfort to her bereaved soul backfired.

Mama’s face distorted. She looked at me as if I’d grown a third eye. She shook her head. “No, Kiah. You have it all wrong, son.”

I was taken aback. If the widow wasn’t going to a better place, I was beginning to feel like the streets of gold weren’t going to be too crowded. “What do you mean, Mama?”

The blood drained from Mama’s face. “It wasn’t the widow who died, Kiah.” Then, Mama buried her face in her hands. “Oh, dear Jesus,” she wailed. “God bless him. He doesn’t know.”

Chapter 13

I swallowed.
Dabney
? No wonder Mama was so upset. I fell into the chair and buried my face in my hands. “Oh, Mama,” I cried. “No, no, no. She can’t be dead. Tell me it isn’t true.” Bitter tears flowed from my eyes.

Mama leaned over the table and pressed her face against my back. “I wish I could, shug, but I’m afraid she’s gone.”

“Tell me, Mama. What happened?” Mama reached up and blotted my cheek with a napkin.

Her voice cracked. “Honey, I’ll tell you all I know. Deacon Phillips walked up to the pulpit after everyone was seated this morning. He said she died in the middle of the night last night, with the fever. As you can imagine, Parson Pruitt and Mrs. Pruitt are so tore up over her death, they couldn’t come to give the news. It’s just awful.”

I rose to my feet.

“Where you going, Kiah?”

“I need to be alone, Mama.”

I hated to leave Mama in the state she was in, but I had to get away to grieve alone. Dabney was the best friend I’d ever had, and yet when she needed me most, she’d not been able to come to me. Maybe she was afraid I’d condemn her for the decision to give up her baby and she would’ve been right. I would’ve set myself up as judge and jury. I’d been a lousy friend. Enraged, I wanted to go pound my fist into a wall or kick somebody. Myself, more than anyone else. Who was I to judge her?

Mama said, “I’ll have your lunch ready in a little while, Kiah.”

“I’m in no hurry, Mama.” I walked outside and looked over at #3. I couldn’t swallow. Memories flooded my mind. I remembered how beautiful she looked, wearing Mama’s old robe, sitting in the fire-light. Poor, sweet Dabney. A special bond had formed between us, but until now, I hadn’t realized how much she really meant to me. I longed to be with Zann, to mourn with her. She loved Dabney as much as I did.

I trudged through the back pasture, kicking everything in my path.

I exchanged one emotion for another. Anger boiled up inside me. Why didn’t she take better care of herself? I threw my fist in the air and yelled, “Why, Dabney? Why didn’t you listen? I told you that you were overdoing and needed to slow down. But no, you wouldn’t listen. You pig-headed woman.”

I plodded aimlessly through the woods, blaming myself for not preventing such a tragedy. Perhaps if I’d given her the money I spent on the ice box, she could’ve quit work last month. The guilt gnawed at me like a dog chomping on a hambone.

I recalled how Dabney looked when we were last together. There were no signs. She insisted she felt fine, and she looked healthy enough.

I wanted to blame the baby, but it wasn’t fair. Plenty of women had babies and didn’t come down with the fever. It wasn’t the child’s fault, any more than it was my fault for being born. I paused to reflect on my last thought. It was enlightening, since I’d spent years blaming myself for something I had nothing to do with. No. The child was innocent.

Then it occurred to me poor Dabney could’ve succumbed to a sorrowful heart. Surely, she didn’t hand her baby over to Parson Pruitt without regrets. Maybe he forced her to give him the baby.

At dusk, I made my way back to the house. Mama sat in the rocker reading her Bible.

She laid it aside and said, “Kiah, I know how much she meant to you, sugar. I ’spect Mr. Farris will let you take the afternoon off to attend the funeral. Deacon Phillips said it’ll be held at the church tomorrow at three o’clock.”

Did she honestly think I wanted to sit and listen to a bunch of blubbering females make over Dabney’s dead body and act as if they really cared? Didn’t none of them care any more about her than they did a mangy ol’ yard dog. Mama and Mrs. Pruitt excluded, of course. They loved her, but I wasn’t so sure Mrs. Pruitt would have felt the same if she were privy to the information I had concerning the two-timing Casanova she was married to.

Poor Dabney. She never had a chance at happiness. My throat ached. Why? Why didn’t I marry her so she could keep her little girl? My heart beat like a jackhammer. Maybe I was the reason she felt pressured to give up her baby. All my whining about the nasty names I was called for not having a daddy. Maybe she didn’t want to put her child through the same agony.

I tried to release the guilt by telling myself Dabney wouldn’t have married me, even if I’d asked. She understood I was in love with Zann, and that Zann loved me.

But I had a feeling Zann’s family had sent her away for a good reason—the reason being to help get her mind off me. Her family would never approve of me, and she’d find herself having to make a choice between us. As much as I loved her, I’d never want to come between Zann and her parents.

Although Dabney hadn’t been in love with me, nor I with her, I could now see we could’ve had a decent life together. She was a good friend and she and Mama got along great together. Wouldn’t that have been enough? It was more than a lot of married couples had. I’d think being friends would go a long way in making a marriage work.

I winced. What was I doing? It was too late now to come up with a plan. She needed me six months ago, whenever she began to show.

Mama said. “I’ve heated up some lunch, shug. You might oughta try to eat a bite.”

Mama made liver hash for supper. I didn’t feel like putting a single morsel in my mouth, and even if I had, I couldn’t have swallowed. I pictured the pious Parson, who’d stand on his soap box next Sunday spouting off religious rhetoric while feeling smug he’d gotten away with his little rendezvous. He was probably glad she died. Now, he wouldn’t have to worry about being found out. Maybe he—no, I couldn’t go there. Even though he was a scoundrel, surely he couldn’t have had anything to do with her death, except in a round-about way. He
was
the one who got her pregnant. And she
did
die from giving birth. But as much as I hated the man, to blame him for her death would be a reach.

If it were not for Zann, I’d expose him in a wink, but to do so would break her heart. And I had to think about Dabney’s baby girl. If I exposed him, his wife would leave and take the child with her. Wasn’t it better for the baby to have a daddy to provide for her, even if he was a deceitful rascal? As much as I detested my own father, I’d much rather have loathed him inside a nice house with food on the table, than to have loathed him while living in the Poor House with nothing to eat but po’ man’s gravy.

Monday morning I left for work early. Mr. Farris said one of the drivers was sick and asked if I’d like to make a run to Ocean Springs to haul a load of hogs. I was glad for the chance to get out of town.

It was after eight o’clock by the time I got back home. I walked in the house and threw my cap across the cot. “I’m whooped,” I said. “What’s to eat?”

Mama said, “I had some hash left over from supper last night. If you don’t want it, I’ll fry you an egg for a sandwich.”

“I’ll pass on the hash, but keep your seat, Mama. I’m capable of frying an egg.”

Mama rose and whisked her hand. “Oh, no you don’t. I’m the cook and don’t you forget it. Why don’t you stretch out on the bed while I get your sandwich ready?”

“Thanks, I think I will. I’m dead tired. The trip was long, and on the way home, I had a flat. It was good I’d already unloaded the hogs.”

Though it wasn’t a subject I wished to approach, it was bound to come up eventually and I might as well get it over and done with, “Mama, I’m sorry I wasn’t here to drive you to the funeral. I know you wanted to go.”

“But I did go, sugar. I walked, but I stopped along the way and rested.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat and shut my eyes.

I never even saw the egg sandwich. I guess I went to sleep and didn’t wake up until the next morning when the sun came shining through the windows.

Only six more days until school would begin again. I longed to see Zann. I wanted to believe she still loved me, yet hounding doubts rose from the crevices of my mind. Why had she stopped writing?

I reminded myself that I hadn’t expected her back home before next Friday, so I tried to pretend she was still in New Orleans. It was the only way I could restrain myself from going to her house and demanding to see her, which I had sense enough to know would be the wrong thing to do. Especially not now. Not when she and her mother were grieving over the loss of a friend, while trying to adjust to a baby in the house. I’d have to wait, and patience was not one of my virtues.

The week drug by. I made my last ex on the calendar above my bed. Tomorrow, we’d be back in school, eating lunch under the big oak. I wanted to believe nothing between us had changed.

Mama got dressed for church, and for once, I was glad to have the chance to drive her there. Maybe I’d get a glimpse of Zann, and maybe—maybe she’d see me, and come over to the wagon. I washed my hair in the sink, and tried to smooth it dry by leaning over the stove. I bought a new pair of dungarees to wear on my first day back at school, but I decided to put them on in case I got to see her.

Mama cried all the way to church. I didn’t have to ask what was wrong. She and Dabney had sat together every Sunday and Mama would miss her. I helped her out of the wagon, then climbed back up and kept my eyes glued on the parsonage. First, Parson Pruitt emerged. Then, five minutes later, Zann’s mother came walking out the door. I waited. And waited. But Zann never left the house.

My pulse raced. Something was wrong. Well, I didn’t plan to sit there wondering. I waited until I heard the organ, satisfied that the good parson wouldn’t be coming back out the church door for at least an hour. I leaped from the wagon, dashed over to the parsonage and beat on the door. I hoped she’d be as eager to see me as I was to see her.

Contrary to what medical science teaches, I learned that day that one can live after the heart stops. I know, because my heart stopped beating when Dabney Foxworthy opened the door to the parsonage, holding a baby.

My mouth flew open.

“Kiah,” she said, “What are you doing here?”

My jaw dropped. “Dabney?” I swaggered to the edge of the porch and threw up my breakfast. When I stopped heaving, I turned to see her standing there, as alive as ever.

I murmured, “Fancy meeting you here.” My voice was hoarse. “You’re white as a . . . yeah, white as a ghost.”

“Kiah, we need to talk.”

“Yeah, I think you’re right. You have a lot of explaining to do.” She’d fooled folks into believing a horrible lie, and now I’d caught the whole scheming bunch of them. What a farce. But the bigger question was why? What was the meaning of the charade and how many were involved in pulling it off?

I scratched my head. For a fact, there had been a funeral. Mama went and she came home all torn up inside. Cried for hours. How were the Pruitts able to pull off a fake funeral? And why? Did the casket remain closed so no one would suspect a scam had taken place? Questions whirled in my brain like leaves in a windstorm, but there were no answers. Nothing made sense.

“Kiah, you look awful. Sit in the swing, and I’ll go put the baby down and bring a rag to wipe your face.” She came walking out minutes later with a wet cloth. When she tried to wipe my face, I slapped at her hand. I didn’t want her touching me. All I wanted was an explanation.

When I could speak without yelling, I said, “Dabney, why? Why did you do it?”

Tears flooded her eyes.

“Oh, stop it, Dabney.” She’d deceived a lot of people but her tears weren’t going to work on me.

“I had to, Kiah. It was for the best.” I detected a grave fatalism in her voice. With such acting skills, she could’ve been on the silver screen. I refused to be swayed by such a little conniver. What a dope I’d been.

I bellowed, “For whose best? His?”

“His?” She raised her brow. “Oh! Haven’t you heard? The baby’s a little girl.”

I nodded. “I know. Mama told me.”

“But you said “his.”

It was becoming more difficult by the minute to keep my voice down. “You know who I meant. I was referring to the good Parson. I suppose you arranged this little scheme for
him
?”

“Well, I suggested it, but then after mulling it over, his wife came to believe it was a swell idea.”

His wife thought it was swell? Were they all nuts? I stood and paced back and forth across the porch. What kind of scam were these people trying to pull? “Dabney, tell me—how did you plan to stay hid?”

“Hid? I don’t understand, Kiah.”

“Didn’t you know people would find out? What kind of saps did you take us for?”

She smiled. I’d never wanted to hit a woman, and I never would—yet I have to admit I wasted no time in shooing that little bird on its way, before it had a chance to make a nest. It frightened me that I could have such thoughts, but how dare she stand there with a grin on her face.

She said, “Kiah, you’re getting all steamed up over nothing.”

My eyes rolled back in my head. “Nothing?”

“Did you think I was trying to hide from people? How foolish would that be?”

I growled. “Pretty foolish.”

“I don’t reckon no one was too surprised to learn I was pregnant. So wasn’t it logical for them to believe good Christian folks like the Pruitts might be willing to adopt my baby? And wouldn’t it seem reasonable I might let them? So why would I want to hide?”