When the Tide Ebbs: An epic 1930's love story (A Grave Encounter) (4 page)

Shame swept over me, when I admitted to myself that Rooster Run was not the only reason I didn’t want to bring Zann home with me. I was ashamed of my own mother. My sweet, precious Mama who’d sacrificed so much for my sake. What right did I have to criticize Will Lancaster and call him a scumbag? Maybe heredity truly is a stronger influence than environment.

I don’t know at what point I tuned Mama out, but I nodded as if I’d heard every word.

She smiled. “So, tomorrow, then?”

I swallowed. “Uh . . . no, Mama. Not tomorrow.” I wasn’t sure what she meant, but I didn’t want her making plans to use our meager sugar ration to make applesauce. We wouldn’t be entertaining visitors. Specifically, not Zann Pruitt, if that’s what she had in mind. I shoved my chair away from the table.

“Sure, son. Maybe some other time.”

“Yes’m.” I mumbled after wiping my mouth with a dish rag.

Mama leaned forward. “Son, I’m thinkin’ this is the time to bring up something I’ve had pressing on my mind for a good long while. There’s a little white church, not more’n three or four miles up the road, and even closer, the way the crow flies.” She didn’t have to tell me how far it was. I knew exactly where the church was located and it might as well be in Timbuktu, because I wouldn’t be going.

She paused and squinted. I could see she was studying my reaction. Well, I’d make sure she didn’t misunderstand. With clinched teeth, I leaned the chair back on two legs and focused my eyes on the worn linoleum. I stroked my chin and heaved a deep sigh, meant to impart “here we go again.”

Mama knew how I felt about going to church and I couldn’t understand why she kept needling me. But if there was one thing consistent about my Mama, it was her confounded consistency. She grinned as if she figured she’d finally made headway. I grimaced. There was nothing in my manner to give her the erroneous impression, but Mama often saw what she wanted to see.

She raised her brow. In a cheerful sounding voice, she said, “Maybe we’ll go Sunday and I can meet your new friend.”

So that was it, was it? She had the mistaken idea I was interested in sparking with the preacher’s kid, and she planned to use it to her advantage. I rolled my eyes and chuckled. “She’s not my new friend, Mama. I met her when she first moved here. And I don’t know why every time we move, you seem to want to bring up the subject of church. You know I’m not going, and I can’t imagine why you’d choose to beat a dead horse and expect to hear a whinny.”

“But, Kiah, shug if only—”

I didn’t want to hear it. I threw my arms in the air. “Don’t you get it? Have you forgotten what Mrs. Ola Mae Dobbins told you? We don’t have a boarding pass, Mama. There’s no room on their big fine Fellow Ship for colored folks, or us po’ whites. That heavenly boat is reserved for rich, white hypocrites.” I lowered my voice, and mumbled. “I’d rather die than become one.”

Mama reached over and patted my arm. “Kiah, Kiah . . . Sweetheart, Miz Ola Mae was wrong. God’s a forgiving God. Don’t you remember the story of the Samaritan woman?”

Remember? How could I forget? But I didn’t respond because Mama wasn’t looking for an answer. I couldn’t decide which brought her the most pleasure—retelling the story of the sinful woman at the well, or rehashing her own lurid love story. Most kids go to sleep hearing stories about Three Little Pigs or Little Red Riding Hood. As a child, I went to sleep hearing about a loose woman who lived almost two-thousand years ago.

She said, “If you recall, Kiah, accordin’ to the Bible, the woman had known more’n a few men, and I reckon she was ashamed of her past, and rightly so. But . . . well, you know the story, shug. Jesus didn’t condemn her. He knew everything about her, yet—”

I tuned her out and threw my head back. I couldn’t be responsible for my actions if forced to listen to a repeat for the umpteenth time. It seemed Mama treated the story with the same mindset one has when berry-picking. She took the juicy parts that suited her tastes, and overlooked the less flavorful dry parts. No doubt there was more to the incident at the well than she cared to relate. In all the times Mama had spouted that story, I never remembered her saying anything about the woman’s little buzzards. Perhaps that was Mama’s unpardonable sin. She bore me.

Chapter 3

I’d managed to keep my mouth shut in the past, but I couldn’t keep quiet forever.

“Okay, Mama, so Jesus forgave her. But what d’ya suppose the pious folks at the local temple said when the floozy decided if Jesus could forgive her, then she was good enough to enter their sanctuary? You reckon they wrapped their arms around her and said, ‘Well, bless your heart, honey, you come on in?’ Not a chance. The big wigs in the temple were afraid she’d point them out.” I raised my brow and smirked. “Likely, she could call them all by name. And as for their wives . . .” I stopped and rolled my eyes for emphasis. “I’m sure the ugly old hags felt threatened by the presence of a good-looking dame. No, Mama, the woman wasn’t welcome among them and neither were any of her little buzzards.”

The words plummeted from my mouth so fast, I’m not sure I could’ve stopped them if I tried. I felt like the forest fire I’d seen as a child. Nothing could hold it back as it forged forward, destroying everything within its path.

Mama glared, occasionally shaking her head in unmistakable disapproval of my heated outburst. I should’ve stopped. Wanted to. But I couldn’t. The raging fire inside me was lit.

I sucked in a lungful of air and blew out, slowly. “Maybe you’re right, Mama. Maybe God’s forgiven you for bearing me, and forgiven me for being born. But I’ll guarantee you one thing: those folks at church go by a different set of rules. They don’t want us muddying up their waters. That’s just how it is.”

Mama rocked back in her chair. “Kiah, son, I know you were wounded deeply by the ladies from Piney Woods Church, but that was ages ago, and they were wrong. Maybe it’ll be different at Pivan Falls.”

“Fat chance. I think they all use the same Bible.” Going to church had become an obsession with her. I didn’t want to hurt Mama, but I had to make her understand. We weren’t wanted. Why was that so hard for her to grasp?

She said, “Maybe it ain’t like you think. Seems to me since the parson sees fit for his daughter to spend time with you, it proves he don’t look down his nose at us.”

I sneered. “You think not? Don’t be so sure. I doubt the good parson knows his daughter went to the woods today with a buzzard, and even if—”

Mama didn’t allow me to finish. “Honey, I wish you wouldn’t say such vulgar things. It ain’t fittin’.”

“Vulgar? Would you prefer I use the term the Bible thumpers use?” I paused to reflect on the conversation I’d overheard years ago. “Face it, Mama, those people don’t cater to trash.”

A frown fixed between her brows. “Honey, is that what you think of your mama?” Her voice trembled. “You think I’m trash?”

I sucked in a deep breath and let out a huff. “Of course not, but I’ll grant you that’s how the goody-two-shoes view us. Why can’t you see it for the way it is, Mama? You gave up everything for the rotten so-and-so. He took what he wanted from you and gave up nothing. If the man cared one iota for either of us, we wouldn’t be scrapping for food like a couple of alley cats. I know what it feels like to go to bed hungry. Does he? Of course not.”

“Son, you just don’t understand. There were circumstances.”

Mama was a God-fearing woman and she’d never lie. Not on purpose, anyway. She wanted to believe William Lancaster had his reasons for not marrying her, but she’d gotten herself into a fine predicament because of harebrained, romantic notions.

William Hezekiah Lancaster IV. Mama fixed it so I’d never forget that name. She gave it to me, as if I didn’t bear enough shame because of him. Of course, she couldn’t give me his last name, since the louse ducked out as soon as he discovered he’d impregnated her. Yet for reasons I found impossible to understand, Mama forgave him. I suppose that’s what irked me most.

Mama dried her face with the tail of her apron, then stood and gently touched the side of my face with her calloused hand. “Goodnight, my precious son.”

Ashamed, my shoulders slumped. I didn’t feel very precious.

She picked up a coffee cup and laid it in the sink. “Shug, you may be all grown up, but you’ll always be my little Kiah-Cooter. I love you to the other side of the ocean and back.”

“Yeah, Mama . . . to the ocean and back.” I smiled at the little phrase we’d repeated so many times during my growing-up years. Mama looked tired and she had every right to be. Times were hard and it hadn’t been easy trying to raise a son by herself.

I pulled off my overalls and muslin shirt and hung them across a clothes line, held up by two posts between our beds. It was my own invention, as a way of turning a one-room cottage into a two bed-room house. It worked. A tattered bed sheet thrown over the line separated our quarters, allowing us a semblance of privacy. The cabin came furnished with two rusty iron bedsteads and two cotton mattresses, both so thin you could feel the wooden slats underneath. Mama let me have the bed near the window. I lay on my back, looking at the grungy walls and tried to shut out the yelling, coming from #6. Frank and Cora Bess were at it again. I closed my eyes tightly, but sleep wouldn’t come.

I couldn’t get the image of Mama out of my mind. I was accustomed to seeing her look tired, though tonight she appeared unusually haggard. Was it my imagination? Was something wrong with her, or was I observing her the way I presumed Zann might see her? A malnourished, worn out woman, whose looks belied her years? But Zann
wouldn’t
see her. Mama never left Rooster Run, and Zann would never have an occasion to enter the gate. I’d make sure of it.

I tossed and turned, unable to find comfort on the knotty cotton mattress. My stomach growled. I should’ve eaten a few grits along with the apples. I tried not to think of food, so I kept my thoughts tuned to more pleasant things. Zann Pruitt.

A knot formed in my stomach. I wasn’t sure if it was hunger pains, or sheer panic that I’d dare entertain forbidden notions of love. A girl like Zann could do much better than to fall for a guy like me. I loathed my life. Though I blamed my father for the predicament we were in, too often I took my frustrations out on my dear, sweet mother. I didn’t want to. I loved her dearly, but the mule-headed anger bucking inside me was more than I could harness.

I’d barely shut my eyes, before the morning sun struck through the burlap curtains, casting a warm glow over the dreary room. I jumped up, jerked on my clothes and ran outside to bring in more wood for the stove. I trudged back in with my head lowered. “Sorry you had to tote in the wood, Mama. Why didn’t you wake me?”

“Weren’t no problem, shug. I reckon you needed the rest. I heard you over there tussling in the bed, near ‘bout all night long. Something weighin’ heavy on you, Kiah?”

“No ma’am.” Did she really have to ask? I bit my tongue to keep from blurting my thoughts. Just because we lived in a one-room pig-sty, and I trekked off to school every day wearing ill-fitting clothes, why should I worry? I yanked out a chair and plopped down at the table.

Mama stirred the boiling grits on the wood stove, and ladled the hot cereal onto my plate. She reached in the oven and pulled out a baker of biscuits, and placed it on the table. I sucked in a deep breath. Nothing smelled better than Mama’s biscuits, except of course, ham and red-eyed gravy. But I couldn’t remember the last time we had fried ham.

“Pass the butter, Mama.” Before she had time to answer, I feigned surprise. “No butter?” It wasn’t so much a question as a gripe. I knew we had no butter. I never asked for bacon anymore, but was it too much to expect to have a little butter on the table?

Mama frowned. “Honey, you know we ain’t had butter for more’n a week. But Mr. Easton owes me for last week’s ironing, and if he pays, I plan to buy some butter and eggs. For now, though, I’m afraid this’ll have to do. I’m sorry, shug. I wish I had more to offer you.”

I slammed my fist on the table. “You’re wrong, Mama. This doesn’t ‘have to do.’ I’m not going to sit around and do nothing.” Here I was, a one-hundred sixty-five pound muscular male, five feet eleven, and my mama was working her fingers to the nub to take care of me. It wasn’t right. She did the best she could do, but it wasn’t enough. The alley cats got more protein in a day than we got in a month. I shoved my plate aside and grabbed my jacket.

Mama’s brow furrowed. “Where you going, Kiah? It’s too early to leave for school.”

“I’m not going to school.” I shifted my gaze to the floor. I couldn’t look her in the eyes. “I’m going to get a job, Mama. There are plenty of men holding down jobs who never finished high school.” I glanced up in time to see the panic on her face. With nothing more needing to be said, I trudged toward the door. She leaped from her chair and grabbed my arm.

“No, son. I won’t let you go. You can’t.”

Tears blinded me. “Turn loose, Mama.” I pried her bony fingers from my jacket sleeve. “We can’t go on living like this.”

Mama fell to her knees and grabbed me by the leg. “Use your brain, Kiah. What do you propose to do? Look around you at the grown men here in Rooster Run who haven’t been able to find work. What makes you think you can do better?”

I reached down and offered my hand to help her up. She refused, and held tightly to my pants leg.

“Let go, Mama.”

She turned loose and took my hand. I lifted her from off the floor. I said, “Maybe I can’t do better, but I won’t know until I try.”

She moaned, “Oh, Lordy. What in this world am I gonna do?”

Her panic-stricken eyes fixed on me, the way someone on a sailboat might fixate on an approaching twister. My throat ached. I watched her body go limp as she walked over and fell back into the old rocker and squalled like a baby.

I knelt beside her. I couldn’t let her tears get to me. I had to be strong. “Mama, you can send me on my way
with
your blessings or without them.” I brushed my hand through my hair and tried to reason with her. “Don’t you understand? I can’t sit here and do nothing. I feel like a louse.”

Slowly lifting her head, she took her hands and cupped them around my face. Her voice low and filled with compassion, she said, “Oh, Kiah, my precious son. You’ve had a tempest brewing inside you for years, but lately the raging storm has taken on a fierceness that frightens me. Sure, times are hard, yet we’ve made it this far, haven’t we? We’ll make it, Kiah. We will.”

I stood and whirled around. There was so much I wanted to say, but I couldn’t, because if I did, it’d give confirmation to her words. Though I didn’t want to admit it, she was right. The storm had intensified. My temper had become uncontrollable. I sucked in a deep breath, and tried to appear calm, as she presented her case.

Her voice rose, as I lumbered toward the door. “There ain’t no jobs out there, Kiah. We’re not the only ones who have it hard, you know. The nation’s in the depths of a Great Depression. Don’t quit school to go on a snipe hunt. You’re too close to a diploma to give up now.”

Mama seemed to grope for words, which would make an impact on me and change my way of thinking. Her comment about the snipe hunt hit the intended nerve, bringing back a painful memory of the night I discovered everyone but me understood that catching an elusive snipe would be as futile as sacking an angel.

She finished by saying, “We ain’t by ourselves, Kiah. Everybody’s suffering.”

I bristled. “Not everyone, Mama. Not everyone.” I referred to the man responsible for sentencing us to a life of poverty, while he drove around in a fine car and employed servants to do his bidding. I didn’t know him, but I’d met others like him. Self-centered snobs. In ’29 when so many fat cats were losing their stored-up wealth in the stock market crash and were jumping out windows, I wouldn’t have grieved if he’d been among them. That sounds like a ghastly fate to wish upon one’s own father, and perhaps I should be ashamed to admit it. But I never have been one to hide my feelings.

I laid my hand on the doorknob. “Bye, Mama,” I whispered.

When she didn’t respond, I assumed she’d given up and allowed me to have the last word. I’d won, but somehow I didn’t feel much like a winner. She buried her face in her hands.

I turned around, looked at her and froze.

She appeared to be praying, when she wailed, “Please, dear Lord, don’t let him ruin his life.”

How could I leave her in such a fix? I trudged over to where she sat and stood over her. “Mama,” I whispered. “Please don’t cry. I’m doing this for you. Can’t you understand? It isn’t fair for you to work so hard for me. I want to find a job so I can take care of you. Is that so wrong?”

She raised her head. The look of terror in her eyes reminded me of a scared alley cat peering into the face of a hungry bulldog. Her voice quivered. “Kiah, if you want to do something for me, you’ll stay in school. After next year, you’ll have a high school diploma. We’ve come this far. If you drop out now, all will have been in vain. Promise me. Promise me, Kiah that you’ll complete your education.”

I sighed. “Okay, Mama. You win—for now.”

There was no more talk of my quitting school. Or at least not that semester.