When the Tide Ebbs: An epic 1930's love story (A Grave Encounter) (5 page)

Chapter 4

I took one look in the cracked mirror at my unruly hair and groaned. If I wet it and held my head over the hot stove and combed it until it dried, the tight ringlets relaxed into gentle waves. Though my locks seemed to garner a lot of attention from the girls, I hated it.

Why couldn’t I have inherited Mama’s sleek hair? Why did I have to get
his
?

Mama paced the floor while reminding me of the time.

“Kiah, your hair looks fine, son. I wish you wouldn’t fret over it. Why, his hair was one of the first things that attracted me to your daddy.”

I bit my lip.

Mama stood in the doorway holding a syrup bucket that contained my lunch while urging me to hurry. I didn’t have to ask what was in the pail. Same as yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that. Three biscuits left over from breakfast. Each would have a hole, made by Mama’s thumb to make a well for the syrup that oozed over the top. I was sick of eating cold biscuits for lunch, but I kept my mouth shut. I’d already hurt Mama enough. I hung the bucket over my arm, grabbed my books and pecked her on the forehead before rushing out the door.

The bell had rung by the time I got to the little schoolhouse. I ran in and took a seat in my desk. I glimpsed across the aisle. My face grew warm when Zann peeked over the top of her book and grinned.

Lucky for me, the teacher had his back to the door. I sat up straight and let out a grateful breath. I’d managed to slip in without being caught.

Mr. Thatcher walked over and stood in front of the blackboard. His wrinkled, gray double-breasted suit would’ve fit better if the tailor had added enough material for a double-bellied man. It didn’t take a fortune teller to know what he had for supper, since he wore it on his tie. The man had a razor-sharp brain, yet he couldn’t seem to remember to lace his own shoes. He was a bachelor, and I’d heard it said all he needed was a good woman to take care of him. I groaned, imagining myself in twenty years. Was I destined to become a slob?

He picked up a piece of chalk and commenced to write on the blackboard. Then, turning to face the class, he asked, “How many completed your math assignment last night?”

I raised my hand, glanced across the room and grimaced.

Mr. Thatcher pursed his lips. “Well, I see only two of you were able to finish. I must apologize. Last night I realized we’ve not covered chapter 12. I only meant to give you chapters 10 and 11.” He walked over to Zann’s desk and picked up her paper. “Quite remarkable, Miss Pruitt. Did you find the assignment difficult?”

Zann looked at me and grinned. “No sir. I didn’t find it difficult, but I didn’t fully understand.” She giggled.

Mr. Thatcher rubbed his hand over his bald head. “I don’t think I follow you.”

I attempted to slow my breathing for fear those around me would hear the hassling.

She said, “Kiah and I worked it together, which made it easier, but I’m not sure I could work a similar problem on my own.” She turned her whole body around in the desk and faced me. I slumped further down in my desk and buried my face in my math book.

“Kiah’s promised to tutor me and I’m confident in time, with his excellent help I’ll catch on. He’s a swell teacher.”

Mr. Thatcher said, “That’s very commendable of you, Hezekiah, to give of your time to help Miss Pruitt. She’s an excellent student, yet she does struggle with math.” He walked up and down the aisle, before he said, “I encourage others of you to follow Kiah’s example and volunteer to help a struggling student. Not many of us are proficient in every subject.”

Mort Willoughby snickered, when Arnold Evers stood.

Mr. Thatcher allowed him to speak.

“I agree with you, Mr. Thatcher. Kiah’s a selfless codger, for sure, to want to spend time
alone
with Zann Pruitt.
”

I grimaced at his sarcasm. Apparently, he wasn’t through. With a sweep of his hand and the voice of an orator, he bellowed, “I ask you, my male comrades, how many would be willing to make such a noble sacrifice as our good friend, Hezekiah Grave?” Laughter erupted when every male student’s hand shot up in the air.

Mr. Thatcher pounded a ruler on his desk. “That’s enough, Arnold. Take your seat, please.”

When the lunch bell rang, I picked up my syrup bucket and went to the far end of the school yard. I reached in the pail to pull out a cold biscuit. I let it fall back when I looked up and saw Zann heading straight toward me. She carried a little white wicker basket, which she brought to school every day. Stares from other students bored holes through me. I closed my eyes and hoped when I opened them, she’d be gone. I let out a groan and lifted my lids at the sound of her voice.

“Hi, Kiah. Mind if I join you?”

Studying with her was one thing, but I didn’t need her hanging around me in public, giving everyone the idea we were courting.

“It’s a free country. Sit where you like,” I mumbled and glanced across the school yard to see who might be watching.

Apparently, she was unaccustomed to sarcasm, for she didn’t seem to catch it, when flung right between her pretty brown eyes. The wide smile never left her lips. She pulled a red checkered cloth from her basket and spread it on the ground in front of me.

She chirped, “Why don’t we share our lunches?”

I couldn’t let her see I had nothing to eat but cold, left-over biscuits. I shrugged. “You go ahead and eat. I ate a huge breakfast this morning, so I’m not hungry. ”

She smiled. “Oh, drats. I hate eating alone. Have lunch with me. Please? I brought enough to share.”

“Sorry. I’m stuffed. Couldn’t eat a bite.”

She pulled out two china plates and two small cardboard forks. Was she deaf? When she opened a Mason jar and scooped mashed sweet potatoes, loaded down with butter on both plates, I could see she had every intention of sharing her lunch in spite of my protest. My mouth watered. How long had it been since I’d tasted buttered sweet potatoes? I looked away, but then I got a whiff of fried chicken.

“I hope you like dark meat,” she said, holding up a drumstick. “Daddy likes white meat, so I packed the breasts and pulley bone in his lunch pail, but I brought two drumsticks and two thighs for you and me.”

She thrust the drumstick in my face. The delectable aroma of batter-fried chicken made my nostrils flare

“Here, Kiah, take it.”

I wanted to refuse. Did she know I’d been eating biscuits for lunch every day? I didn’t want her charity, if that’s what this was all about.

When I didn’t reach for the chicken leg, she laid it on the plate beside the thigh and sweet potatoes. She placed the other two pieces of chicken on the second plate. “Sorry, I didn’t bring any bread. Mama burned the biscuits again this morning.”

Remembering the burned cookies, I figured Zann took cooking lessons from her mother.

She bowed her head and said a quick prayer. I watched as she took a bite out of her chicken. Never had I faced so powerful a temptation, as I watched her lick grease from all ten fingers. Slowly. One at the time. It took all the will power I could muster to keep from snatching that drumstick from her hands.

That’s when I came up with an idea. I reached in my syrup bucket. “You say you have no bread? Mama makes a humdinger of a biscuit. I grabbed a couple before leaving home this morning, in case I happened to get hungry.” I pulled out two biscuits and popped one on each plate. Justified, we were now sharing. This couldn’t be regarded as charity, could it?

I watched as she took a bite.

She closed her eyes and smacked her lips. “Say! These are delicious . . . and loaded with cane syrup, just the way I like them.”

At that moment, I wished more than ever, we’d had butter. They were so much better with fresh churned butter.

“Your Mama makes delicious biscuits, so fluffy and light. My mother’s a great cook, but she can’t make a decent biscuit. Neither can I.” She nodded toward the plate sitting in front of me. “You’d better eat, Kiah. The bell’s gonna ring soon.”

“Well, I reckon I might can swallow a couple of bites if I set my mind to it.” I reached for the drumstick. I don’t know if I’d forgotten how chicken tasted, or if that leg was really the best piece of fried chicken I’d ever put in my mouth. When I finished, the bone was picked clean. I eyed the thigh on my plate and pictured Mama, wasting away. Could I in good conscience eat another piece of chicken when my poor Mama needed it worse?

When Zann’s head turned, I dropped the thigh into my syrup bucket.

Zann pulled a napkin from the basket and patted her lips. My pulse raced. How could wiping grease from one’s mouth look so enticing? My mouth watered as I drank in the luscious sight of full, heart-shaped lips. She reached up and grasped her hair at the nape of her neck, and slung the long, thick curls over her right shoulder. I glanced away when she caught me staring.

The sound of the school bell caused me to breathe a long sigh. Something strange was happening to me, and I needed to put a stop to it before it went any further.

Zann wrapped everything in the checkered cloth and laid it in the basket. “Kiah,” she said, “you will tutor me again today, won’t you?”

I hesitated. I wanted to do the right thing, but I wasn’t sure what the right thing might be. Should I think of myself and put as much distance between me and the object of my frustration as possible? Or should I consider her dilemma and agree to help? Did I have a choice? I’d feel awful if she failed her college entrance exams because of my refusal to tutor her. I had to put these nonsensical feelings of love out of my mind.

She pulled my arm. “Kiah, will you? Please?”

My face burned at her touch. I glanced around to see if anyone was watching. I pressed my lips together and nodded. “Sure, Zann. I’ll meet you at the bridge after I run home to see about Mama. She’s not been feeling well lately.”

“Oh, I’ll walk with you. I’d love to meet your mother. Maybe she could tell me her secret to making biscuits.”

“No!” I winced at the sharpness in my voice. I tried once more. “Today wouldn’t be a good time. I won’t be long, I promise.”

“I understand. I told Mama this morning not to expect me home after school, but I’ll run to the house and pack a couple of cupcakes and a quart of lemonade for us to munch on.”

The mention of cupcakes and lemonade made my mouth water, but at the same time, guilt plagued me, knowing how much Mama loved sweets. If only she could have something good to eat—something like cupcakes with frosting and a big glass of Zann’s delicious lemonade made with so much sugar one could sop it with a biscuit.

After school I ran all the way to Rooster Run, jumping two fences along the way. Mama had an iron sitting on top of the stove, heating, and she held another in her hand as she pressed down on a man’s starched white shirt. Folded ironed clothes were neatly stacked on both cots. Mama smiled, but her eyes looked hollow, like two big sinkholes. The sparkle left them long ago.

She said, “You look as if you’re in a fine mood. Did my Kiah-Cooter have a good day at school?”

I groaned. The affectionate term was okay when I was a child, but I was a man now, and I constantly feared she’d slip and say it front of someone. Perhaps I was being paranoid. After all, she never saw anyone except the neighbors at Rooster Run and the snobs who brought their laundry and worked her for a pittance. Why should I care what they thought?

“Mama, I brought you a surprise.”

She sat the iron down on a tin plate and smiled. “A surprise? For me?”

“Yep. Sit down, close your eyes and hold out your hand.”

“Oh, honey, you’re so sweet to want to give me something, but I reckon we’d better wait until I finish ironing. I only have three more garments, and Mr. Easton should be here to pick them up soon. Did you pick your Mama some wild flowers on your way home?”

I placed my hands on her shoulders. “Nope. A heap better than flowers. Now. Sit down and close your eyes. If you aren’t finished ironing when Mr. Easton comes, he can wait.”

“Kiah, I really . . .” Before she could finish, I guided her to the rocker.

“Sit!” I chuckled at the quizzical look on her face.

When she closed her eyes, I pulled out the chicken and placed it in her hand.

She gasped. “I don’t have to open my eyes to know what I’m holding. I can smell it. But where? Where did you get fried chicken?”

“Someone at school had extra pieces at lunch and shared with me.”

Mama choked up. “Kiah.” She paused. “Honey, was it because you—”

I bristled. “I know what you’re thinking, Mama, but you’re wrong. She doesn’t even know—” I stiffened. I hadn’t intended to say ‘she,’ but it slipped.

Mama looked up at me. “Parson Pruitt’s daughter?”

Anger swelled inside me. I wasn’t sure why or even who the anger was aimed toward, but it was anger, nevertheless. “Yes, Mama,” I grumbled. “Parson Pruitt’s daughter. Don’t sit there staring at it. Eat. I hoped you’d be grateful.”

A tear made its way down her cheek. “I am grateful, son. I truly am. But I want you to eat it. You’re a growing boy. I don’t need as much to keep my body running as you do.” She pushed the chicken toward me.