When the Tide Ebbs: An epic 1930's love story (A Grave Encounter) (8 page)

Instead of admiring her for not being critical, annoyance gnawed at me. Maybe because she shot down my notion that all Christians were a bunch of pompous bigots.

“Kiah, when you get to know her as I do, you’ll discover Dabney is a really sweet girl. I think she’s pretty, don’t you?”

What kind of question was that? Besides, I knew more about Dabney Foxworthy than I cared to know. What made Zann think I’d want to get to know her better?

“Well?” Her shoulders lifted. “I asked you a question. Don’t you think she’s pretty?” She grinned as she waited for my answer.

Heat rose from under my collar. “I reckon,” I mumbled. She was right. Dabney
was
pretty, but until now I’d never stopped to think about it. Her golden hair was a mass of long curls, which she sometimes secured with a barrette on top of her head, with a few loose tendrils framing her sun-kissed face. Her eyes were the color of the ocean—sometimes more green than blue—and at other times more blue than green. Perhaps I’d paid more attention to Dabney Foxworthy than I wanted to admit to myself. I scratched my head, as I captured her image. The girl was stacked like a brick outhouse. I glanced at Zann and hoped she couldn’t read my thoughts. Then, I shrugged and said, “Aww, I reckon she’s pretty. Or at least she could be, if she’d take a rag and wipe off the war paint.”

Zann smiled. “What do you mean, you reckon she’s pretty? You know she is.”

I went from being slightly annoyed to being riled. It wasn’t fair to be grilled about some painted hussy who prissed around like her hip was out of joint. Aware of Dabney Foxworthy’s reputation with the boys, I resented Zann trying to get me to see her in a false light. “She wears too much make-up,” I snipped.

Zann nodded.

I let out a breath, glad she saw fit not to argue.

“I agree, Kiah. I’ve told her she’s beautiful without all the paint, but Dabney has a low self-image. It’s hard for her to believe she’s pretty.”

Zann’s eyes widened as her brow shot up. “Kiah, I’ve just had an excellent idea. If you were to talk to her and convince her she’s a natural beauty and doesn’t need all the make-up, I’m sure she’d listen. She needs to hear it from a fellow. I think it might be the esteem booster she needs.”

I stiffened. “Oh, no, not me. If having a man tell her she’s beautiful will boost her confidence, then I can assure you Dabney Foxworthy has more confidence than the law allows. I’m sure she hears it over and over every Saturday night.” I smirked. “It’s a known fact, the line forms in front of her door on the week-ends.” I grimaced, ashamed, as the raw words spewed from my lips. It was crude and uncalled for.

“Kiah Grave, what’s your problem?”

I winced. Maybe I’d been too hard on myself. Apparently, I hadn’t been as explicit as I supposed. “If you don’t get it, I don’t know if I can explain it to you, but I’ll try. Zann, if flattering words could change Dabney, she’d be changed already. She’s heard the words. Many times. But she’s what she is, and neither you nor I nor anyone knocking on her door at midnight can say anything that will turn her into an untarnished angel.”

Zann’s eyes squinted. .

I scratched my head. “I’ll try to make this as simple as I can. Zann, you can’t turn a mule into a race horse, simply by entering it into the Kentucky Derby.”

I saw nothing humorous in my illustration, so when Zann chuckled, I was irritated. The visual was clear-cut and to the point.

“What are you saying, Kiah?”

“I’m saying fine race horses are bred. Take you, for instance. You’re a race horse. You’re greatly respected for your style. You live in a fine stable, and have plenty of fresh grass to graze on. All you have to do is bow your head and partake of the bounty before you. On the other hand, Dabney and I are mules. We’re burden-bearers. We know how to carry our load, because we’ve had plenty of practice. We find shelter anywhere we can, and we expect no one to lead us into the green pastures.”

Her jaw dropped.

When I blinked, I envisioned a big question mark tattooed on her forehead. I blurted, “Zann, what I’m trying to say is you’ll never be able to turn Dabney into a girl like you, because she was born on the wrong side of the tracks.” I dropped my head. “And so was I.”

“So what?”

I grimaced. Now she was getting on my nerves. “You want to know ‘so what?’ I’ll tell you ‘so what.’ Your daddy’s a preacher—.” I’d gone too far to stop, though I didn’t like the hole I’d dug for myself. I blurted, “I don’t have a daddy. There! Have I answered your question?” I gently massaged my chin. Grinding my teeth together always made my jaw ache.

Her expression softened. “So your mama’s a widow?”

“I wish.” I jumped up and turned my back to her to keep her from seeing tears welling in my eyes.

She stood, reached up and placed her hand on my shoulder. “I don’t understand.”

I jerked around and faced her. “I’m saying I wish the man was dead.”

Her eyes widened. “Kiah, you don’t mean it.”

I lashed out. “Oh, yes I do. I’ve never meant anything more in my life.”

When Mrs. Pruitt yelled for Zann to go eat supper, I was relieved.

She reached for my hand and squeezed it. “We’ll talk later. I’ll be at the bridge tomorrow at four o’clock, if you happen to show up,” she smiled.

Disgusted with myself for being vulnerable, I tapped my fist against my lips. What had happened to loose my tongue and cause me to bare my disgrace with the one person with whom I wanted to shield the truth?

Maybe I’d show up tomorrow. Maybe I wouldn’t. I didn’t answer.

She turned and waved at me when she reached the road.

I waved back. I wanted to muster a smile, but my face refused to cooperate. I felt naked.

Chapter 6

Since the first of October, I’d been working at the stockyards every Friday afternoon and all day on Saturdays. Mr. Farris said he might use me during Christmas break, and I tried to prove I could work as hard as any man he’d ever hired.

I did odd jobs, such as clean the stalls, and help load livestock for the auctions. I didn’t make a lot of money, but every penny I earned was one more than we would’ve had. Sometimes the farmers would slip me a few coins for helping them load or unload their stock. I had my eye on a blue plaid shirt in the window of Watson’s Dry Goods Store.

Tuesday morning I awoke to the sizzling sound of bacon frying. I savored the smoky aroma as it permeated the tiny cabin. With the money I made at the stockyards, I bought eggs, bacon, a round of bologna, and some hoop cheese. Mama needed protein worse than I needed a shirt.

During the winter months, her diet consisted mainly of starchy foods: biscuits, corn bread fried in hog lard, corn meal mush, grits and hominy. When we had a little extra money, she’d buy a pound of fatback, Vienna sausages or a can of tripe, but she wouldn’t eat any of it. She gave it to me, insisting she didn’t have a taste for it. I could’ve eaten the feathers off a duck and I was sure she could’ve, too—but only if she was convinced there were enough feathers for two.

I figured her health would improve if she had protein, and lately I’d insisted upon it. But to my sorrow, I saw no improvement. She continued to dwindle away. If she persisted in losing weight, I was afraid I’d be able to reach around her waist with one hand.

I crawled out of bed, dressed and walked over to the stove. “Smells good, Mama.” One look at her drawn face told me nothing smelled good to her. She looked green. I made a pot of coffee and poured us both a cup. I pulled her chair out from the table. “Sit down, Mama.”

“In a minute, sugar. I’ve got grits boiling on the stove.”

I reached for the spoon to stir the pot. “I’ll watch the grits. You sit down and drink your coffee.”

The fact it didn’t take much prodding signaled she was sicker than she wanted me to know. I turned in time to see her shuffling across the linoleum floor, her hand over her mouth. Then, the screen door slammed and I could hear her throwing up outside the back door. I ran out and pleaded with her to let me go for the doctor, but she was adamant. The harder I tried to convince her she needed medical help, the more stubborn she became.

I managed to get her to lie down, while I washed the few dishes. At lunch I made some corn meal gravy and fried up a slice of bologna. I coaxed her to eat, but she insisted she couldn’t hold it down. Said she wanted to sleep, and I figured she needed the rest as much as she needed the meat and gravy.

I walked over to Goodson’s Grocery and bought a bottle of Warburg’s Tincture, which Mr. Gus guaranteed would cure anything that ailed her. The information on the back of the medicine bottle claimed the tonic was not only a sure-fire remedy for all types of fevers, including malaria and typhus, but it was also a ‘treatment for incipient consumption, chronic bronchitis cough, want of appetite, delirium tremens, morbid digestion, scurvy and every disease of a scorbutic character.’ Two bits seemed a small price to pay for such a powerful drug.

I arrived back home and Mama took one look at the medicine bottle and shook her head. “You can pour that down the toilet, shug. What I need is a good hot cup of sassafras tea. I reckon you wouldn’t mind seeing if you could fetch me a good root, would you, Kiah?”

“Mama, there’s no sassafras anywhere near here.”

“Shucks, I reckon you’re right, son. Law, I sure do wish I could get hold of a good root to boil. Sassafras tea cures near ’bout any ailment you can name.”

I poured the Warburg’s Tincture in a small cup. “Well, Mama Mr. Goodson says Mr. Abner was on his deathbed, when he took a few swallows of this, and the next morning he was up plowing his field. Mr. Goodson swears by this stuff.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and scowled. “He has no call.”

She wasn’t making sense. Maybe it was the fever. “What do you mean, Mama? No call to do what?”

“Gus Goodson ain’t got no call to swear. Bible warns against swearing. You don’t swear, do you, son?”

I rolled my eyes. “No, Mama. I don’t swear, but I might start if you don’t take the medicine. I went to a lot of trouble to get it for you and it wasn’t cheap, so all I’m asking is for you to swallow it.”

“I know you mean well, shug, but ain’t no tellin’ what’s in that bottle. It ain’t natural, and I don’t aim to take it.”

I looked at the clock. Three-twenty. In forty minutes, Zann would be waiting at the creek. Nausea welled inside me. Maybe I needed a dose of Mama’s medicine. But it'd take more than a swig of Warburg’s Tincture to cure my ailment. As much as I wanted to see her, I couldn’t go face her. Not now. I’d known all along she was too good for me. Now that I’d spilled my guts, she knew it, too.

After cajoling Mama into taking the horrid smelling brown liquid, she closed her eyes and went sound asleep in less than five minutes.

I trudged outside and sat under a mimosa tree. Nineteen-year-old Dabney Foxworthy opened her back door and sloshed a pan of soapy dishwater on the ground. As soon as she saw me, she walked over.

She smiled and said, “It sure don’t seem like Christmas is only a few days away. Too hot. I lived in Detroit one winter, and I’ll never forget how pretty everything looked, all covered in a blanket of snow. It must be near ’bout 75 degrees out here. It don’t seem right, does it?”

I didn’t say anything, but if I had, I would’ve remarked the reason it didn’t seem right was because it wasn’t right. A thermometer nailed to the side of the shack clearly showed 68 degrees. However, I was in no mood to participate in a conversation with someone of her reputation about anything, including idle chatter about the weather.

Pretending to be hot, she yanked up the tail of her dress and fanned her legs. She didn’t fool me. Not for a second. I saw what she was up to, but I wasn’t in the market for what she had to offer.

I stood and walked toward the road. She cupped her hands over her mouth and yelled, “You don’t have to be such a snob. I was just trying to be neighborly. Besides, you might want to come back, Kiah Grave, ’cause I’ve got something to give you that you’re gonna want.”

I bristled. “Yeah, well give it to some other fellow. I don’t want anything you’ve got to offer.” How could she be so brazen?

As I trudged through the woods, I felt my heart would burst. I couldn’t separate the feelings stirring within me. Maybe I was bitter…or disappointed…or sad…or lonely…or maybe I was filled to the gills with the anger bubbling inside me. That was it. I was angry. But angry at whom? Zann? Mama? Dabney?

I cringed at the answer. I was angry at myself for the rude way I talked to Dabney. She called me a snob, and for good reason. It’s the same word I used to describe folks who looked down their noses at me and Mama. Who was I to judge Dabney? I regretted my nasty words, but if I went back and apologized, she might get the wrong impression. I’d think of a way to make it up to her, but not now. I wanted to see Zann, but pride stood in my way.

As I walked along, I kicked at the black walnuts, which lay scattered along the edge of the road. My mouth watered, remembering the delicious black walnut cake Mama made last Christmas, but I hadn’t forgotten how hard it was to hull out those cantankerous nuts. I was thankful for the pecans, which would be much easier to crack.

I rounded the bend in the road near the bridge and stopped. Conflicting feelings stirred within me. I wanted to see her, but what was the point? She no longer needed a tutor. She’d been a good student. My job was done. We had no business meeting at the bridge over the holidays. To do so would only invite trouble. Trouble, which neither of us needed. I couldn’t get the kiss out of my mind. I couldn’t allow it to happen again. I stopped and leaned against a hickory nut tree. I needed time to think. Zann Pruitt would never marry someone like me. Would I want to spend the remainder of my life, like Mama, moaning over what might have been? No siree. Not me. I slowly slid down to the ground and buried my face in my hands. I was afraid. Afraid if I went to the bridge, love would eat away at me like a cancerous tumor, robbing me of a decent life, the way unrequited love robbed Mama. I rose to my feet, turned around and made my way back to Rooster Run.

I walked through the gate and groaned at the sight of Dabney hanging clothes on a line. I didn’t want to face her after the vulgar way I spoke to her, but I’d prove I was no snob. I wasn’t sure whether I needed to prove it to Dabney, or to myself.

Though she saw me coming, she pretended not to notice. I walked up beside her. She didn’t so much as cut her eyes my way. She reached in a small canvas bag hanging on the clothes line, lifted out two clothes pins and stuck them between her teeth. I watched as she reached into a hamper and pulled out a white bed sheet.

“Here, let me help.” I volunteered, thinking it a perfect way to prove I was no snob.

“No thanks,” she mumbled. It wasn’t difficult to see she hadn’t changed her mind about me. She had every right to be sore. My bad-mannered behavior called for an apology. I watched in silence as she folded the sheet, gave it a few pops and hung it on the line. Her long, slender fingers smoothed out the wrinkles, before she pulled the pins from her mouth and secured the edges of the sheet to the clothesline.

I sucked in a breath of air and mimicked the words I’d heard Mama say, when she hung out clothes. “I don’t reckon anything smells better than fresh washed garments hanging on a line.” I’d hoped for a response.

With no comment, Dabney reached in the hamper and pulled out a towel. Now, she was getting on my nerves. Who was being a snob? She could at least acknowledge my statement with a nod. I decided to take one more shot, and if she didn’t answer me this time, I’d leave her be.

I tried to muster a smile through clinched teeth. “Dabney, you like pecans?”

She shot me a quick glance. “I reckon.”

I sensed victory. I’d broken through her cold, dark shell. “Well, I picked up more than we’ll need. I’ll go to the house and get you some.”

She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. I took it to mean, “Don’t care if you do, don’t care if you don’t.”

I felt like getting a whole sack full of nuts and throwing them one by one in her face. Couldn’t she see I was trying to make up for my behavior? “I’ll be right back,” I said.

Mama was still asleep. I tiptoed over to the cupboard and filled my pants pockets with pecans.

I hurried back outside. Dabney looked up, and for a moment, I saw a fleeting smile. “Got something to put them in?” I asked.

She held up the canvas clothespin bag. “Drop ‘em in here.” She said.

I ran my fingers through my hair, trying to decide how to word an apology. My mind went blank. “Dabney, I want to say—well, what I mean is, I wish—”

She interrupted. “Kiah, I don’t blame you for thinking what you did. I know what folks say about me. Some of it’s true. But Zann gave me a note last evening and asked me to give it to you. That’s what I was referring to when I told you I had something I thought you’d want.” She reached in her apron pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

What a louse I’d been. I closed my eyes and slung my head back. “Dabney . . . what can I say? I’m so sorry. I had no right.”

She shrugged and handed me the letter. “I’m used to it.”

The hurt in her eyes made me feel smaller than a chigger. “I suppose it’s too much to ask you to forgive me.”

“Shucks, ain’t your fault that folks say I’m white trash. Maybe I am.” She whirled around, but not before I caught her lifting her apron to brush away the tears.

While I clamored for a suitable response, I heard her door slam. I looked up and she was gone. But her sad words continued to clang in my ear like an out-of-tune piano.

I walked next door, sat down on the stoop in front of our shack and pulled out the letter. I could smell Gardenia Perfume.

Monday

Dear Kiah,

I didn’t want to leave you tonight, when Mother called me to supper. I could tell you were hurting.

Kiah, I’m sorry you’ve missed out on the blessings of having a father in your home, but he’s the one who’s missed out. You are such a warm, caring person. Why did you think it would make a difference if I knew your situation? Can’t you understand that I don’t care where you live or who brought you into this world? All I know is that I love you very much. I can’t wait to see you at the bridge tomorrow.

Love,

Zann

I read the lines again and again. My heart turned cartwheels. I let out a loud yee-haw, prompting Granny Griffin from across the road in #5 to stick her head out the door to see what the commotion was all about.

She hollered, “What’s going on out yonder?”

I laughed. “Zann Pruitt loves me, Granny, She loves me very much.”

She cupped her hand over her ear. “What’s that?”

I chuckled. “I said Zann Pruitt loves me.”

She grumbled. “Zat all?” She slammed the screen door without waiting for a response, although I shouted it out, anyway.