GodPretty in the Tobacco Field (13 page)

While Abby and Gunnar talked, I visited my mind on Rainey and missing my “seven.” Maybe he's not too hot to get home after seeing those city girls. Them in their stylish Sears and Roebuck dresses covering Honey Girl slips of every color of the rainbow—and their twisted up sprayed hairdos.
What a grand important life!

I tried to flip the ends of my hair upward, tugging. Again, and again, trying to tame my long, tangled curls into a spiffy city hairstyle.

Maybe I should make my own fortune come true, take that first step.
Rainey, six, Bur, five.

I'd only been kissed by one boy in my life and that didn't count since it was Henny's eighteen-year-old brute cousin who'd paddlefished his tongue inside my mouth. A kiss that was pried, not privileged. One that he'd tackled me for when I was eleven. He'd pushed me to the ground in back of the Stumps' cabin when he thought no one was looking. Rolled atop me, pinning my arms down with his knees, bruising bones. Mrs. Stump caught him and took her broom to his head, batting him all the way down Stump Mountain. Henny, too, hot on his tail with a thorny locust branch. And when Rainey got wind of it from Henny, he sharpened his pocketknife and searched the hills for him for two days.

A thousand years I'd been practicing for that important kiss, waiting to be kissed properly . . . at least since I was ten, I reckoned.

I'd often steal into the barn when no one was around and take the sheet off the tall gold-painted floor mirror that had been stored in the dusty corner. Being extra careful not to disturb the corn spider who'd caught my hopes and dreams in her arching web above it. When I asked about the mirror long ago, Gunnar only said it belonged to my aunt. And that it was vain to have it in the foyer of our house. I didn't think it was any more vain than his other stuff, though.

There in front of the six-foot mirror I'd stand on dried corn husks, practicing and planting my perfect pucker, the slant of sun slipping through the slatted dark oak boards. Hidden behind the mirror was a tiny jar of shortening that I'd put there. I'd unlatch the jar, paint the cooking oil across my lips. Then I'd fix kiss after kiss on that ol' barn mirror, my prints sawtoothed across the looking glass like spreading dandelion heads.

I couldn't help wondering if Mama had practiced her kisses this way. I tried not to think about the latest dreams I'd been having of her—the hissing snakes in those sleeping hours, about drawing the broken heart on Mama's fortune-teller—and what everything meant.

Over the years, I'd tried to talk to Gunnar about my folks, but he'd shoot down any more talk about them, saying he was
too busy for chat, done with useless things that can't be done over,
and that I needed to stop wasting my time on the dead. Then he'd send me out to the porch with a bucket of water and a scrub brush or back to the fields to appreciate the
living bones
in my knees.

Why it was so hard to believe he was talking so nice to Abby now. It didn't matter that they had known each other since they were kids. He'd known lots of folks forever and he hadn't shared a long, quiet porch-talking with any of them lately—heck, in forever.

Growing drowsy, I scooted closer to the wall, pulled up my knees, and rested my head on them. Sierra came over to bunt her head against my legs.

Abby shifted suddenly in her seat and clucked softly. “Trouble's coming, I can feel it.” A firefly brushed a glow past her cheek.

I shuddered. Abby could smell trouble, same as a rain crow could bad weather.

A coyote called from the hills. The lanterns burned low. Gunnar went inside and poured them each a bourbon. In a few minutes, their hands slipped into the shadows, talking.

Where is he? My Rainey seven
.

T
he rain stopped, and sinners' prayers were answered till God snuck out from the slippery shadows beckoning for more.

Gunnar yelled up the stairs while I tried to safety-pin a button to my church dress. “Time to get, RubyLyn.
Now!
”

“In a second,” I called back, same as I did not two seconds ago.

I hated Sundays. It seemed useless going. Here my daddy was a preacher and drank himself to death. What kind of God-fearing man does that? And for all Gunnar's fine talk about good and evil, he drank, too.
Hypocrite!
It was no wonder I had to spend every service praying for God to make him less ornery. But God didn't listen and I found myself drifting during sermons, praying for a way out of this town in the folds of my
sinful
fortunes.

Sunday was supposed to be my day to rest,
He'd
said, but I had to get up even earlier to cook a hot breakfast for
him
and get myself neat for church. Still, once I got there I felt a little better seeing all those folks. With only the Fords and Stumps as my neighbors, and the visits to the Feed, it got pretty lonely during the summers, unless you could drive to other hills to visit. Which Gunnar'd made sure to let me know long ago:
not happening
. And except for the few times the church held a picnic and a swim in its creek, it was rare to visit other kids. And that was only when one of the mamas or a schoolteacher wore Gunnar down with their pleas to let me stay.

I stuck myself with the pin, bit back a curse, and threw the button onto the bed, wishing I had the good sewing fingers like Abby and Rose—wishing I had a prettier dress. I threw on my quilt jacket to cover the missing button and stuffed my hairbrush into my pocket.

I rushed down the stairs and pulled the pie out of the oven that I'd made for Sunday supper. Grabbing a peach off the kitchen table, I dashed outside to the truck. Gunnar snapped for me to get in.

“Baby Jane should be here any second,” I said, pulling out the brush, tapping it against my leg.

“Time to get,” he warned.

“Not yet.” Patting the peach inside my other pocket, I watched the road, stealing looks at Stump Mountain behind me.

He shook his head and got into the truck.

“
Gunnar
. Just a few more seconds. She's working Sundays at the Millers'.” Baby Jane hadn't missed a Sunday ever since I'd invited her to the Easter Sunrise Service and Egg Hunt last year.

Gunnar'd fussed about her stinking, fussed about her being barefoot, fussed about her being a Stump. So I'd snuck her a pair of my old sneakers, even though they were two sizes too big, and gave her a bar of soap, telling her to wash her dress on weekends and to be sure to take a creek bath on Saturdays. I'd bought an old Bible from Rose for ten cents and Baby Jane kept it buried inside her metal box she had hidden in the woods. Every Sunday morning she'd come flying down the mountain, drippin' and a'squeakin', waving her Bible. Always on time, Gunnar'd let her crawl into the back of the truck to hitch a ride.

Today, Gunnar wasn't having none of it. He slipped his arm out the window and thumped the door twice.

I climbed inside, smacked the hairbrush down between us. He turned the motor over and took off down Royal Road. Then I saw her tearing through the tobaccos. Tiny shouts lifting, her Bible held high.

Gunnar kept driving.

“Pull over . . . pull over . . .
Please
.”

Gunnar pushed down on the gas pedal.

“Stop!” I cried.

Leaning out the window, I shouted, “
Hurry!
Hurry, Baby Jane.” I turned to Gunnar and shook his arm. “She's almost here. Wait up.”

Gunnar elbowed me off and puffed. “ ‘Most men will proclaim every one his goodness: but a
faithful
man who can find?' Proverbs 20:6.”

I looked over my shoulder and saw Baby Jane running in the road behind us, flailing her arms, face bright red and dirt-streaked. “And, Mark 12 says to ‘love thy neighbor as thyself.' There is no greater Commandment!”

“Silence,” he nipped.

“God don't climb into mean bones . . . No
GodPretty
in that, Gunnar. Can't we hold up long enough for her to jump into the bed?”

Hard jawed, he pressed forward, the truck snaking in and out of dying fog as we made our way up the narrow hill to Nameless First Baptist Church.

Gunnar parked in the church lot, pulled his Bible off the dash, and strode inside, leaving me in the truck. Grabbing my brush, I started down the hill for Baby Jane.

I met her at the first bend, limping and sobbing.

“S-sorry for being late. D-d-dropped some of Miller's eggs this morning and . . . and he got real mad. He wouldn't let me leave till I cleaned the coop,” Baby Jane cried. “Th-th-then his best chicken, Earlene, took off . . . Found her, though.”

“You eat breakfast?” I asked.

“Ain't hungry—”

I pulled out the peach and stuffed it into Baby Jane's dress pocket. “Maybe after church then.”

Hurried, I turned her around and brushed her hair, patted my pockets. I'd forgotten the Hens-and-Biddies ribbon.

Baby Jane fished inside her own pocket and held up a rubber band, small mews whisking through her lips.

“It's okay, Baby Jane. Shhh, shh . . . Hey, how's Henny?”

“Sister don't like her crooked nose. Won't come out . . . outta the house, or help with chores.” She hiccupped.

“Tell her I miss her . . . and it's real good you found Earlene,” I added softly, stretching, winding the tight band around her ponytail.

“Earlene don't like Mr. Miller much, but she always comes for me.”

“Where's your other shoe,” I said, spinning her back around, noting one of them gone.

“M-m-mean dog came after me back there . . . I threw it at him.”

“Okay, maybe we can find it on the way home.”

“Dog ran off with it.”

“Don't worry none,” I said, brimming with enough for both of us. She could slip in maybe once, but sharp-eyed Gunnar wouldn't let her the next time.

I took the hem of my dress and wiped off her dirty face, wishing I had a bottle of Rose's perfume to help with the chicken poop smell that stuck to her.

Baby Jane sniffled loudly. “Saved me . . . that the dog grabbed and worried my shoe real good and not me.”

“Sure did . . . Take off that other shoe.”

She pulled it off, handed it to me, and I threw it into a bush.

Another sob escaped her trembling mouth. “Gunnar'll get me real good, RubyLyn.”

The church organ puffed out soft notes.

“Hush it now,” I gently warned. “Nobody will pay a mind to your feet, unless you're making 'em by limping into church.”

I plucked a thin stem of yellow-blossomed beggar-tick from the side of the road and tucked it into her ponytail. “
There
.” I kissed the top of her forehead. “You look real pretty. Let's go in.” We set up the hill.

She groped for my hand, latched on tight. I looked down and saw that her nails were bitten to the quick, blood-specked from the worries again.

I pulled her over to Gunnar's truck, and leaning against it, I took a toe to my heel, pried off one shoe, then the other, kicking off the tight, dingy pair of cream patent leathers.

“We'll be sisters.” I winked and dumped them into the truck's bed.

“
Sisters
.” Baby Jane widened her eyes and broke a slow grin. Barefoot, we walked into church together, up to the third row and squeezed in beside Gunnar.

Relieved to see folks coming in behind us and no one noticing, I plopped down, tucked my bare feet under the bench, tugged at my long skirts, and nudged Baby Jane to do the same.

Except to toss Baby Jane a frown, Gunnar kept his nose in his Bible. He didn't want her here, but yet he complained that Henny, or
Henny and the Heathens,
as he said most Sundays,
didn't practice His Word
. Same as he said about the Crocketts, but a bit gruffer.

Talk was, the fifth row had once belonged to the Crocketts, but Mr. Parker and his wife had claimed it long ago 'cause theirs was splintered and creaky. Folks said that the Crocketts stopped coming after their missus passed. Most hill folk had their own prayer benches made for church. But the tiny building couldn't fit more than ten small benches inside, five on each side, so Brother Jeremiah suggested Mr. Parker use the Crocketts' and give a nice church donation instead.

On the bench across from us sat two girls about my age, Margaret and Millie Vetter. They were from the mountain over and sat behind Bur Hancock and his mama. Bur was a looker and one to hook, most girls and their mamas said.

Gunnar must've thought so, too, because once in a while he'd stop long enough to chat with him about weather, and even had me bake his ailing mama a pie a month ago.

Erbie Sipes sat a row behind us counting the congregation by clicking his teeth. When he chopped off the last of his snaps, I knew everyone was seated. Brother Jeremiah would start the worship after the hymn. Beside the pulpit, my favorite teacher pumped the old Estey and sang “The Church in the Wildwood.”

Today's sermon was about forgiveness, enemies, and trespasses—one of Brother Jeremiah's favorite topics, and one that he delivered with a mighty wrath.

When church was done, Gunnar headed straight to the parking lot, barely nodding a greeting to anyone. I lagged behind with Baby Jane clutched to my side.

Millie Vetter grabbed my sleeve. “Hi, RubyLyn,” she said, sneaking glances at my feet. “We heard they're looking for Carter. Do you think they'll find him?”

“Sheriff thinks so,” I answered.

“We saw him and his old girlfriend hanging out down in front of the Laundromat a few weeks ago. It looked like his girl had been crying . . . Didn't it, Mags?” Millie looked at her sister.

“Uh-huh,” Margaret replied. “And I even waved, but he acted like he didn't see me. Heard they were arguing about one of them Stump girls, too.” She pursed her lips at Baby Jane.

“Baby Jane, go wait in the truck so Gunnar doesn't see your feet,” I whispered to her. Reluctantly, Baby Jane let go of my hand.

Brother Jeremiah strolled by with a greeting. “Ladies, mighty fine day the Lord's given us. Enjoy His Sunday.” He tipped his head. We quieted for a second.

“Hey, you wanna come over to our house today?” Millie asked. “Mama's going to fry up chicken for a picnic.”

I looked over my shoulder to Gunnar, then back at her. “You ask me that every Sunday, Millie. You know I can't.”

“Thought maybe you could ask him again,” she said, friendly-like.

“Ask him,” Margaret pushed. “We're going swimming in the pond, and Bur said he might come by and bring his cousin. Heard he's just as cute as Bur.”

“Go ask,” Millie urged. “Daddy's put up a new tire swing, and it'll be buckets of fun.”

Fried chicken and a cool swimming hole sounded a whole lot better than going back to my stuffy house and the fields. It would be good to get away from my troublesome thoughts, Rainey, the baby-buyers—everything and everyone.

“He's gotta let you . . . summer ain't gonna last
forever,
” Millie pressed.

I stole a sidelong peek at Gunnar. Baby Jane was sitting in the bed of the truck.
To feel free for a few hours—free and fifteen would be divine....

“Go ask”—Millie tugged on my arm—“I have me seventy-five cents saved. I'm just dying to see what one of your fortunes will say about me kissing Bur.”

“Not unless I pucker first,” Margaret teased.

“A lot of good puckering there,” I joked, but perking at the thought of money for the fair.

The girls giggled, and I couldn't help joining them.

I glanced over at Bur, him standing there a little bowlegged, all clean-jawed, in a starched shirt, pressed trousers, talking with Brother Jeremiah, watching everyone out of the corner of his eye. He was a good man who still had that sweet look, the one boys have before manhood and the hills and hardness grab hold. And the handsome looks to boot.

Bur caught me peeking and pulled himself up taller, lit a soft smile.

“Sounds fun,” I said to the girls. “Reckon I can try again.”

I went over to the truck where Gunnar was talking to Erbie. Baby Jane was stretched out in the bed, dozing.

“Uh-huh . . . yessir, fine boots, and nary a pinch walking up the hills, Mr. Royal,” Erbie was saying with a grin.

I looked down at Erbie's boots and back up at his happy face. Erbie had never learned to drive. He'd wandered all over these hollars and hills mostly barefoot until about seven years ago when me and Gunnar saw him sitting on French's bench. It was a cold day when we spotted Erbie's feet hardening to white wax. Gunnar stopped and helped Erbie up. He walked him into the Feed store and sat him in a chair next to Mr. Parker's potbelly stove.

Then Gunnar went straight out to the back lot and bought Erbie a pair of boots and some thick socks from Rose. Every year since, when the tobacco money came in, Gunnar'd made sure ol' Erbie would get a new pair.

“Thank you, Mr. Royal,” Erbie said, waving good-bye. Him, thanking him each and every Sunday for seven years.

Gunnar gave him a nod and then turned to me. “RubyLyn, it's not time to take off your shoes, get 'em back on; we haven't left His Gathering . . . And are you forgetting your manners again?”