GodPretty in the Tobacco Field (24 page)

I
rested at the bottom of the Fords' porch to collect tangled nerves. Still shaky, I grabbed the wooden rail and climbed up the steps, my raw leg tightening, pinching under its dressing.

Inside, the radio played a frayed tune. Abby's small shadow darkened a far wall as she hobbled her broken time from the sitting room to the kitchen and then back again.

She peered up at the wall that anchored family photographs. A smiling family, unlike the frowning kin that hung in Gunnar's foyer. Pictures of a dimpled Rainey, her husband, and other kin hung lopsided on cracked walls. So much love and laughter in those old photographs. All that sweet living had plumb tilted those frames crooked. More than ever I wanted that life with Rainey.

A teakettle whistled and a minute later her sewing machine's steady strum flitted out the open window, cornered the whir of a fading summer.

Watching, I rubbed my sweaty hands alongside my skirts. Abby raised her head every so often, wiping what I knew were tears from her eyes, sniffling loudly before turning back to her sewing.

Quietly, I tiptoed over to the screen door and picked up Rainey's work boots, the heavy brown leather reddened and softened from days of sun and soak. Beside them sat his old violin. I touched the worn spruce, pressed a kiss to its wood belly.

Tucking his boots under my arm, I snuck away before Abby could catch wind of my doings.

In town, I hurried past the Shake King, then crossed to the shops, folding myself into shadowed concrete lips and the town's quiet. I wanted to peek inside windows to see who was in town in case someone got word back to Gunnar I was here.

The morning bustle had long slumbered into a midday laze. My leg burned as I walked past French's bench. I gave a nod to Erbie, and he widened his eyes at my leg, then asked, “You okay, Miss RubyLyn? Need to sit a spell?”

“I'm okay, Erbie.”

“Them's Rainey's boots.” He pointed his whiskered chin. “Lotta stitches.”

I forced a little smile, limped on past to Althea's. Then I glanced into Potter's and strolled down to the coffee shop.

I stood there a minute taking big breaths before crossing the street to the white-columned courthouse. I cut over and waited a minute in front of the small, redbrick jail beside it. Through an open window, a radio swept melodies out into the quiet.

Looking all around, I ducked into Nameless Jail, hoping no one saw, and no one wondered why I'd just walked full circle around town.

A gust of air shut the door behind me, ballooned aluminum blinds and sucked them violently back to the window, clacking my arrival.

Jailer, Bur Hancock, the tall, muscled nineteen-year-old from church, pushed himself away from the desk and stood. He was a quiet man, always buttoned beside his mama. One that I often wrote down for kissing in my fortunes just to make it fair and a little bit more exciting. Folks talked a lot about how he got this job soon after high school, saying he could be sheriff one day. And even Gunnar sniffed around him, giving a word or two, checking him out like the other mamas did for their daughters.

“Afternoon, RubyLyn,” Bur said, standing, sliding his thumbs into his belt, rocking on his heels.

I looked around the small jailhouse and my eyes rested on the long, tall concrete wall alongside Bur's desk. Everyone knew the two cells were hidden somewhere behind those gunmetal-colored cinder blocks. Though I hadn't ever seen them, only heard the talk.

Thoughts of ol' Rainey Bethea whirled. Standing there made my knees knock and my heart rattle, brushing bone. The idea of my Rainey locked away here stole my greeting for a second.

Smiling, Bur quickly brushed his breadcrumb-lunch off his gray tie and sidled next to a tall filing cabinet, relaxing an arm across it. Atop the metal cabinet, a dark brown Bakelite radio scratched out a bubbly tune.

I clutched the boots and drew myself up, then took a step toward him.

“Hi, Bur. How's your mama?”

“Mama's hip's a'healing good now. Thanks for making us that fine cheddar peach pie.” He patted his belly. “Tasty.”

“Won't be long till it's apple pickin' time.” I flashed a smile.

He grinned. “Mighty fine crust you make.”

“I've come to see Rainey. I brought his shoes.” I held them out.

His friendly smile popped. “Don't know that Gunnar's nigger is having visitors, RubyLyn. Sheriff didn't leave any word of such. I know the bail's been set with a fifty-dollar cash bond, though.” He held out his hands. “But I'll see that he gets 'em.”

My face fell flat. “Just for a minute,” I pleaded, pulling the boots closer to me, “let me go in.
Please
. His mama wanted me to give them to him, and pass a few words from her . . . Gunnar too.”

He looked off, like maybe he was wanting someone else to tell him what to do, but nobody else was there.

“Gunnar needs to know his worker's okay. And Rainey's mama is real worried about him, Bur. Very worried.” I scooted closer, raised my skirts. “Know you heard. See this? Got my leg all burned up and walked all the way to town a'hurtin'. Mrs. Ford can't afford fifty dollars, and she'll send me right back if I don't get them to Rainey myself and tell her I talked to him,” I lied.

His ears reddened when he looked down at my leg. Quickly, he scooped the keys off his desk. “Tell ya what, RubyLyn, I ought to take them boots to him, but maybe a few minutes won't hurt none . . . just a few, mind you.” He crooked his finger, wagging. “The rules say I have to take a look.”

I lifted up the boots for him. He peeked inside, then spun his finger around. Raising the hem of my dress to my knees, I turned slowly so he could see my shoes and legs. Satisfied I wasn't carrying anything to the prisoner, he nodded, pink-cheeked.

“Thanks, Bur.” I followed him to the end of the wall.

He opened a heavy wooden door and stepped aside. “Be quick,” he warned.

I bobbed my head and slipped past him into the weakly lit narrow hall.

A cloud of stale urine and bleach sweated concrete walls, smothering.

I peered into the first cell. Artie Washburn, the town drunk, lay passed out, puttering out quarrelsome snores and cloud-puffed cries to his demons.

At the next cell, someone lay on a cot near the far wall underneath a ratty brown blanket.

“Rainey?” I said quietly. “I got here as quick as I could.”

He stirred, moaned. Slowly he threw back the cover. “Roo,” he coughed out, “Roo.” He sat up.

My hand flew to my mouth. One of Rainey's eyes was plumped shut, and his feet looked like someone had stomped on them.

“Rainey,” I cried, trying to keep my voice in the cell.

He shook his head, staggered over to me, and clutched the bars. “Roo! Are you okay, Roo, are you—?”

“Fine,” I assured him several times. I stared down at his swollen, blood-crusted feet. “Who did this, Rainey?”

“S'ok, Roo.” He cracked a crooked smile. “Sheriff had to give me a talkin'-to, and Crockett had an itch to dance. He's gone now, got bailed out early this morning. But you should've seen
his
lively jig before he left.”

Rainey was looped from the pain. I reached inside the bars and grasped his hand. He sucked in a breath, and I drew back and saw his scraped knuckles, the puffy flesh.

His gaze fell on the boots. “No,” he said, and pushed off the bars. “No, no, no.” He wagged a finger and wheeled around. “No, girl! You brought me shoes for jail, not for coming home.”

“Rainey, Gunnar's not himself and I thought I'd do right and—”

“Tell Gunnar to take my pay and get me out of here.”

“He's in a bad way.”

He grabbed the bars. “Dammit, Roo, if I don't get out of here I could miss my induction. I miss my induction, I could lose everything I got, for Ma, and us.”

“We won't,” I whispered. “I'll find a way.
Promise
.”

Bur called out for me.

Resigned, Rainey's shoulders dipped.

“Just a little longer, Rainey,” I said gently.

“Roo, thank you.” He leaned his head in.

I pressed my cheek to the bars, whispered. “I'll get you out, Rainey. Get us both out.”

From down the end of the hall, Bur's shadow appeared. He jangled keys and cleared his throat.

“RubyLyn,” Bur called down the darkened hall, “best leave now. Sheriff's on his way in.”

Rainey gave a weak nod, and I set the shoes down beside his cell and wiped my eyes. I stuck my pinky inside the bars and Rainey grabbed hold.

“Good night,” we whispered.

Bur walked me to the front door of the jailhouse and looked down at his feet and all around, working his tongue loose of a stiff mouth. “Want you and Gunnar to know Sheriff caught that Stump gal. Spitfire she was.”

“He did?”

“Yup, caught her behind the Feed stealing one of Mr. Parker's kerosene cans.”

Relieved, my shoulders slumped.

“Yup, fought like a rabid coon. They had to take the battery cables to tie her up in the backseat of Deputy's car. Took her over to Everly County Juvenile Detention Center.”

“That's good. Gunnar will be happy to hear it.” I blinked to stop the sudden gush that threatened.

Wind pushed through the blinds, ruffling piles of Bur's paperwork, licking the room with dull paper-soaked breezes.

“Um, RubyLyn”—Bur reached across me, rested his big hand on the door latch and lingered, blocking my exit—“Mama . . . Mama said no one in these hills . . . heck, three counties wide, can cook as good as you, and she . . . I thought—well, I . . . maybe if Gunnar didn't have your hand set to someone else . . . I'll ask him first, but . . . maybe you'd like to . . . set a courtin' time . . . to, well . . . have a visit on the porch with me and maybe . . .”

The radio batted its static into the dead air, and for a moment it seemed like there weren't nothing left to fill it—weren't never going to be.

“RubyLyn . . .”

Again the airwaves nicked, but sharper this time.

“It's going to be a while till Gunnar gets back on his feet, and I”—I pointed to my leg—“am fit for company. Will you see that Gunnar's worker is taken care of till then? Good working man is hard to find in these parts.”

He dropped his arm. “Of course, RubyLyn.”

I searched his kind eyes, disappointment settling in, hating that I'd rejected him, but I could only think of Rainey in that gloomy cell—and us out of here.

I lowered my gaze and edged past him outside to the splitting elm in the middle of the parking lot. Afternoon sun streaked through the drooping branches, warming my damp face.

Darla Clark came up behind me, pulling her wagon, her little boys folded inside asleep, the metal wheels clacking loudly on the concrete. She stopped beside me to pick up a dirty, stray S&H Green Stamp to add to the ones she'd been saving to trade a baby rocker for. Ducking, she muttered a greeting and cast a weary glance back, her white-skirted uniform stained, reeking of onions and grease.

Widow Joan Marsh, sixty years old, bent and broke, dragged her splintered walking stick along the lot, tapping and talking to her two dead sons and husband all gone from another coal mishap and miner's lung. She stopped and poked her cane at my good leg, scrutinized my cut face. “Seen my menfolk at the bottom?”

I shifted, shook my head.

“See my boys down there in the bug dust tell 'em supper's on the stove. Be sure and tell 'em now, ya hear!” Widow Marsh whacked my leg. Spittle flew out of her mouth, bubbled her jaw.

Over at the Shake King, Sheriff leaned against his automobile, arms folded, chatting to Dusty and Dirty Durbin while Lena Stump hung back a few feet.

The sisters giggled at something Sheriff said. Dusty leaned into him, stretching on tiptoes to whisper in his ear—her short yellow skirt riding almost up to her hiney. Sheriff hooted and quickly rubbed his crotch, then smacked her rump. She bent over, then wriggled away.

Weren't no undies there, or even a cotton slip to cover that.

I turned my head toward the city—my attention, my heart begging for a life far from here.

F
riday morning, I pulled a Sunday church dress over the stylish silk slip, then went down and paced the porch boards, hoping Gunnar would soften—hoping for a trip to town for Rainey's bail.

Gunnar'd gone off into the barn, then over toward Abby's long before first light. We'd been arguing since five thirty, with me pleading for Rainey's release. When I knocked the jar of bitters out of Gunnar's hand, he'd backhanded me and stomped off to his tractor.

Still dark, I lit the porch lanterns and then stepped down into the yard. I prayed Abby would talk some sense into him, though he'd taken his tractor out to burn off his anger, not to porch-talk.

Hiding in the shadows, Baby Jane slinked out from the side of the house with her egg basket, alarming me.

“RubyLyn, b-brung you some eggs and wanted ya to know I'm r-real sorry,” she stuttered, took a step closer, and held out the basket.

“Eggs ain't gonna fix this mess, Baby Jane Stump, or give back what your sister took,” I snapped.

“But, I-I—”

“Don't want your damn eggs, Baby Jane!” I swung my arm and knocked the basket out of her hands.

Gasping, she shrank back. Tears sprang to her eyes and she bolted. Three cracked eggs lay glistening at my feet.

I stomped the shells, smashing, beating them into the earth. Gulping down sobs, I let the darkness fold in and carry my grief and hopelessness until it was good and spent. For a long while I stared over at the Crocketts' land.

“Done got half his mountain land tied up in property bonds . . .” Words that Mr. Crockett had flung at Gunnar looped around my head.

Property
. Five prized bottomland acres my folks had passed to me.

I have to fix this now
. I picked through my thoughts—thoughts about my land, Rainey, and home. There were some ugly notions rooting, but uglier ones were surely headed my way if I didn't grab hold and try.

I went to my room and gathered up the strawberry dress and washed it in the sink. Hitching the hem on my dull church dress, I pinched the silk. Wearing Rose's slip made me feel sure and strong like Emma.

I plodded down to the kitchen with the wet dress. Taking a pen to a piece of scrap paper, I wrote:
Property of Rose Law,
and pinned the note to the fabric.

Under the last burst of morning stars, I took Rose's dress out to the clothesline to dry.

Satisfied, I went back into the house, plucked the church key from the silverware drawer, and dropped it into my dress pocket.

I rummaged through my purse, tossing the pickle flyer and Future Farmers of America information onto the table. When I found what I was looking for, I hurried into the sitting room to search through Gunnar's things.

It didn't take me long to dig up the deed to my folks' five acres in Gunnar's old maple secretary. Shaking, I slipped the document into my purse, walked over to the mantel, and placed the State Fair candle cross atop Claire's wooden box. I straightened her ashes like Gunnar always did, tapped it to wake her up.

I couldn't help saying a little prayer since there was no turning back. A prayer to a kinder God I felt Claire would've known.

“Aunt Claire, I'm sorry. Please tell God to forgive me, but it's the only way. Watch over Gunnar, Abby, and the Stumps for me . . . 'specially Baby Jane and little Eve and her new family. And, oh, see that God protects Rainey, too. Tell my folks I love them.”

I ran a fingertip over the smooth wood, circled my Amen into the tiny grains.

Turning to the window, I tucked Mama's purse under my arm. “Gots me three hundred dollars saved,” Crockett'd said.

Once I stepped onto the porch, the mountain air calmed and erased the fevered uncertainty in my bones.

I made my way to the yard, ducked under the clothesline, the pretty strawberry dress billowing in the late summer breeze as dawn crested the hillside.

I marched across the fog-soaked field, down the property line, and straight into the devil's den.