Fields Of Gold (14 page)
Authors: Marie Bostwick
Mama was right. The pain was part of it, maybe the most important part. I had to bear it, or all we'd been to each other would be worthless.
My place at Slim's side had been filled, but until then it
had
been my place. I had not imagined it or wished it into being. He was part of meâthen, now, and long before. Nothing could change that. At least I could find peace in that.
had
been my place. I had not imagined it or wished it into being. He was part of meâthen, now, and long before. Nothing could change that. At least I could find peace in that.
My eggs sat cold and untouched on the plate. Outside, I could hear the chickens clucking and scratching in the dirt and Mama's voice humming a worried little tune as she hung the wash. I knew I should go outside and stand beside her and pin shirts on the line so she'd know I was going to be all right. Instead I sat by myself a moment longer. There was nothing else to do. I said a little prayer for their happiness and mine too. I wished them well.
Chapter 9
The 1930s
“
D
irt, dust, grime, powder, sand. Just plain filth, that's what it is,” Mama muttered as she swept the floor, a gray mound accumulating after just a few swipes of the broom. It was the third time she'd swept that morning, and the wood of the floor looked no cleaner for her efforts. “I hate it.” She grimaced and smashed the bristles even harder against the floorboards.
D
irt, dust, grime, powder, sand. Just plain filth, that's what it is,” Mama muttered as she swept the floor, a gray mound accumulating after just a few swipes of the broom. It was the third time she'd swept that morning, and the wood of the floor looked no cleaner for her efforts. “I hate it.” She grimaced and smashed the bristles even harder against the floorboards.
The storm had come the afternoon before, a howling black cloud of dust that surrounded the house and worked its way inside through the cracks and crannies. Our attempts to block the invasion by stuffing rags in the windowsills and doorjambs were fruitless. Wet sheets and croaker sacks hung over every door and window. They were our only protection against the dust that had become a living enemy to us. Yet, no matter what we did, or how often we swept, the dust overcame our lines of defense, sticking in our throats, creeping into piles of freshly laundered bedding, covering our lives with a fine gray grit that never washed away.
The year 1931 brought a bumper crop. Unfortunately, there was too much wheat on the market, so prices dropped like a stone. Everyone counted their losses and hoped for better times. After that the rains stopped falling, and any seeds that sprouted thirsted and died in the fields. With no moisture in the ground, what topsoil there was kicked up with the winds and created black-brown clouds that rained dust instead of water. Everyone in Dillon had endured dust storms from time to time, but this was different. The storms just kept coming, day after day, for months that stretched into years. Everyone said it had to end sooner or later, but after a while I wasn't so sure.
We stayed in the small protection of the house as much as possible whenever the storms roiled. Even Morgan, who always complained when he was cooped up inside the house for long, was content to sit quietly and read when the dust winds howled and scratched at the house like a cat trying to break into a mouse hole. Papa was the only one who went out in the storms. No matter the weather, he had stock to feed and crops to plant. He was driven out in spite of the odds against him, as much from the belief that it simply had to end soon as from the conviction that a man couldn't simply leave his life to lie fallow for lack of knowing the day and hour when the barrage would cease and the rains would come. Perhaps this crop would be the one to take, or if not this one, then the next. Surely it would all be over soon. Papa had waited out droughts before, and he was determined to wait out this one too, but it was too much for a lot of people.
Ruby's mama, who'd always been sickly, passed on soon after the dust storms came. Mr. Carter packed up and moved to Florida the day after the funeral. He sent Ruby a Christmas card every year until 1936, but after that she never got another one and all her letters came back stamped “Return to Sender.” The prairie winds blew away a lot more than dust. They blew away people, too. Some never found their way home.
Clarence and Ruby were among the first to go. They rented their place, working the land on shares. Clarence tried his best, but after working the land and proudly bringing in his first bountiful crop only to lose money on it because of the overburdened wheat market, he hadn't enough money left to try again. They didn't own the land, so they couldn't even get credit against their house as so many others were doing. There was nothing for them to do but pick up and try somewhere else. Clarence decided to go out to California and send for Ruby once he'd found some work.
We had a farewell supper for Clarence. It was meant to be a party, but no one was in the mood to celebrate. Clarence was quiet. He already wore the shamefaced expression of a drifter, a look I had come to recognize on the ragged, hollow-eyed men who knocked on our door looking for a plate of food to sustain them as they traveled westward to someplace greener and kinder. Even Ruby, who normally talked and laughed at a typewriter-paced clip, was silent and barely touched her food. Mama had cooked the sort of feast we had taken for granted in better times, two whole chickens and a chocolate cake made with the last of the white sugar. Papa told some funny Will Rogers jokes he'd heard on the radio and everyone chuckled politely, but only Morgan's laughter was genuine.
The next morning, I got up before the sun to wish Clarence farewell and bring him a boxed lunch Mama had made from the cold chicken and leftover cake. She even put in a little bottle of spirits thinly disguised as cough medicine that Mr. Dwyer sold by prescription in his store. In these days of Prohibition it seemed every man in town had developed a cough that required liquid medical attention. Dr. Townsend wrote prescriptions for a dollar apiece with the speed and ease of a bartender pouring glasses of neat whisky, but in Papa's case the need was legitimate. Sometimes he would come in from the fields gasping for breath, choked wordless by dust and discouragement, to stand over the washbasin and spit out streams of swallowed black earth that looked like tobacco juice and smelled like defeat. Mama dosed him with whiskey nearly every day to ease the chronic sore throat Papa had developed from swallowing so much dust, but it didn't seem to help much.
While packing Clarence's lunch, Mama climbed onto a chair to retrieve the little flask from the high shelf where she kept it hidden. “You know I normally don't approve of a man who carries a bottle,” she answered as though reading the surprise on my face, “but a fellow so far from home and comfort is entitled to carry a little of his own on the road. Just don't tell your papa about this, will you?” She tucked the whisky under a napkin where it wouldn't be readily seen and returned to her work without looking me in the eye.
Papa met me as I walked across the yard toward the road. “Going to see Clarence off? Here,” he muttered, drawing a creased and much handled five-dollar note from his pocket and smoothing it flat. “Hide this in there somewhere he won't find it until he's too far out of town to think of turning around to bring it back. Put it under the napkin. Clarence doesn't use napkins much, I noticed. Likes his sleeve better. He won't find it until he's out of the county.”
Papa reached for the box, but I took the bill out of his hand before he could open the lid and find Mama's secret bottle. “Don't worry,” I assured him, “ I know just where to hide it.”
“Just let's not mention this to your mama,” he whispered conspiratorially. “We're short ourselves. But five dollars one way or another won't ward off a sheriff's sale if it comes down to it.” He winked.
I smiled at the little charades of married people. “It'll be our secret, Papa. Do you want to come with me to say good-bye to Clarence?”
“No. Better not. I think he'd rather not have an audience, but tell him I said good luck and not to worry about Ruby. Morgan and I'll be over every day to make sure there's wood cut and the place is kept up.”
“I'll tell him. Papa,” I asked, “Is it going to get that bad? Sheriff's auctions and such?”
“No, nothing like that.” He waved off my question with practiced unconcern. “Of course, it's tough on young couples like Ruby and Clarence. They didn't have any time to get a nest egg before the storms hit. It's too bad. But things will get better soon. Maybe not like they were, but once we get some rain we'll be all right. It's just hard coming up with cash right now. Speaking of which”âPapa shoved his hands in his overall pockets and sighedâ“I hate to ask you, but I'm a little short for the taxes, sixty dollars, but I was wondering if, maybe ...”
“I've got some money in the bank, Papa. Why don't you let me pay the taxes this year?”
Papa's face broke into a relieved grin. “Oh no. Not all of them, but if you could lend me that extra sixty, it would sure help. It's just a loan, you understand. I'll pay you back as soon as the wheat comes in, don't you worry.”
“I'm not worried, Papa.”
“Good,” he said, smiling. “You'll see. It's bound to rain soon. It's bound to. Nobody ever heard of a five-year drought now, did they?”
By the time I got to Ruby's, Clarence was already a good piece down the road, though the sun had been up barely half an hour. I ran after him as best I could, raising a cloud of dust as my foot and cane stirred up the grainy dirt of the road.
“Clay!” I hollered. “Wait up a minute!” He turned and walked back toward me until we met in the gray morning light. “Whew,” I puffed, “a hundred feet more and I'd have kicked up enough dust to start a storm of my own.” He smiled at my poor joke.
“Here, “ I said handing him the battered shoebox. “Some food for the road. Mama thought you'd need something to keep up your strength. Hope you can carry it. I think she must have packed half a steer in there. You know Mama, âFeed a cold, feed a fever, feed the neighbors.'” I rattled on awkwardly, feeling a perfect fool but helpless to stop the flow of useless words that spilled from me.
Clarence cleared his throat. “That's nice. Tell your mama I said thanks.” He looked down at his feet for a moment before expending the effort to lift his head and settle his gaze somewhere between my nose and my chin. “Eva ... I ... I don't know when I'll see you again,” he stammered, “and I just wanted to say that ... I did something awful mean to you a long time back. That kiss, I mean. I shouldn't have done that, and I wanted to tell you I'm sorry. It was so stupid of me. Partly, I was just a dumb kid showing off for my friends, and partly, I wanted to kiss you. You were so pretty and smart. I figured you'd never notice a clod like me, so I made it into a joke. Here you been so good to Ruby and me, even after I was so mean to you.” He paused, and his forehead wrinkled as he worked to find the right words. “Well, I'm sorry. I really am, and I just wanted you to know. In case I don't see you again.”
I felt my eyes tearing up but forced the tears back, knowing any display of emotion would hurt and embarrass poor Clarence. “Don't be silly. 'Course you'll see me again,” I declared. “And don't worry about the other. That was all so long ago, I'd practically forgotten about it.”
He stubbed his toe in the dirt, then hitched his rucksack up to a more comfortable spot on his shoulders. “I told Ruby to stay in the house,” he mumbled. “She's pretty broken up, and I didn't want her standing in the road crying while I walked away. Don't think I could leave if she did. Would you check up on her? Make sure she's all right?”
“Of course I will. She's my best friend, isn't she? I'll take good care of her. Papa said to tell you that he and Morgan will keep an eye on the place.” Clarence nodded his head and looked down the road, fresh out of words. We'd said everything that needed saying.
“Well, you'd better be on your way before the heat's on. Good luck. Write when you can.” I touched his shoulder for a moment before stepping back, then walked back to their little house and stood on the porch, watching Clarence walk down the dirt road until he was nothing but a dust devil and a spot of blue work shirt in the distance.
Ruby's cottage was as neat and tidy as ever, but somehow it already wore a scent of neglect, the kind of air you sense in houses that are just houses, not homes, and whose occupants are just passing through. Ruby sat on the sofa staring off into space with red-rimmed eyes, holding a pillow close, the way a mother clutches her child in moments of loss. I didn't say anything to her, just walked over and stroked her hair for a moment to announce myself and then, thinking it was what Mama would do if she were there, I went in the kitchen to put some coffee on the stove.
Ruby sipped at it without really seeing or tasting. I sat down in a chair across from her and tried to think of what I should say, but nothing came to mind.
Ruby spoke first, but without looking at me, just staring off into the distance as though she could see farther than other people. “You remember when I told you I was getting married and you asked me if I loved him? I told you not to be so sentimental, that hardly anybody gets to marry for love. Do you remember?”
I answered yes, and Ruby continued on as though she hadn't heard me. “I was right about that. Most people marry and get dishes and a house and some kind of life. It's expected. But if you get love, that's something extra, a gift. You can't count on it as part of the deal. You marry somebody and feel lucky not to be an old maid, just grateful not to be left out of life. You wash his shirts and fix his meals and at night you lie under him and hope for babies that never come, and in all this you never ask for love because it would be too much to expect. Then one day he walks in the door, hot and tired, and you realize, my Lord! You love him! You love the way he smiles as he eats his food, eats without saying a word, but his smile lets you know better than any words how happy he is to be home with you after a long day. You love how when he goes to town he thinks to bring back a little bottle of cologne, though he can't really afford it, and leaves it on the dressing table where you'll be sure to find it. And when he holds you in his arms at night, so gentle, it's the safest place in the world to be.”
She looked up from her reverie, as though noticing me there for the first time. “I love him, Eva. I was one of the lucky few, and now he's gone and I never even got a baby so I can remember him. Lord, Eva. I miss him so much already, it feels like I'll die.”
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