Gap Creek (39 page)

“We don’t want to talk that way,” Hank said. He lifted the hoe, but let the end drop to the ground again.

Timmy swung around and pointed at me. “Her too,” he said, “you’re both … liiiiars.”

I seen how much the drunk man wanted a fight. He wanted to be beat and bloodied and throwed in the creek. It was what he had come for. He wanted to be hurt and humbled. Hank must have seen it too.

“We want to do the Christian thing,” Hank said.

“Don’t talk to me no Chriiiiistian,” Timmy said, and swung his arm as though swatting a fly. “I ain’t got no confidence.”

“We could give you some coffee and cornbread,” Hank said. “And if you stay awhile Julie can fix you a bean and a tater.”

“You ain’t no preacher,” Timmy said and swung his hand again.

“You’d feel better if you eat something,” Hank said.

“You’re a thief,” Timmy said. “Don’t talk to me no Chriiiistian.”

“Nobody took anything from you,” Hank said.

“All my life people has took from me,” Timmy said. “Why, I ain’t got nothing.”

“We could give you some new taters and a mess of beans,” Hank said.

Timmy looked at the house, and he looked at the sky, like he was trying to think what he wanted to say next. Things had not gone as he had expected. Nobody had knocked him down or threatened him. “I know what you all are,” he said, “coming here and taking Piendergaass’s money. Everybody knows what you all arrrre.”

“We ain’t stole from nobody,” Hank said, and looked Timmy hard in the face.

I was sweating so hard the drops run into my eyes, but my hands was too dirty to wipe my brow. I used the back of my wrist, but it had dirt on it too. I felt I was melting like a tallow candle.

“You all are going to hell,” Timmy said, “you and your whore both.”

“It sure feels like hell out here in the sun,” Hank said.

But Timmy Gosnell would not be humored. He looked at the ground, and he looked at Hank. He swung his fist and Hank stepped back, catching Timmy’s arm. Dropping the hoe Hank took the drunk man by the shoulders and turned him toward the road. “Time for you to go home,” Hank said.

“Won’t go,” Timmy said and braced hisself with his feet.

“You go on home and we’ll pray for you,” Hank said.

“Don’t pray for
meee
,” Timmy hollered. He wrenched hisself away and turned toward Hank. “I won’t let you pray for meee,” he said.

“We’ll pray for you to feel better,” Hank said.

“Like goddamn to hell you will,” Timmy said.

And then I seen Hank get an idea. I seen when it come to him. All at once he knowed what to do to make Timmy leave. Instead of beating Timmy until he was bloody, which is what the drunk man had expected, Hank said, “I’m going to pray for you right now.” He dropped to his knees on the hard ground in front of Timmy.

“Don’t you pray for meee,” Timmy hollered.

“Lord, we ask your guidance,” Hank said, shading his eyes from the bright sun. “Brother Gosnell is in pain and confused. Would you soothe his heart and strengthen his will, and show him the way.”

Timmy stood froze, listening to Hank pray for him. He started to say something and stopped. He swung his arm as if brushing away a gnat.

“Show Brother Gosnell the way to truth. Heal his pain and confusion,” Hank prayed, sounding like Preacher Gibbs. “For he is a sinner, as we’re all sinners.”

Timmy took a step back like he was afraid, and then he took another. He looked at me, and then at Hank praying on the baked ground. “Ahhh!” he said and swung his arm again. Then he turned toward the road and started walking. I watched him lurch toward the bend.

When Timmy was gone a ways Hank opened his eyes and stood up. “If you come back we’ll pray for you again,” he hollered. But Timmy didn’t look back. He kept stumbling down the creek road until he went around the bend. Hank looked at me and grinned. He had changed since last winter. He had knowed what to do to get rid of Timmy without hurting him. I hugged him with my elbows and wrists, since my hands was so dirty they would smear on his wet shirt.

IT WAS ALONG in late fall after the corn was gathered and put in the crib, after the taters was dug and the apples was picked, after the beets was canned and the foxgrape jelly made, the winter squash
put in the hay, and the cabbage buried in a hill behind the barn, that Hank took up hunting again. In the summer he had caught trout out of the creek, and we fried them for Sunday dinner. But we hadn’t had any red meat since the winter before. After the first frost Hank killed some squirrels and I made a stew. And then he killed a wild turkey. In November he shot a deer and we had more venison than I knowed what to do with. He salted down some of the deer meat and put it in the smokehouse.

We didn’t have any money, and our clothes was wearing thin, and I kept patching Hank’s overalls and mending his socks. His shirts was wore out at the elbows. But you can come to take pride in clean, patched clothes. You take pride in how you can keep things together with no money and just hard work. I was beginning to think about Christmas again, and about going up to the mountains to see Mama and my sisters.

THERE WAS A knock at the door one morning. It was a frost-tight morning with mush ice in the water bucket on the back porch. I dried my hands on my apron and opened the door. It was Preacher Gibbs and another man dressed up in a high collar and a black overcoat.

“You all come on in,” I said. The cold air swept in with them.

“Julie, this is Mr. Raeford from Greenville,” the preacher said.

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” I said. “Please take a seat.”

“I represent the heirs of Mr. Pendergast’s estate,” Mr. Raeford said.

“I see,” I said.

“Since his heirs did not know about his death for over a year, they are only now claiming their property,” Mr. Raeford said.

“I have explained to Mr. Raeford that you and Hank have done a fine job of taking care of the place,” Preacher Gibbs said.

“I can see that,” the lawyer said.

“Won’t you all set down,” I said. I figured this lawyer really did represent the heirs since he was with Preacher Gibbs. The two men set down and held their hats on their knees. The lawyer opened a leather case and took out some papers. It was the kind of papers that give you a feeling of dread. It was the kind of papers hard for ordinary people to read.

“The heirs have authorized me to sell the house for them,” Mr. Raeford said.

“I see,” I said. I hated to tell him we didn’t have a cent and was living on the game that Hank shot in the woods and the canned stuff I had put up in the summer.

“And they have asked me to collect rent for the months since Mr. Pendergast died,” the lawyer said.

“Rent?” I said. The word stuck in my throat.

“You have had the use of the house and land, as well as the horse and other livestock,” Mr. Raeford said.

“Mr. Pendergast didn’t charge us no rent,” I said. The lawyer had a little powder on his face, and he smelled of some kind of toilet water.

“You kept house for Mr. Pendergast, the Reverend Gibbs tells me,” the lawyer said. “Since his death the heirs have been owners of this house.”

“Surely you are grateful that Hank and Julie have took care of the place, and the things on the place,” Preacher Gibbs said.

“I’m only an attorney representing the interests of my clients,” Mr. Raeford said. “They have asked me to collect back rent and to arrange for the sale of the property.”

“That does not seem very neighborly,” Preacher Gibbs said. “This young couple has put a lot of work into the place.”

“I’m only an attorney,” Mr. Raeford said again. “My clients are
willing to be reasonable. They will settle for a hundred dollars in back rent.”

“We don’t have any money,” I said. “And we don’t have no way of getting any.”

“Then I must ask you to vacate the premises,” the lawyer said. “And I will ask the sheriff to seize any goods you have in lieu of payment.” He put the papers back in his case and stood up.

“I’m astonished,” the preacher said to the lawyer. “I would be ashamed to treat these people this way after all they have done here. They didn’t know how to get in touch with the heirs. Nobody on Gap Creek did.”

“I’m only an attorney,” Mr. Raeford said again.

The lawyer handed me a paper. It was a paper that said Hank and me was being sued for back rent, and under South Carolina law we was liable to lose all we owned unless we paid the rent.

“We don’t have no money,” I said. I felt short of breath.

“Let’s pray about this,” Preacher Gibbs said. We stood up in the living room and Preacher Gibbs turned his face toward the ceiling as he prayed. “Lord, show us what is right,” he said. “Help us to do your will in this world, so that we may earn a place in the next. For we know you are watching our every deed. And every single one of us must face your judgment.”

AFTER THE PREACHER and the lawyer had gone I stood by the fire and looked at the paper like I couldn’t understand it, though I understood what it said all too well. I stood there watching the words swell and swim in front of my eyes until Hank come back from hunting with a rabbit in the pocket of his mackinaw coat.

Hank looked at the page and swung it down like it was on fire and he wanted to put out the flames. He shook the paper till it fluttered
like a paper bird. I had not seen such a look on his face for a long time.

“Does it mean we will be arrested?” I said.

“We might,” he said.

“What can we do?” I said.

“We’ll have to leave,” Hank said, “early in the morning.”

“Will we take the horse?” I said.

“We’ll take only what we can carry on our backs,” Hank said. “We’ll take only what we brought here when we come.”

“And leave all the canned stuff?” I said.

“We’ll leave here the way we come into South Carolina,” Hank said.

THAT EVENING I cooked a big supper of rabbit and taters and beans and cornbread. I even made a sauce out of dried apples. Since we couldn’t take anything with us we eat everything we could hold. And then we went to bed early, since we would have to get up and leave so early. Once we was in bed it was like a great weight had fell away. We had been worried so long about the heirs showing up, and about where we was going to live. And now we didn’t have to worry no more. We would be leaving. We would be shedding all the worries of Gap Creek and starting out again back up on the mountain. When Hank touched me on the breast I trembled. I was so freed up and charged by knowing that we was leaving that I didn’t feel like myself. And Hank was trembling too. It’s a man’s desire that stirs a woman’s desire most.

Hank touched me on the breast, and he touched me on the belly. He touched me between my legs. I seen it was better we was leaving. We would start all over again. We had everything we needed to start again. When Hank climbed on top of me I cried out. It was like we was going for a long walk over the hills and under the pine
trees. I rolled and said something, and he turned and said something. We said things we had never said before. And we walked further and rushed up on cliffs we had never seen before. When he cried out I was thinking of little Delia, and I had never felt such love before.

We had never had such love as we did that night. I felt I had been stretched and growed more than I ever had. I felt time was slowed down and richer. I felt myself soar out over a sparkling river, and I felt myself settle finally down into the warm nest of the bed and Hank’s arms.

THAT MORNING WHEN we left was the coldest of the year. It must have been about ten above zero, maybe colder. It was dark when I got up and lit a fire in the cookstove. Water on the back porch was froze, and I had to crack the cap of ice in the bucket. We was out of coffee, but I heated up some cider to warm our bellies, along with grits and cornbread and jelly.

It was sad knowing I would have to leave most of the jelly and jam I had made, the stuff in the basement, the taters and cider and molasses and corn in the crib. All our work would go to the heirs, except what we could carry in our pockets and on our backs. I made up my mind I would take three or four jars of jelly.

Since we couldn’t carry much it didn’t take long to pack. About all we could take was our clothes, which was mostly wore out anyway. Back on the mountain we would start over again with even less than we had to start out on Gap Creek. With a lamp I looked over the house for the things I had to take. In the bedroom I got my comb and brush set, the one Rosie had give me when I was married. And I folded up the quilt Mama had give us. On the mantel I got the little flower vase that Lou had give me. In the kitchen there was one frying pan we had brought from Mount Olivet.

I tried to recall if I had brought any spice or seasonings when we moved to Gap Creek. I climbed up on a chair and looked on the shelf in the kitchen. It was the shelf where Mr. Pendergast had kept bottles of cinnamon and sage and pepper, and also his liquor and camphor and other medicines. There was the box of Epsom salts and the bottle of oil of cloves. I had picked over the bottles and jars and boxes many times before. There was a little tin that I had never opened because it looked rusty and was covered with dust. It was the kind of tin that might have held tea or snuff at one time.

I decided to open the can since I never had before. It was hard to twist the lid because of the rust. I had to set the lamp down and use both hands to wring the cap off. There wasn’t nothing inside but some crackly wax paper, the kind tea is wrapped in. I opened the paper and seen something shiny. I held the box under the lamp and seen a gold coin. I fumbled in the paper and found a twenty-dollar gold piece. It was Mr. Pendergast’s secret bank. The money had been there all the time while we was broke and near starving.

“Look at this,” I called to Hank.

“Where did you get that?” he said. He had gathered his tools up in a sack, along with his extra underwear and overalls.

“Mr. Pendergast must have forgot this,” I said.

“The Lord has blessed us,” Hank said.

“What do you mean?” I said.

“I mean the Lord has give this to us, for all the work we have done here,” Hank said.