GodPretty in the Tobacco Field (20 page)

W
e pulled out of the Kentucky State Fair's parking lot shortly before nine p.m., the flickering lights of the Ferris wheel and the city fading as Rose drove away. The shine I'd trumpeted some twenty hours earlier had waned, the glum of going back home empty-handed hovered. I turned back once more to catch the pretty sparkly lights, wishing I could never leave.

So far, Rose had been great about not asking why my tobacco didn't win, or why I hadn't met her earlier. She was pleased about all of her spoons selling, and chatted about this hawker and that hawker, a drunk pitchman and a sober one, the folks who spent and those who didn't.

An hour later Rose stopped at a filling station. She had the attendant fill up the tank, then went inside. She returned with Zero candy bars and two Cokes. “Helps with the belly ache.” She guessed at my quietness and shoved one of each into my hand, then swigged her Coke and unwrapped her own candy.

My mouth watered. I guzzled down a big drink of Coke and bit into the candy bar, savoring the white fudge, caramel, and peanut concoction.

When we'd finished, she said, “Sorry ya didn't win, honey.”

I mumbled, “It's okay.”

“I waited for you to come by the booth after the awards . . .”

“I'm sorry, Rose, I—I, well, uh, I met Ellen—the girl from Whitesburg and we got to talking—” I half-fudged.

“Nice gal.” She patted my arm. “I had myself a talk with one of the judges. Heard Crockett invoked the time rule.”

“Sure did,” I admitted, red-faced.

“Judge went on to say you grew some mighty fine burley, and you'd surely win next summer. Know what? Next year you might want to enter your drawings, too.”

“They have a spot for art?” I perked.

“Yup, and so do the Zacherys if you want to sell 'em.” She reached over and smoothed down a pucker on my dress.

“It's a fine dress, Rose.”

“Like the Cinderella slipper. Meant only for you.”

Grateful to have her soft cheer, I sank back into the seat and let the day dissolve. As the automobile sped down the road, I felt myself peeling off the day's losses.

Rose turned on the radio and lit herself a cigarette. “Keep drawing, kid. There's money in your art,” she exhaled the affirmation into the smoky air.

Loretta Lynn crooned “Blue Kentucky Girl.” I leaned my face to the window, inhaling the cool breeze. Tuckered, it weren't no time till the sweet melody and the hum of tires pulled my shoulders in, drooped my head.

When the bouncy mountain road jarred me awake, the big clock on the dash showed it was two in the morning. Ten minutes later Rose pulled into town and braked at the stop sign beside the Shake King.

Surprised, I popped my eyes. Lena Stump loitered in the parking lot wearing a short skirt and an even shorter top, leaning into a man's automobile window.

Rose gave a disgusted
humph
and sped off toward Gunnar's. When she pulled up to the house, she said softly, “Honey, I sure am sorry you're coming home without that blue ribbon.”

“Had a great time seeing the city, though.”

“I better get, kid. A woman in a booth down from mine ordered eight spoons. I was saving them to have on my wagon this fall, but that's a lot of cash now. Need to take me a quick nap and then head back to the city.”

I climbed out of the truck and circled to her side and poked my head into the window. “That's great, Rose, and thanks for taking me and all.” I felt like I'd let her down. I had to fix it.

“See ya soon, honey. Next year your tobacco
will
win, you'll see. And your art will, too.” She lightly cupped my chin, before backing up her big automobile. I watched the headlights cut through the fog as she pulled away.

I looked over to the Fords'. Rainey must have heard the automobile, because his porch lit up.

Thoughts of him leaving surfaced and I struggled to push them back.

Weary, I stepped onto my porch. I was surprised to see him waiting up. Gunnar sat in the rocker, sipping a drink. A lantern cast soft yellow bands across him, slipping into slats, licking the porch boards.

“Hey, Gunnar.” I hadn't realized I'd missed him a little till now. I fumbled with my purse, digging for his present.

Slowly, he stood. “You wore
that
in Louisville? Baring your knees to menfolk?”

“I did. Nothing wrong with it, Gunnar,” I said, my heart dipping. “Ladies in the city wear these kind of summer dresses. Shorter ones even—”

“
Ladies?
Throw it in the woodpile,” he spat, “I'm burning it.”

“City folks wear the latest style and—”

“And you don't live in the city. Get in the tub and soak off those sins before bed.” He plopped back down into the rocker and pulled the glass of bourbon to his lips, dismissing me.

“You're right 'bout that. I live in Hell,” I muttered under my breath. Defeated, I let his candle cross fall back into my purse.

Upstairs, I bathed, and then hid Rose's dress, folding it safely on a shelf in the back of the closet. I'd have to clean it when Gunnar didn't have an eye peeled my way—get it back to her quickly before he got hold of it.

Outside, Rainey played lively notes on his violin, soothing. Soon I felt lighter and rested against the window frame, wishing I could see him. Wishing for bigger things back in the city. Pictures of the man and woman in the photograph booth sparked thoughts as Rainey's words played my heart.
Man shouldn't have to face the world without some sort of good-luck charm and a good woman's promise
.

That was the least I could do for him . . . If I didn't have anything else, I had my promise.
A promise for a soldier who might never come home
.

In the fatness of the small hours before dawn, I pulled out a piece of tobacco paper from my desk drawer, gathered my pens and pencils, and leaned into the lamplight.

Quietly, I stared at the vase of drooping daisies in front of me and plucked through confusing thoughts. I scrawled, “Kiss Me. Kiss Me Not,” across the blank page, testing. I wadded it up, snatched a clean page, and then carefully penned the words to the fortune in my best penmanship.

“Kiss Me. Kiss Me Not, Rainey,” I said it seven times, too, then couldn't help but giggle, knowing my paper fortunes were about as silly as believing the truths of a daisy. But they were pretty, and an easier way for me to say things that I sometimes couldn't. It was a promise, too. A fullness. And it would lead us to what the other needed as sure as the Tiger Swallowtail flies to its mountain meadows.

Neatly, I folded the tobacco paper counterclockwise, crimped and pressed seams. Crimped and pressed some more. Then I wrote my declaration again. Several times I stopped and flexed my trembling hands.

Satisfied, I placed the fortune with Mama's inside her purse and set it on the windowsill, hoping for a favorable slice of moon, a lover's blessing, and a good curing.

I lay in bed listening to Rainey play his violin. Long, fragile notes stretched into the summer night. Rainey quivered the ghosted melody “In the Pines,” snagging the stars.

“ ‘
Tell me where did you sleep
. . .' ” Rainey warbled low and lonesome.

“ ‘
In the pines, in the pines, I stayed in the pines,
' ” I hummed along softly, my eyes fixed to Mama's purse on the sill.

I
slept in till almost eight on Tuesday morning and Gunnar kept me inside the house all day with laundry and other chores. I tried to tell him about the fair, the shiny tractors, my tobacco, the beautiful city, and ask about him making the portraits, but, stiff-lipped, he brushed me off.

Wednesday morning I hurried out to the tobacco, watching for Rainey and hoping to see Henny. Gunnar called me over to the barn. I stood back as he muttered curses to his old tractor and tobacco wagon.

He always worried everything into the ground this time a year. It was cuttin' and stackin' time—the day we would begin to cut the tobacco and finally hang it in the barn.

“Go to the Feed and pick up your groceries,” he ordered.

Reluctantly, I nodded. I knew chickens needed to be fried and hams baked for the hungry men who'd work our fields.

I turned to go and he hooked me back. “Get on the tractor and drive it up to that rock,” he said, pointing to a field stone about thirty feet away.

He sighed a bothersome breath. “Go on. Quit wasting time, it's cuttin' and stackin' day.”

I climbed up on the old blue Ford tractor, pulled the lever. About twenty feet away, Gunnar yelled out and I pushed in the clutch to stop it.

I jumped down and walked to the back of the tractor. “It's pulling,” I said to him.

“Humph,” he said, grumpy. He kicked the side links.

“There”—I pointed over his shoulder—“the pins aren't lined up on the draw bar and—”

“Lined up just fine.” He leaned into the long bars, squinted, tapped a wrench on the metal that you hooked the plow up to.

I could see they weren't, and he'd taught me long ago if the pins on those two bars weren't sitting equal, the stabilizer would go wobbly and bind.

“They're not, Gunnar, stop being so pigheaded.”

Rainey walked up. I pointed to the right side of the tractor, the two long bars attached behind it. “Tractor problems,” I said.

Rainey bent over, inspecting.

“The lift arm's gonna keep binding,” I said to Gunnar, “until you fix it right. Those pins are about an inch off. Going to pull the plow all crooked.”

Gunnar struck the metal arm lift with the wrench and worked loose the hitch from the draw bar.

“Hell, Rainey,” he said, “we never fixed this hitch last season. Go to town and pick me up one from Mr. Parker. Get me a can of axle grease, too.”

“Not the hitch.” I shook my head, knowing he was too stubborn to pay a mind and would wait until Mr. Thomas or another man came by and told him so.

Gunnar climbed up on the tractor seat. “Clean that dirt off your face and get going.”

I wiped the oil off my chin. “It's not Negro Tuesday,” I said.

Gunnar wrinkled his brows. “I need my hitch. You need to shop. Rainey, you wait on the Feed's back porch to tote the stuff for her. And hurry back here.”

I ran to the house and washed my face and hands, then went up to my room. I opened the snakeskin purse, took out Rainey's fortune-teller and Mama's lipstick. Carefully I dragged the color lightly across my lips. I drew tobacco leaves onto the four outside folds like Mama had done to ours, sketched hearts onto the inside folds, then kissed the fortune before tucking it safely inside my dress pocket. Weren't no magic there, but a pretty prayerful pucker couldn't hurt none. Satisfied, I brushed my hair and quickly pinned it up.

We took off to the Feed & Seed with the fog lingering over us as we made our way to town.

We hadn't made it off Royal land when I pocketed his hand in mine, and blurted, “Didn't win, Rainey.” I felt the disappointment build in my throat. “Didn't.”

“Damn,” he whistled through his teeth, gently pulling back his hand. Rainey looked behind us. “Next time, girl,” he switched to an easy cheer.

We walked on as I spilled about Crockett and the time rule. Rainey snuck pats on my back through it all.

When I quieted, Rainey quieted, too.

After a few minutes, he looked up at the foggy skies, and said, “I won't miss this weather. Town's so thick with water you need a boat to make your way from one hill to the next.” He stopped in the road, still a good piece from the Shake King.

I wondered what it would be like in the jungle for him.

Rainey touched my arm. “I'm going to miss you,” he said softly.

I searched his solemn eyes.

“And I don't want to have to miss you,” he said quietly.

My heart thumped madly.

“You okay, girl?”

I would never be okay or learn to be okay without him. I knew it deep in my bones. I fished into my pocket and pulled out his fortune. I knew I shouldn't, but I couldn't risk losing him.

“Maybe this will help you remember,” I whispered, and held up the kissing fortune.

A noise stirred behind us. We stepped a safe distance away from each other and turned to watch seventeen-year-old widow, Darla Clark, pull her little red cart of youngsters toward town, the tired wheels rattling, squeaking along the road as she walked by. Her man died in a mine explosion last year over in Redstone, leaving her to fend for their two toddler boys. Darla was on her way to work the morning shift at the Kentucky Shake King. The manager arranged it so she'd have a job. Darla'd tuck the kids behind a baby gate between tubs of grease and tall barrels of rotted trash. The boys waited out her shift while she flipped burgers and scooped ice cream.

Rainey pressed the paper between his palms. “Finally,” he said, taking the fortune from me and slipping it into his pocket, “I was wondering when I'd get mine.”

“Takes a long time for the special ones.”

He studied me a bit, patted his pocket appreciatively.

Deep in our thoughts, we walked on to the Feed, him trailing a few feet behind me. I headed around to the back where coloreds went in.

Beau Crockett stood up from one of the benches. “No shopping for niggers till Tuesday, boy. You get your days mixed up in that dumb skull?” he spat.

His son, Digit, came up behind Rainey and raised his nubby half fist. “Ain't Negro Tuesday, nigger.”

Rainey set his mouth hard, stared down at the ground, and shook his head.

“See here, Mr. Crockett,” I said to Beau, and cut Digit a mean look, “Rainey's in town on my uncle's fetching—”

“Shut your mouth, gal,” Beau snipped, and grabbed Rainey's arm.

Rainey jerked away and drew a hard fist.

Mr. Parker poked his head out the back door. “
Beau Crockett!
Beau Crockett, you and your boy get your sorry selves on down the road unless you're spending today.” He stepped outside with an ax handle he kept behind the counter. “This area is reserved for customers
and
soldiers.” He pulled Rainey to his side.

Beau Crockett spit at Rainey's boots, and his son muttered a curse. Raising their hands, they mumbled more curses and backed away.

Mr. Parker held open the door. “What can I get y'all this morning?” he asked, smiling at Rainey.

Rainey hesitated. Mr. Parker nudged him, and we stepped inside.

He told Mr. Parker, “Gunnar needs a tongue hitch and axle grease, sir.”

Mr. Parker walked him up to the counter, and said, “That'll be $8.79. We'll need to get the hitch out of the building out back.”

Up at the cash register, Rainey stepped up beside Mrs. Stump.

Mrs. Stump stood with a naked Charles hitched to her hip and a barefoot Ada by her side, waiting. Mrs. Stump stared hotly at Rainey. “What's that nigger doing in here today?”

Mr. Parker ignored her.

Rainey paid for Gunnar's hitch and gave Mr. Parker a nickel for a package of Chuckles candy. He took out the lime and orange jellies for himself, saving the lemon, licorice, and cherry, then slid the rest across the counter to me. We both loved the little rectangle sugar-coated jellies.

Mrs. Stump slammed down her butter on the counter.

“Hester, I told your husband that I can't extend any more credit,” Mr. Parker said, putting Rainey's money in the cash register. “I'm sorry.”

She set Charles on the floor. “I'm here to pay off my bill and buy butter.”

Mr. Parker looked at her warily. “You'll have to pay the whole amount.”

“Aim to,” she clipped. “But I might have to find another place to shop if you're letting
them
in on our shopping days.” She jerked her head to Rainey.

The storeowner grimaced, opened his drawer, and pulled out the pay ledger to check her account.

I knew Mrs. Stump was paying for it with the baby money. Butter was too expensive, and she only used wild pig grease.

Mt. Parker nodded at Mrs. Stump, then looked at Rainey, and said, “Here, let me show you where that hitch is.” He slipped out from behind the counter. To Mrs. Stump, he called over his shoulder, “I'll be right with you, Hester.”

Don't forget Gunnar's grease,
Rainey mouthed behind Mr. Parker.

I wandered the aisles, stopping by the new spices and seed, then went to the cooler and picked up a ham and chicken, and a can of Gunnar's grease from the ledge above it.

I set my stuff down on the counter beside Mrs. Stump and thumbed through old magazines, waiting for her to purchase her three pounds of butter. I wondered if Mr. Parker knew that babies could be sold for pats of butter—scraps of land.

Mr. Parker came back in, totaled Mrs. Stump's purchases, and bagged her stuff. Then before he could do mine, a customer turned his attention.

I looked down at Ada. She had her blond head pressed against the counter, her bottom lip rubbing back and forth across the box of penny matchbooks.

I nudged Ada and gave her a cherry Chuckles. She nabbed me a suspicious look, then huddled it in her hand a second staring before taking a tiny taste. Drooling, she shoved the whole thing into her mouth, choking it down.

I reached out to brush a piece of the sticky jelly off her chin and she shrank back, raised a fist.

“RubyLyn.” Mrs. Stump turned to me. “Baby Jane gave me them seeds. And my sister over in Beauty's 'posed to send me some of them new wax beans soon. Hope to plant 'em on that field Gunnar sold us. I'll be sure and give ya some.”

“Thank you, ma'am.”

She lifted Charles up and smacked Ada's head away from the
Please Come Again Soon!
advertisement matches.

I opened an old edition of
Boys' Life
magazine sitting on the counter and thumbed through the pages, waiting for Mr. Parker. An advertisement for palm-sized squirrel monkeys was X'd out. Mr. Parker wouldn't let any boys order one. Ever since Billy O'Brien had bought one from the magazine for $12.95, every mountain boy, six mountains deep, had wanted one for a pet. I remembered the day Billy'd gone to the train depot over in Loyall and picked up his tiny monkey in the wooden crate.

The critter had traveled all the way from Miami Beach, Florida, with a collar and leash even. Billy toted the monkey back to the Feed and showed folks. When he opened the crate, the scared monkey ran out, bit three people, knocked over dozens of jars and several racks before Mr. Parker and a few customers could corral it.

I shut the magazine and opened the mail-order catalog, rubbed my fingers down the slick pages, turning slowly. I studied the tight sweaters, short dresses, and silky slips that reminded me of Dena's bold kiss. Rainey's soft lips. I wondered how many sweaters she owned. Maybe as many as there were Days of the Week undies. Maybe a whole month's worth . . .

Mr. Parker came up behind me and asked if I needed anything else. I paid for the food and tractor grease, thanked him, and went out the back door.

Outside, I called for Rainey and he answered back from inside the storage building. I poked my head inside and was surprised to see him lazing on a bench, feet up on the hitch, working the fortune I'd made.

“There you are,” I said. “We best get back.”

He raised a wicked brow, tapped the fortune-teller, and angled it toward a slice of sunlight coming through. “Says right here I get that kiss, Roo. Says so six times that I've done it.”

My mind sang “Rainey” seven times. I looked over my shoulder. Across from the Feed's gravel lot, Beau Crockett stood against a flagpole, waiting for his son, I guessed.

On the sidewalk, Mrs. Stump stopped to hike Charles up on her hip. Ada clutched the worn threads of her mama's skirts, peeking back at me.

The town had burned off its early-morning bustle and had quieted with folks digging into the day's doings.

What would a few extra minutes hurt?
I set down my groceries and turned back to Rainey. Grinning, I stepped inside the cool dark building. The smell of damp earth rose. Somewhere, a cricket fiddled a song to its mate.

Wisps of sunlight streamed through the chipped, gaped-hole cinder blocks. A flutter set about my bones, wobbling nerves.

I took the fortune from him and worked the folds once, then pointed. “Says seven times you're right, Rainey Ford.”

That it was the most dangerous thing I could ever do, didn't matter. Not when I had something sweet like that lying in the bones, gathering its grit. I looked back over my shoulder one last time, bent over, and kissed him full and long, then stepped back breathless and wholly pleased with myself.

“Say good night, girl.” He stood up, pulled me deeper into the wall's sliced shadows. “Close them kissing eyes and lend a prayer.” He kissed back.