The Darling Dahlias and the Cucumber Tree (30 page)

 

 

 

 

 

It was Wednesday morning, the time Ophelia often set aside for sewing. She was studying her old yellow pique sundress with the idea of cutting it down for Sarah. There was a stain on the skirt, but she could cut around it. Sarah was growing so fast, but if she used red rickrack on the hem, letting it down for next summer would be easy.

And then her glance strayed and a totally different idea occurred to her. She had stopped at the dress goods counter in Mann’s the day before and bought a cute short-sleeve Butterick blouse pattern for herself, to make up one of the cotton plaids she’d been saving, either the yellow or the green.

As she looked at it now, she thought that the green plaid would be lovely with Lucy’s stunning red hair. Wouldn’t it be a friendly gesture to take the pattern and the material and her sewing basket out to Ralph’s place and show Lucy how easy it was to sew up a blouse? Emma had a Singer—she had kept it in the bedroom, in front of the window, with an embroidered cloth over the top. It was certain to be there. Ophelia could show Lucy how to lay out the pattern on the material (it was always tricky to match a plaid) and cut it out. They would spend a companionable day sewing and chatting. By the end of the day, they would have two very nice blouses to show for their effort and they’d be fast friends.

Not stopping to wonder whether this really was a good idea, Ophelia changed into a clean cotton dress, brushed her hair, and put on her third-best hat, since the road was bound to be dusty. She packed the two bolts of material, the pattern, and her sewing box into a large basket. Then she went to the kitchen pantry and got a loaf of Florabelle’s soda bread as a gift for Lucy (Ophelia’s mother had taught her that it was rude to go anywhere without taking something to eat) and a dozen oatmeal cookies for the boys. While she was there, she picked up a pint jar of red raspberry jam made from berries that grew in the big patch behind Lizzy’s house. The jam was extra good on slices of Florabelle’s soda bread, buttered and toasted in a skillet. The boys would enjoy it for breakfast. She put the bread and cookies and jam in her basket.

Florabelle was finishing the ironing she hadn’t done the day before. Ophelia told her that she didn’t expect to be home for noontime dinner, and would she please see to Mr. Snow’s and the children’s meals. She would’ve called Lucy to let her know that she was coming, but Ralph’s house was at the end of the road and the telephone didn’t go out that far. Anyway, Ophelia knew that Lucy—who was certainly lonely out there by herself all day—would be grateful for the company and happy to be surprised.

Ophelia set off gaily, thinking that it was such a pretty morning for a drive into the country, the late-spring flowers blooming along the road, the sun bright with the eager promise of summer to come. When she noticed a particularly lovely patch of flowers not far from a noisy creek rippling through the woods, she pulled off to the side of the road. She got out and picked a large handful of orange butterfly weed, white Queen Ann’s lace, yellow coreopsis, and purple verbena, with some bright green ferns for foliage. Smiling, she pictured Lucy’s delight when she saw the flowers. They would brighten her kitchen windowsill. Hurrying a little now, she got back in the car and drove on.

But the Model T didn’t quite make it all the way. Ophelia came around a corner and over the low-water crossing about a quarter-mile from Ralph’s place. The front left wheel hit a hole and the tire blew out with a sharp bang.

“Oh, drat!” Ophelia said aloud, exasperated, and then realized that she was in trouble. This was the third blown tire on the Ford in the past month, the second in a week. There was a spare wheel on the back of the car, but she knew she’d never be able to put it on all by herself. At breakfast that very morning, Jed had told her that he had ordered a pair of new tires and suggested that she not drive the car until they arrived. But she had been so taken by the idea of treating her new friend Lucy to a pleasant day of sewing that she had forgotten all about it.

Well, now what? Ophelia sat for a moment, trying to decide what to do. The nearest telephone was at the Spencers’ house, a good half-mile behind her and uphill all the way. She could walk back there and call Jed, who would send somebody out to change the tire—although of course he would lecture her sternly about not paying attention when he told her not to drive. Or she could go on to Lucy’s, spend the day, and when the boys got home from school, send them to make the telephone call.

The walk to Lucy’s was shorter—only a quarter-mile-and definitely easier, since it was all downhill, and she wouldn’t have to listen to Jed’s lecture. So she left the Ford where it was, one wheel in the ditch at the side of the dirt road, picked up her basket and flowers and began to walk toward Lucy’s. She stayed in the shade of the pine trees, but by the time she got to the bottom of the hill, she was sweaty and tired and very much wished that she hadn’t worn her pumps. Her everyday flat-heeled oxfords would have been much better suited to walking over this uneven ground.

When she had driven up on Monday, Ophelia had tootled the horn at the gate—always the polite thing to do, so the people in the house would know they had company and could come out on the porch to see who it was. But by the time she had reached the gate at Ralph’s place, her mouth was too dry to even summon up even a weak shout. All she could think about was getting something cold to drink.

Ophelia opened the gate and trudged up the rock-bordered path to the porch. Lucy had washed this morning, and sheets and towels—nicely white, Ophelia noticed with approval—were pinned to the clothesline. Three fat hens were catching bugs in the flower bed under the watchful eye of a rooster, perched on the arm of the wooden porch swing. The white goat had finished nibbling the leaves off Emma’s rosebush and was now working on the large althea beside the fence.

The morning was warm, and the front door stood open. Ophelia went up the steps and rapped with her knuckles on the screen door. “Lucy,” she called. “Yoo-hoo, Lucy. It’s me, Ophelia. Thought I’d come and keep you company.”

Inside, back in the kitchen, Ophelia heard a barely stifled shriek and the scrape of a chair across the bare floor. There was the sound of a muttered curse in another voice. A shriek? A curse? Something was wrong!

Alarmed, Ophelia yanked the screen door open and stepped inside. “Lucy? Lucy, are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Lucy called breathlessly. “Don’t come in, Ophelia. Please! You just wait right where you are. I’ll be right out. I—”

But it was too late. Ophelia had reached the doorway to the kitchen, where she saw Lucy, backed up against the wall, her eyes wide with fright. And just getting up from eggs and ham and grits and biscuit and coffee on the kitchen table was a strange young man, someone Ophelia had never seen. He was dressed in regular clothes—a blue work shirt and bib overalls—but Ophelia recognized him anyway, for his head was shaved bald.

The escaped convict! He had forced Lucy to cook breakfast for him. He must be holding her hostage!

And then Ophelia—who was not by nature a bold person—did something she had never done before, had never thought of doing, had never even
imagined
herself doing. She took bold action.

She reached into the basket she was carrying, grabbed the pint jar of red raspberry jam she had brought for the boys’ breakfast, and flung it with all her strength at the escaped convict, exactly as David might have flung the rock at Goliath, except that David used a slingshot and Goliath was larger—except that, at this moment, this fellow seemed as big as a bear and twice as menacing.

The jam jar hit him right square between the eyes. He stood stock-still for a moment, eyes wide-open and slightly crossed. Then his knees crumpled and he pitched forward, knocking the table over, the eggs and ham and grits and coffee cascading onto the floor. The convict fell facedown into the mess and lay there unmoving.

And then Lucy did an entirely unexpected thing. Instead of flinging her arms around Ophelia and crying, “Oh, thank you, Opie! Thank you for saving my life!” she shrieked “Oh, no! Oh, my God, Opie, you’ve killed him!” Frantically, she ran to the man’s side, knelt down, trying to roll him over.

“I certainly hope so,” Ophelia said defensively. “He was holding you hostage, wasn’t he? Why, the man could have raped you!” A horrifying thought struck her and she felt her knees go wobbly. “He didn’t, did he?” she asked, in a trembling voice. “The kids are all right, aren’t they?”

Then another thought. She forced herself to be brave, to take more bold action. “Quick, Lucy, we need some rope! We have to tie his hands and his feet before he comes to.”

“We do not need rope,” Lucy said, in a scathing tone. “The kids are in school, and no, he didn’t rape me or hurt them.” She made a disgusted noise. “Look at him, Opie, for crying out loud. He’s only a boy. He’s barely fifteen.” She scrambled to her feet and went to the white enamel water bucket on the shelf beside the door. She grabbed a towel, the dipper, and the bucket and carried them back to the man. “Help me roll him over.”

“A boy?” Ophelia asked uncertainly. She knelt beside Lucy and together they rolled him onto his back. The jam jar had left a three-inch gash on his forehead. It was oozing blood, but he was beginning to open his eyes.

To Ophelia’s dismay, she saw that Lucy was right. She had not knocked down a towering Goliath but a slight, pale boy, not much older than her own son, Sam. No beard yet, his features as shapely and delicate as a girl’s.

Lucy dipped the dipper into the pail and splashed cold water on his face. “Come on, Joey,” she commanded urgently. “Wake up. Wake up, please!”

“Joey?” Ophelia swallowed. “You ... You know his name?”

“Of course I know his name, you goose. He’s been living here with us. Hiding out. He’s been so sick. Really sick, I mean. Once or twice, I actually thought he was going to die.” She wrung out the towel in the bucket and folded it across his forehead. The gash was beginning to swell. “Joey,” she crooned. “Come on, Joey, wake up!”

Ophelia sat back on her heels, trying to come to terms with what she was seeing and hearing. He had been living here?
Hiding out?
And there was Lucy, speaking as gently to this escaped convict as she would to one of Ralph’s boys. What was going on here?

It took a few moments, but at last the convict—Joey—was sitting up, taking little sips of water from the dipper Lucy held to his lips, and trying not to cry. With Lucy’s arm around him, he looked even younger than fifteen. Twelve, maybe.

“Sit tight, Joey,” Lucy said, getting to her feet. “I’ll fetch the iodine.” She was back in a moment, iodine bottle in her hand. She doctored the gash as he winced.

“It hurts,” he whimpered. His voice squeaked, and he ducked his head, embarrassed.

“Of course it hurts, silly,” Lucy said warmly. “Iodine is supposed to hurt. Kills the germs that way. You don’t want to get infected, do you?” She finished with the iodine. “Now, let’s get you off to bed. I don’t think you ought to try to eat right now, with your head like that. Okay?” She frowned at Ophelia. “Well, don’t just stand there, Opie, help me!”

“Oh, sorry,” Ophelia muttered, already beginning to wish that she hadn’t been so quick to act. Obviously, she had walked into something that was entirely different from what she had thought it was.

Between the two of them, they got the boy to his feet, his arms over their shoulders. He was tall, yes, taller than Ophelia, but much lighter than she would have guessed, almost skin and bones. Ophelia thought he must have been sick, to have lost so much weight.

Or maybe they didn’t feed them very well at the prison farm. She’d heard that the farm raised its own food, but that the best of it—the meat, especially, and the freshest vegetables—went to the guards and the higher-ups and their families. Of course. That was just the way things worked. The prisoners would always come last. They probably didn’t get any milk, either. And she had heard horror stories about the prison doctor who tended the prisoners when they got sick—not somebody you’d want to look after somebody you loved.

They put the boy to bed in one of the kids’ beds. Lucy covered him lightly and smoothed his gashed forehead with a tender hand. “He doesn’t have a fever anymore, thank goodness,” she said, half to herself. More loudly, she said, “You have a nice rest now, Joey. I’ll fix you something else to eat when you’re awake.” She glanced at Ophelia. “And then we’re going to do what we talked about. Remember what that was?”

The boy’s eyes lit up. “Today?” he asked eagerly.

“I hope so,” Lucy said, with a glance at Ophelia. “But first you have to rest.”

They went back into the kitchen. Without a word, Lucy set about cleaning up the mess. She scooped the food into the slop bucket by the door, where it would go to feed the pigs, and put the plate and fork and spoon into the enamel dishpan, to be washed later.