The Curing Season Page 3

  —I have a job haying with the Bookers, he said. —They seem like all right people.

  —They’re good folks, I replied. I kept thinking, If you’ve got a job, why are you talking to me? I couldn’t get it out of my head that he still wanted to work for Father.

  —What do you do for recreation around here?

  I glanced up at him and flipped my braid back over my shoulder so I could see better. I kind of hunch my shoulders, so it’s always falling forward.

  —We don’t recreate too much, I said. —Mainly we just work and go to church on Sundays. Occasionally there’s a church social or picnic. Prayer meeting’s Wednesday nights.

  —No dances around? I hear Gower County has some famous barn dances.

  —Some around here do. I rarely go to them, I said, flushing. Did he have a sight problem, or couldn’t he see I was lame?

  —Aah. Aaron fell silent. We paced along a few more steps. —Well, he said, I’m going to peel off here. I’m just supposed to be taking a break. Those Bookers work you from sunup to sundown.

  —Got to, if you’re going to get the hay in before it’s ruint, I said. He stopped, and for some reason I stopped too.

  —Could I come by to see you Saturday night? he asked. I looked into his brown eyes, and they almost seemed to glitter. They took my breath away. I’d never been looked at like that, with that kind of intent, as I read it.

  —Father doesn’t allow visitors, I gasped out.

  —Maybe I’ll just have to run into you out walking again, Aaron said.

  He smiled and hiked down the road. I looked back at him once, his Red Camels covered in hay and dust. He puzzled me. Maybe there was something he wanted from me, but he already had a job. And surely he could tell I didn’t have any money. I’d heard of snaky salesmen flattering girls and then taking their family heirlooms, but it should have been obvious from our run-down farmhouse that I had nothing for the taking. What on God’s green earth could he want? I puzzled over it as I lay in bed that night, so much so that I couldn’t concentrate enough to read more than four pages of Forever Amber, which lived up to its reputation.

  • • •

  The next time I ran into him was walking to Job’s store for some cooking lard. We’d scraped the bucket in the pantry dry, and none of the shoats were big enough to kill yet. Father hated to buy anything at Job’s—he claimed that Job would steal from a blind man—but sometimes he had to send us for something we had run out of. It just about killed him to have to pay for anything except corn squeezins. He’d buy that, whether or not we had food on the table.

  I said hello to Job and asked him to give me two scoops. He slid the trowel through the creamy lard and slapped it onto the paper. When I was little I always wanted to taste the lard, since it looked like it would be sweet. Sibby got a good laugh out of it one day when she gave me a whole spoonful to lick. She said I pulled a face sour enough to turn milk.

  Sibby always was one for a practical joke, but her jokes were done in fun, never mean-spirited like a lot of kids. One of her favorite tricks was to creep up on me or WillieEd when one of us was taking our weekly Saturday night bath in the tin tub, and pour a jug of cold water right down our backs. She loved to see the looks on our faces when the water hit; she’d double over with laughter at our expressions. WillieEd and I ganged up on her a few times to get her back. It became a real contest to see who could sneak into the room behind the back of the one bathing. It got so you were so busy turning around in the tub to see who was creeping up behind you that you couldn’t get much of a bath. Then Sibby turned thirteen and wanted her privacy, and Mother made us stop. But for a while it made Saturday nights exciting.

  I paid Job the nickel he asked for the lard and answered his question about my mother’s health. She’d been feeling poorly all summer from fevers, and twice I’d snuck out to Job’s to beg a powder to help ease her sleep. He gave me two on credit, which I paid back out of what Mrs. Whitmell gave me for helping out, and a third I still owed. But Job was nice about it and never made me feel like a beggar.

  When Sibby and I were smaller, he used to call us inside out of the heat and give us a few pieces of hard candy. I always loved the dark store, its two rockers placed by the iron woodstove in the back, the cat curled up on the braided rug, the blended smells of licorice and chewing tobacco and hickory smoke that had soaked into the walls. It felt more like a home than a store to me. I guess that’s what Job aimed at, because people from all around liked to come inside and stay for hours talking. Father never did; he didn’t cotton to lollygagging, as he called it. Although he considered drinking himself senseless twice a week a worthwhile activity. But it seemed like everyone else in the county enjoyed spending time there.

  In the winter, Job would let Sibby and me linger and look at his movie magazines. We’d sit in the rockers and stare at the pictures and imagine the lives of the stars. All the girls at school bought the magazines and passed them around; it was a big topic of conversation, who was getting married and who divorced and which stars were going to be in what movies. Clark Gable was a big favorite; he was Sibby’s. I liked Gary Cooper and Humphrey Bogart, but I didn’t admit to the latter or I’d be laughed at. Sibby knew, of course, and said she couldn’t believe I’d take Humphrey over Clark. But I would, any day. Humphrey’s dark brooding eyes captivated my soul.

  Whenever we managed to save up a spare nickel apiece we’d catch a ride to Cheatham where the movie theater was and gawk at the big screen, lost in its world for a couple of hours. During the war we’d try to get there early to catch the newsreels, to see how our boys were doing. We always thought we might see someone we knew in a newsreel, but we never did. The soldiers were usually in the background and hard to see individually. Once Sally Bowden thought she saw her cousin Averett riding in a tank, but none of us had seen him. It had been odd at first not having news of the war, but by now we’d gotten used to just seeing previews of the upcoming features before the main attraction.

  It was always a real comedown when the movie was over, walking out into the glare of the afternoon sun. Later, Sibby and I would pretend to be movie stars in the barn. She’d be Vivien Leigh and I’d take a turn at Clark, then she’d be Humphrey and I’d be me. I never could quite imagine myself as an actress, so I’d pretend I had somehow managed to get to Hollywood and was working as a secretary on a movie set and got noticed. Mother was always puzzled that we’d volunteer for such a hot, itchy job as pitching hay in the barn, and then she’d wonder what took us so long. She’d have been amazed at how we whiled away those hours, reenacting scenes from Gone with the Wind or fresh from our imaginations.

  After I got my lard and answered Job’s questions about my mother, I headed for the door. I did glance at Movie News on the way out. I was interested to see a photo of Joan Crawford on the cover, smiling ever so sweetly. Those movie stars surely led the life of Riley. Mary Jane Markley, who somehow snuck the magazines past her watchful father, said some of them had ten servants living right in their houses, mansions with a hundred rooms, and special dishes for their dogs to eat off of and special servants just to feed and brush the dogs. She probably made half of it up, but those stars did seem to live on easy street, I reflected. I went out the door and there was Aaron, almost seeming like he was waiting for me.

  —Hello, stranger, he said.

  I was still standing on the stoop, so for once I could look down into his face instead of always craning up at people. His dark eyebrows drew together in a way I thought very manly.

  —Hello.

  I couldn’t think of anything else to say, and blushed. I’d always envied the girls whose words flowed out like honey. If I was a man, I’d want to be with that kind of woman, someone who could talk the birds out of the trees.

  —Buying a few sweets? A ribbon for your head for Sunday school? He seemed to be laughing at me, something I’m sensitive about. I stepped off the stoop carefully, shook my head, and went on by.

  —Wait a minute, ca
n’t a feller have a conversation? Where are you going now?

  —I’ve got to get back home. Father wants his dinner, and we were out of lard.

  —Plumb out of lard. Imagine that.

  Something in the way he said it seemed funny, and I laughed, and he laughed.

  —Can I walk with you a ways? he asked.

  I glanced around anxiously. If anyone said anything to Father, I’d be in trouble.

  —No one’s here to report on you, Aaron said. There was the slightest hint of a hard edge in his voice.

  —I guess a ways. You don’t know my father. Nothing’s worth getting his ire up, I said. —Not even a walk down the road.

  —I’ve known fathers like that. They aint all they’re cracked up to be. Some of ’em’s bark is worst than their bite.

  —Not mine. I wish that was true. His bite is a six-foot-long belt with a metal clip that sings. You feel the echo in your skin for months.

  —I see. Do you object to having such a strict household?

  —It’s all right, I said proudly, not willing to admit anything to a rank stranger. —Others have worse. We have food to eat and clothes on our backs. We aren’t freezing to death in the winter. My mother and brothers and sister are there.

  —I see.

  Every time he said this, I felt he was laughing at me. Suddenly I was annoyed.

  —What are you following me for? I asked. —What do you want from me?

  —Me? Aaron pointed to his chest as if in surprise. —I want to be your friend.

  —I have enough friends, I lied. In truth I didn’t have any, not the kind of giggly-close girlfriends Sibby had, unless you counted Ann Hodges, and that was only because she was blind and had to sit out everything too. Over the years we’d run out of polite conversation and now sat silently by while the others had gunnysack races, danced, or did anything social.

  —Well, maybe I want to be more than your friend, he whispered, now close to me.

  I was shocked; a shiver went up and down my arms. He touched my shoulder lightly and left in the other direction. I thought about his comment all night long, turning it round and around in my head.

  • • •

  Then I didn’t see him for two weeks, and I thought I’d go crazy. You’d think a girl would have better things to do than to moon over some stranger, but no one had ever taken much of an interest in me except a kindly one, and I was tired of that kind of interest, tired of watching the other girls get all the attention, even fat old Sally Hicks. Part of me was excited that a man might look at me that way, and part of me was afraid. What would Father say? I couldn’t imagine it.

  In the back of my mind, I kept thinking Aaron was playing with me. Maybe a group of boys from another county heard about the clubfooted farm girl and put him up to it. Maybe it was a mean dare. Such things had happened to me before. I’d learned never to trust anyone who seemed friendly unless they had gray in their heads. And even older people could have their barbs.

  I’d just told myself for the hundredth time to stop thinking about him when he showed up at a barnraising for John Mellers. John’s old barn had finally fallen in due to years of rain and sleet and being hammered by the walnuts off the old trees surrounding it. A huge nut burst through the roof one Saturday morning when John and his oldest son, Paul, were milking the cows, and knocked John plumb out. Paul had to run to the creek twice for buckets of cold water before he came to his senses. After that John swore he was going to reroof the barn, but of course he didn’t, what with his hogs getting out of their pen and trampling his henhouse and eating his best layers, and then their littlest having croup all winter. So finally the whole thing caved in and John said just as well. He announced at church that they’d feed anyone who’d come to help raise a new barn that next Saturday.

  I went just to get out of the house—I took every opportunity I could to do that—and to represent the family in case we ever needed help. It was a good thing to pitch in because you never knew when you might have a cow stuck in the creek or a barn cave in from snow or such. Father never did a man’s work in the community, but one of us, Sibby or Mother or I, always tried to attend such events. I think people knew about Father and his drinking and forgave us that because they always pitched in and helped us in the times we really needed it.

  —How are you, Cora? asked Mrs. Mellers as I stepped onto the porch. She was carrying a heavy covered dish out to the plank tables in the yard.

  —Good, thank you. I brought some of Mother’s cornbread.

  —That’s awfully nice, honey. You can bring it right out here; we’re getting ready to serve dinner. They’ve been at it since six this morning.

  I followed Mrs. Mellers to the table, placed Mother’s dish there, and went back inside with her to help carry more food. There was a huge bowl of delicious-smelling fried chicken on the kitchen counter, and an enormous platter of ham biscuits. My mouth started watering.

  —Get you a few ham biscuits before these men tear into everything, Mrs. Mellers said, smiling. —Otherwise you’ll be eating table scraps. I had me a plate a few minutes ago. Go on, she said when she noticed my hesitation. —In fact, sit a spell and have a plate. You’ll be plenty busy when we start serving the boys.

  She bustled through the door to the back screened porch and outside to the tables. Suddenly I was starving. I filled a plate to the brim with ham biscuits, baked beans, potato salad, and snap beans flavored with fatback. I poured myself a big glass of iced tea and sat down at the kitchen table. I looked around at the steaming dishes, sniffed the good smells, and dug in. Everything was delicious. I fantasized for a moment that Mrs. Mellers was my own mother, but that felt too disloyal to Sibby and Mother, so I stopped. Then, biting into a chicken leg, the fragrant juice from the meat running down my chin, I thought, no, but I could imagine being engaged to Paul, their oldest son.

  Although I didn’t know him well—he was a few years older, and had been away for two years after joining up—he’d always been nice to me. Once, when a group of us children were playing in a neighbor’s barn, we decided to see who could jump off the highest hay bale. The bales were piled almost all the way to the roof—some sixteen feet—and it was a game we often played, since it was exhilarating to fall into the huge pile of loose hay on the barn’s floor.

  I was used to flinging myself off the bales, since it was one of the few rowdy games I could fully participate in without falling behind or getting hurt because of my foot. But for some reason, Paul wouldn’t let me go; he was afraid I’d hurt myself, he said. I’d wondered ever since then if he didn’t have a secret crush on Sibby. Maybe he’d wanted to impress her that day with his concern about my safety, since he knew that she was protective of me. At any rate, it was unusual enough behavior for the other kids to tease him all afternoon about it, saying he must be mooning over me.

  Paul didn’t even act bothered by this, and eventually the others stopped and we went outside to play kick the can (a game I had to sit out, but they let me call the fouls and decide who was being too rough). Ever since then, I’d had the nicest impression of Paul. Maybe he’d become interested in me this very afternoon, seeing how helpful I was to his mother, how much she liked me, and how sweet I could be. Or—a more likely scenario—maybe he’d get engaged to Sibby. Then I could come to live with Mrs. Mellers and help her out, as I’d be almost kin. That, I decided as I got up to get one more ham biscuit, would be the perfect ending.

  It was with this in mind that I went out to serve food to the hungry men who were just coming into the yard from the pasture, where the skeleton of the barn was already visible. I can’t say that Paul seemed to pay special attention to me when I served his plate, beyond inquiring politely about Mother and Sibby. But Mrs. Mellers, Alicia Farnsworth, Mabel Blackstone, and Evelyn Winters were very kind to me and urged me to rest after the first group was served.

  —Sugar, why don’t you sit awhile. It’s hot out here, urged Mabel.

  —Hot enough to fry an egg, said Eve
lyn. —Let’s all sit for a minute.

  We settled into the yard chairs that Mrs. Mellers and Alicia dragged up from near the back porch. I appreciated Alicia bringing me a chair, and also the fact that she didn’t make a fuss about it and thus call attention to my leg.

  —I told John that old thing was going to fall in on him and leave me a widow if he didn’t get it fixed, Mrs. Mellers commented, fanning herself with a corner of her apron. —Crazy fool almost let it cave in on him. If something had happened to Paul, I’da knocked John in the head myself. I’m not gonna have a child survive a war and then get kilt by a barn caving in.

  All the women murmured their agreement, and I joined in. I’d noticed lately that the women at this kind of gathering had started including me and Sibby in their conversations, unlike a few years ago when we’d just been part of a passel of kids underfoot. It was nice, this new inclusion, and I was eager to learn from these women things I figured I couldn’t from my mother, with her worries and cares. At times they’d laugh over a ribald joke, or make a veiled allusion to something about their husbands that I couldn’t quite make out.

  Deep down, I knew I’d never belong to these groups other than as a spectator, as I doubted I’d ever be married and able to participate in the conversations about childraising, husbands tramping in mud from the field after the kitchen floor was just mopped, and such. Even so, it was a thrill to be included in my youthful state. If I went on to be a spinster, at least they looked kindly on me and probably would let me continue to sit in without really contributing.

  Maybe I’d wind up sewing and ironing like old Edwina, I continued my reverie, the community spinster who lived in a one-room cabin on Man Murfree’s property. He let her live there, and she helped him with his laundry and cooking since he was a widower. Edwina also went to other farmers’ houses whenever a baby was born, there was a death, or some crisis occurred, to help with the washing and cooking and cleaning. She wasn’t usually paid money, but people gave her food and old clothes and occasionally a pig or a chicken. Some rumored that she had a hundred dollars hid away in a sack, but most of us doubted that.