Arly (8 page)

Essie touched my hand. “Stay to school, Arly.”

“How come you're saying that to me?”

“Because you can learn fast,” Essie said. “Maybe you're the only one who'll do it. I can't do it. Neither can Huff. You can master it sudden, all of it, all them letters and words and chalk writing. And I hope you do it proper. You'll be doing it for me, and for Huff, and for all the others who won't never get no ticket.”

As she said it, I felt myself shaking all over, something like a run-over cat. Like I was dead but still clawing and screeching.

Essie's fingers tightened on my hand. “Thank you for your feelings. I got 'em too. But they be feelings I can't afford to save.” Reaching up, she pulled a fresh leaf from a twig, laying beside my tattery one. “You're a whole new leaf, Arly Poole. Me, I'm this used one. I've growed all I can go.”

“No,” I said. “You're a leaf too. You can learn.”

Essie nodded. “I already have. Before I got Miss Binnie Hoe for a teacher, I had me another kind of teacher. I had Mr. Roscoe Broda.”

I couldn't speak.

“You mustn't tell nobody,” she said. “Mama don't know about it. You're the only person who knows. I just had to tell somebody, and I certain couldn't tell Mama. If she knew, she'd cuss out to Roscoe and git beaten up for her trouble. So I be trusting you, Arly, on account you best know my secret. You're the only friend I got.”

“Essie … Essie …”

We stood behind the shacks alone, sort of holding
on to each other, like nobody was leaving Jailtown, yet we were possible saying good-bye.

“I'll kill Roscoe,” I said.

She pulled away from me. “No, you can't. Even if you could do it, it'd be Judge Tinner's chain gang for the rest of your time. He won't hang you, Arly. Nobody dead can work roads. But you'll be worse'n dead, because the jailbirds will do worse to you than Roscoe Broda done on me.”

“I got to save you, Essie.”

She shook her head. “It's too late. But there be somebody in Jailtown that you could save, if you study on it for a time.”

I couldn't think. “Who's that?”

“You.”

Essie lightly kissed my cheek and then turned to walk away, as if she wanted to be by her lonesome. Watching her go, I didn't see the Essie May Cooter that I'd knowed all my life.

I saw a dead bird.

It was dark.

Inside the parlor at Newell's Boarding House, a light was burning, and a few of the boarders were chatting away. I was pleased that Miss Hoe was out front, on the porch, sitting in one of those fancy wicker chairs that rocked when you worked it. She sat alone.

“Miss Hoe?”

As I trot up the front walk to the porch stairs, I fretted a mite, about that maybe I'd forgot to know my place. Pickers and colored folks weren't allowed at places such as Newell's Boarding House. But I feel some better when Miss Hoe shade her eyes with her hand, to make out who I was.

“It's me,” I telled her. “Arly Poole.”

“My,” she said, getting up from her rocker chair, “what a surprise. How nice to have my very first visitor.”

I didn't know quite what to do, yet wanting to do it proper, so I just stood there and wiggled my toes. Then I give her my rattlesnake fang, for a present. “It's for picking your teeth,” I said.

“Come,” she said, “and sit with me. And thank you for bringing me such a thoughtful gift.”

It sure was the shock of my life when I sat myself down in the rocker chair, because it swayed back, and I guess I thought it was fixing to keel me over backwards. My mouth popped open.

Miss Hoe smiled.

“I never sit a fancy chair like this before.”

“Then,” she said, “it's about time.”

“Boy, I sure would like to buy Papa a chair like this, to rest on.”

I had stuff to tell her, yet I just sat there, real cautious, so the rocker wouldn't buck me off, and couldn't come out with even my starting word. So I just watched the moth bugs flitter around the porch lamp.

“Goodness,” she said, “it certain is welcome to have a nice young man pay a call on his teacher.”

“Yes'm.”

“Do you live nearby?”

“Pretty close. Over to Shack Row. Me and my daddy, Dan Poole, live lonesome on account Mama died after I got born, years back.”

“I'm sorry, Arly.”

“Yes'm. I am too. Papa misses her a lot.”

“Does your father work in the cane mill?”

I shook my head. “No, he's a picker. Only us pickers live in Shack Row because that's where Captain and Mr. Broda says we do.”

“I see. Have you had your supper?”

“Oh yes'm, I sure have,” I lied. “Mr. Witt… he's a picker too … kilt an otter, so he give us some scrappy meat for the beans.” I looked at Miss Hoe and smiled. “I ate me some ice cream once.”

“I bet you liked it.”

“Sure did. It was all pinky and they said it was the strawberry kind. I ate it righteous slow so's it would last. And good? It was like eating flowers.”

Miss Hoe looked at me. “You're a bright boy, Arly.”

“Me?”

“Indeed you are. I have logged plenty of time, my dear, as a teacher. Years and years. And I can read intelligence.”

“I'm just a picker's kid.”

“For now, perhaps. But recently I realized that you truly are one of God's ideas.”

“Brother Smith said that about me an' Huff.”

Miss Hoe nodded. “I have a feeling that you believe the things that Brother Smith tells you. And I bet they're good things to hear.”

“Yes'm, they usual are. But I saw trouble today,” I burped out, sort of glad I'd got up the gumption to speak mind, and tell Miss Hoe why I had to talk to her, in private.

“Trouble?”

“It's about Essie May Cooter.”

Miss Hoe quit her smile. “She's a sweet child, Arly, but I guess you already are aware of that.”

“That's why I come to see you.”

“Tell me all about it, please.”

“Essie ain't a child no longer, Miss Hoe. She's a woman now. And knows so. Some of the menfolk in Jailtown see it too.”

I saw my teacher lock her fingers together.

“Essie got a problem, Miss Hoe. Ya see, there's six Cooters to one shack and Essie May can't breathe. My daddy can't breathe good neither, but with Papa it's his lungs, from cropdust. It's different with Essie. Ain't her lungs. The woman inside her is screaming.”

Everything I was saying sounded so dumb. I understood it. Yet I didn't guess I'd ever git my teacher to learn it all. Well, I decided, best I just plain open up and spew it all out.

“It ain't polite,” I said, “to talk about Miss Angel Free to a lady like you. Even if'n it be poorly to do, I got to git it spoke, straight out.”

“Who is Miss Angel Free?”

“Oh, she's the lady who's the boss at the Lucky Leg.”

Miss Hoe nodded. “I've noticed the leg. One could hardly miss seeing
that
. Now let me help you out, if I can. Miss Free is interested in Essie May Cooter and perhaps has promised her that she can leave Shack Row and take residence in the Lucky Leg. Is that what worries you?”

“Wow, you sure are smart.”

“Thank you, Arly. It's always rewarding when a pupil admits that his teacher is worldly.”

“Golly, I didn't mean thataway.”

She patted my hand. “I know. Enough about you and me. What's important is Essie May Cooter. Believe me, Arly, in every school I've taught in, there are always young girls who suddenly blossom to womanhood. I see it before they do, usually.”

“I look at her too. All the time.”

“So I have observed.”

“You have?” My palms began to sweat a mite, so I rubbed my hands back and forth on the wicker arms of the chair.

“We old schoolmarms have not lived all of our lives with only a cat for company.”

“Yes'm, I s'pose not.”

“You're a sensitive young man.”

“What does
sensitive
mean?”

She smiled. “It means that you are mindful of the plight of others. In this instance, you're aware of the growing urgings of Essie May Cooter, and you have
even foreseen a possible tragedy that could befall a girl who is now a woman.”

“Essie's ma is just a picker too. Addie Cooter. She drives the picker wagon and looks to the mules.”

“Perhaps I should meet Mrs. Cooter.”

“What we do,” I said, “has got to be sudden soon. I'm afraid something bad'll git to Essie May. Each day gits worse an' worse.”

I heared a funny sound. It came from inside the house. Bong! Bong! Bong! The noise made me jumpy. “What's
that
?”

“Oh, that's only Mrs. Newell's big grandfather clock. She showed it to me on Sunday and talked about that clock as if it were her prize possession. It just struck the hour. Eight o'clock.”

“I don't understand time,” I said, “or clocks neither.”

“Then you and your father don't own a clock? Even so, you manage to come to school on time.”

“Yes'm. I git Papa up righteous early, on account pickers got to be in the fields at first light, to harvest fresh. While he washes, I sort of stuff his noon bag, so's he'll eat proper.”

“You care about your father, don't you?”

I nodded. “He's all I got, except for Brother and the Cooters. And you.”

“Thank you, Arly. I'm honored that you include me among your friends.”

A cheer sounded.

Jumping up from the rocking chair on the front porch of the boarding house, I looked down the street.

“Miss Hoe, there's something going on down yonder. A crowd of men are standing around a big crate.”

“Perhaps we should stroll down there and see for ourselves,” she answered. “I wouldn't want to miss all the excitement.”

Turning around quickly, I shook my head at her. “No, a lady like you can't go there. Not to a place like that.”

Miss Hoe stood very straight, even though she was a little woman. “Arly,” she told me, “a
lady
can go anywhere and still remain a lady.” She smiled softly. “Let's go.”

Sure enough, Miss Binnie Hoe walked out of the front gate, made a sharp turn, and pointed herself head-on toward the Lucky Leg Social Palace. Her pace weren't fast. Just steady. As we got closer, we could see a large wooden carton being pried open by two men who were using iron wrecking bars. Pulling nails out of the boards made a high-pitch squeaky sound.

“What's inside?” I asked.

“Well,” said Miss Hoe, “from the rumors I hear from some of the gentleman boarders at Mrs. Newell's, my guess would be that this is a new billiard table.”

“A pool table?”

She nodded. “My father built himself one, years ago. He was an excellent billiard shot who, believe it or not, taught me a trick or two.”

As it turned out, Miss Hoe was right. There it stood, a beauty of a new pool table with a bright green felt for a playing surface. The men also unpacked balls, cues of different lengths, and some other stuff. Sitting up on the Lucky Leg's porch in her extra-big white wicker chair was Miss Angel Free herself, wearing a fancy dress of white lace, white shoes with pink pointy toes. The pink matched the color of her fingernails and her dangle-down earrings.

“Miss Angel,” one of the dredgers said, “maybe you'd ought to step down here, and pocket the first shot.”

Moving as slowly as the Caloosahatchee Queen, the bosslady rose from her fancy chair, fanned herself, and then paraded down the steps with a smooth rolling of her ample hips that caught the eye of every nearby gent.

“My,” she said, eyeing all the colorful stuff on the table, “I don't guess I was fixing to handle pool balls.”

All the men roared. Some clapped.

“Go ahead,” said another gent, “try 'er out for size, Miss Angel.”

She winked at the man. “All right,” she said quietly, selecting a brown cue stick which she fondle with ease, “reckon I just might do such. Seeing as you gentlemen already know that I'm the hottest pool shark in town.”

Right then, I got the biggest shock of my whole life. Even though I saw it, and heard it, my brain just
wouldn't believe what happened next. Stepping forward and walking to where the pool table stood on the dirt of the street, Miss Hoe picked up a cue stick, smiled at Miss Angel Free, and said two words.

“Second hottest.”

A wave of laughter come from the sports who were standing there watching.

“Well,” said Miss Angel, “don't tell me that our new schoolmistress is as gifted a pool player as she is around a spelling bee.”

“Miss Free,” said my teacher, “there's only one way to find out.”

Standing there, I couldn't breathe. Only blink. There stood little Miss Binnie Hoe in her plain gray dress, right beside Miss Angel. They looked like a poor mouse and a rich milkcow.

“Charlie,” said Miss Angel to one of the toughs, “would you please do us ladies a favor and rack the balls?”

In a breath or two, the fellow named Charlie had all fifteen balls tight-racked and ready for play. Pool was a game I'd never tried. But, aplenty of times, Huff Cooter and I had peeked in the Lucky Leg's parlor window, just to watch, and we'd picked up a word or two of the lingo.

Miss Free won the lag and so it was her honor to shoot the break shot.

“What'll we play?” she asked my teacher. “Do you fancy straight pool? Your choice.”

“Eightball,” said Miss Hoe.

Miss Angel lifted her chin with a dash of pride. “Good. Eightball happens to be what I'm best at.”

“Second best at,” one of the sporty gents hollered out, and the rest of the guys laugh to beat all.