Coldwater Revival: A Novel (13 page)

Seventeen

Caleb, Micah, and I lay on a pallet inside the makeshift tent we had constructed from Mama’s moth-eaten bedcovers. Night had tiptoed across our backyard, and now the sun poked white-hot fingers through the blanket holes. We lay close together, our legs entwined, and our arms flung out like the blades of a windmill. I was about to wake the little scalawags when someone rudely yanked the roof off our frame, exposing me to bright sunlight. As I rubbed my sleepy eyes, I tried to pinpoint who the bad-mannered intruder might be.

“Time to get up, sweet-pie.”

“Whaa … where are Micah and Caleb?” I asked in a panicky voice, my heart tripping with dread as my gaze raced across the bedroom.

“Ye must’ve been dreaming, Emma Grace. ’Twas just a dream, sugar. That’s all it was.”

I jerked myself to a sitting position, looking askance at Granny. Having no choice in the matter, I gnawed her troubling words with the teeth of truth, eventually swallowing them like bitter medicine. Antagonism replaced the wild joy of my dream. Granny’s presence, along with her hard-biting words, filled me with untoward resentment.

The silence between us lengthened.

Granny edged her wrinkled face close to mine, her farsighted gaze beading in on me like vermin to lantern flame. As her morning kiss grazed my cheek, I nudged my head toward the wall and closed my eyes. Perhaps—if I tried ever so hard—I could recapture the precious dream she had stolen from my heart.

Why couldn’t it have been my rowdy brothers’ hands that bothered me from sleep, demanding I haul my lazy bones out of bed and join them in play? Why did it have to be Granny, her director’s hands fussing over me, her peppery voice ordering me this way and that? Why had she pilfered the bliss from my nighttime illusion?

“After ye use the toilet and brush your teeth, we’re gonna tackle that hair of yours. Ye’ve not washed it once since you got here, young lady.” Granny dragged my covers to the footboard, untangling sheets, remaking the bed as though I weren’t still lying atop it.

I glared at Granny, her nagging voice setting my teeth on edge. The same teeth that needed brushing, all right, but who had energy for such an arduous task? I grabbed my crutch and aimed for the bathroom at the end of the hall. The small amount of vigor I summoned up dwindled with each step I took. As I rattled the tooth powder can and collected enough in my palm to coat the bristles, I bid resentment good-bye. My energy level was too trivial to maintain anger and hold a toothbrush at the same time. I swiped my teeth with the brush, rinsed it, and replaced it in the cup holder. Never being the master of good judgment, I steadied my gaze on the creature in the mirror above the sink. She was far too ugly and broken to dwell upon, requiring more courage and fortitude than I could muster. Dismissing her with a pity-filled shudder, I retrieved my overalls from the door hook and dressed myself before Granny could bound through the door and take over the job.

Granny goaded the stove’s belly with an iron poker, sparking flames and setting coals aglow. While she plied the heater with scraps of wood, I huddled on a nearby chair, covering my gooseflesh with a blanket. A blue norther had nose-dived into the city during the night, shocking Galveston’s balminess with wild windflaws and frigid blasts. Evidently, Papa had not had time to seal off Granny’s windowsills. Through them, my ears detected the wind’s whistling approach, and my face felt its frosty breath, puffing through cracks in the weather stripping.

“Never known such nastiness to hit so early in October. We’ll be knowing some hard times this winter. Ye can bet on it.”

I grunted in agreement.

Granny poured heated water into the wooden tub she had placed on a chair near the stove. Motioning me to her, she commenced with the head washing, three weeks overdue. I was relieved to have my scalp swabbed, as the itching had become more than bothersome.

Granny dunked my head, repeating the immersion several times, for my thick hair was averse to sponging up water. I felt the strength of Granny’s fingers, scrubbing, massaging, and raising tingles along the bony ridge of my skull. She scraped the rough bar of soap through folds of thick hair, washing away the filth. I was glad that Granny didn’t abide weakness in herself or others. Frail hands could not wash away all the dirtiness I had accumulated.

As Granny talked, my mind wandered back to the day Mama scrubbed my mouth with a bar of soap. Not her lavender-scented soap of special occasions, but, rather, lye soap made from hog tallow and strained ashes. She had become angry with me for calling Ray-boy Hodges “a spawn of the Devil”—a term I’d fallen in love with at one of the tent revival meetings in Coldwater. It had happened two years past. At the time, I’d not understood what the word “spawn” meant. I’d only known that the word
devil
fit Ray-boy Hodges like a skintight leather glove.

“Hey … Mesobet. What’s the matter—are you lost or something? Can’t find your way back to Mommy?”

I turned to the voice, not at all surprised from whom the words had sprung. They’d belched out of the blubbery lips of Ray-boy Hodges—better known as Whale-mouth, for the proportions of food he gulped in a single swallow.

“What did you call me, Whale-mouth?” I asked with innocence.

“You heard me, Mesobet.”

I had continued walking up the grassy aisle of the tent, determined to ignore the one person who could raise my ire quicker than a hummingbird could swat its wings.

“Hey, Mesobet—don’t you get tired of looking like a freak? Walking like a freak? Hey, I’ve got an idea. You could join the circus … be a star in the freak show.”

I turned and walked back to Whale-mouth, my brain calling forth all sorts of torture to levy upon his corpulent body. He always occupied the end seats of a row. It helped disguise the fact that it took two seats to house his double-berth bottom.

“It would help a great deal, Whale-mouth, if you could pronounce the name you’re attempting to call me—like, maybe you’d actually learned to read and speak correctly at some point in your life.”

Ray-boy’s mouth slackened, then puckered, his lids squinting and his eyes disappearing amongst the folds of his face. He rose from his seat and waddled toward me with clenched fists.

“You heard me all right. You know who I’m talking about.” Whale-mouth raised his palm and shoved my shoulder hard. “You’re just like that guy in the Bible—Mesobet. He was a dumb cripple too.”

I strained to keep my balance, looking the fool, I’m sure, as I struggled to stand upright. Gaining purchase on the uneven ground, I smiled with politeness, artificial though it was. “Oh, you mean Mephibosheth—one of King David’s favorite people. Of course! I see the resemblance now. He was quite intelligent and very likable. I understand how you could’ve thought us similar.”

“I ain’t talking about his intelligence, dimwit. I’m talking about his crippled feet—just like yours!”

“That’s where you’re mistaken, Whale-mouth. I only have one crippled leg. Mephibosheth had two.”

Ray-boy gave me another solid push, his flinty eyes striking the sparks of a victorious warrior.

I toppled against a folding chair, twisting my ankle, hitting my elbow on a wooden stake. A chair leg stabbed me in the gut, knocking breath from me. I lay on the grass, wheezing in air, or attempting to. Both my pride and my body hurt. Tears sprang up. I squeezed my lids, pushing wetness from them as I regained my breath and rose from the ground. ’Twas then Whale-mouth received the well-stocked brunt of my anger.

My deftness with a crutch displayed itself artfully, swinging a full arc, the handle landing upside Ray-boy’s shoulder. Words flew from my mouth as though mounted on the wings of a hawk. “You spawn of the Devil!” I screamed, thrashing away at my ample target. His face quickly changed expressions, from startled, to frightened, then panicky as my crutch hit its mark. My tirade mounted. “You’re too stupid to know I’m not—”

“Mama, Mama!” Ray-boy’s screams puffed the canvas roof.

Mrs. Hodges rescued Whale-mouth about the same time Mama arrived on the scene. She had heard me cast curses upon my enemy, and she wasn’t the least bit pleased. Riding home in the wagon that night, she’d explained the word “spawn.” Elo, alone, had laughed with roguish delight at my word choice, Ray-boy being the preacher’s son, and all. The spawn of the Devil—Reverend Ray Thackborn Hodges’ only son.

Ray-boy’s comeuppance had been worth the scouring Mama gave my mouth, not to mention those foul-tasting bubbles that had burped from my mouth for hours.

“Okay, sweet-pie. That should do it for another week or so.”

Granny nudged my head over the tub, twisting my shoulder-length hair into a rope, wringing it like a wet mop. She wrapped my head in thick toweling, roughly patting excess moisture that oozed down my face and neck. My fat head-bundle wobbled a bit, reminding me of our old pet goose, Quicksilver.

After putting a kettle on to boil, Granny secured the towel to my head with her Sunday-best headscarf, and tied it with a sturdy yeoman’s knot. The same knot Papa had taught the boys and me to tie. When Granny’s teakettle blew its whistle, she hurried to hush its shrillness while I seated myself on a slatted chair near the round-tummy stove. Weariness filled my being, though the mantle clock had not yet struck 9:00 a.m.

Mrs. Beushaker bustled through the back door, releasing a fresh batch of autumn into the parlor. Granny’s longtime neighbor waved and smiled as she wrestled the hem of her dress to proper length, and then patted her wild gray hair back into place. She ambled to the kitchen when she heard Granny’s voice. Both women reappeared minutes later, Granny thrusting a tall glass of chocolate frothiness into my hands while Mrs. Beushaker shoved a straw into the mound of pale bubbles.

“Take a sip, sweet-pie. I think ye’ll like it.”

“Culp Foggarty down at the drugstore gave me the straw, Emma Grace. Said it would help your swallow-up go down a little easier.” Mrs. Beushaker bent at the waist, angling in close as though I couldn’t hear well. Her wide grin displayed a perfect set of pearly-white teeth. I’d have bet a five-penny pack of gum they were as artificial as the smile I returned to her.

Guess by now all of Galveston knows about my problem.

“This’ll be good for you. Better’n pot roast with all the trimmings.” Granny squared her shoulders, boosted her chin, and grinned at Mrs. Beushaker. Granny’s beaming smile took me by surprise, being she wasn’t prone to giving herself a pat on the back. “I filled it with a heap o’ good things: eggs, condensed milk, sugar, cocoa, vanilla. Drink it up. See if ye don’t feel a bit of strength pour into you.”

Granny crouched over me as though she might evidence the strength when it came pouring down. She didn’t move until I had drained the tumbler. My hands shook as I returned the empty glass to her, my tummy hard and feeling as bloated as a fish corpse washed ashore. I feared Granny’s brew might somersault its way back up my throat, onto her waxed floor, but, surprisingly, it stayed down.

As drowsiness settled over me, I began to suspect that Granny had stirred a sleep potion into her brew. She made a pallet for me in front of the stove, and I lay down. She removed the scarf and towel and spread out my hair like an oriental fan. Despite her scheme to hurry up the drying process, I knew its thickness would remain damp until the twilight hour. My eyelids closed.

I came alert some time later, softly-spoken words slurred in my haze of wakefulness.

“Seeing Emma Grace hurtin’ like she is just brings back all the pain,” Granny said in whispery tones.

“It’s been twenty-eight years, dearie. You must let it go.”

I lifted my head, viewing Granny and Mrs. Beushaker at the parlor table, drinking coffee or tea. From across the room I recognized the obvious sign of Granny’s weeping.

“It’s the time o’ year, Mrs. B. Fall always resurrects memories of those dreadful weeks following the storm. Bodies washing up on shore … the burying … the burning stacks—humans set aflame along with the trash, as though they had no more value than a pile of refuse. It haunts me still. Lucky ye are you weren’t living in Galveston when that wicked hurricane hit. Ye can’t imagine what it was like, searching through piles of carcasses, hoping and praying I wouldn’t find me family. Then, the horror of discovering my three little ones and their papa—half-buried in the muddy silt of Offat’s Bayou.”

Granny’s throat clogged. I heard the gasping and gurgling, as though her words were drowning in a great rush of tears. I squeezed my eyelids shut, desiring to hear everything, yet recoiling from the sound of Granny’s desperate sadness.

“I still see their precious faces in me mind. Sometimes, in me dreams, too. It’s then I’ll be reaching out to them, trying to pluck them from the water so’s I can take them to higher ground. But me legs and arms won’t work. They’re weighted down like stone pillars. I keep plowing through the ruck of bodies, but I can never reach me children. Then I wake up, my sad old arms as empty as when I climbed into bed the night before. Oh, God, why didn’t ye take me, too?”

“Perhaps … because he knew your oldest son would be needing you. You’ve been such a blessing to Roan and Annaleen. Look at you. Didn’t they turn to you when they needed help for Emma Grace?”