Cottonwood Whispers (16 page)

Sheriff Clancy had popped in some chaw and I watched with irritation as he readjusted the lump at the side of his mouth. “Jessilyn,” he said, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully, “you know somethin’ I should know about this here case, you best be tellin’ me if you want your Mr. Poe to get back to his walks in the sunshine and all.”

I struggled not to gulp audibly when he said that, and though there was a burning desire in my soul to tell the sheriff all about Joel Hadley, Gemma’s angry face flashed across my memory, and I caught my tongue. I didn’t know what to
do. I wanted more than anything to see Mr. Poe walk out of the jail free and Joel Hadley dragged in to take his place. But I couldn’t imagine what would happen if my daddy lost his farm because of it. Losing the farm would mean bad things for all of us. Not to mention that Gemma would hate me forever for breaking my promise. I felt trapped.

“I ain’t sayin’ I know nothin’,” I told him. “I’m just sayin’ you ought to find him if you’re a good sheriff.”

“You said somethin’ about him livin’ in my town. How would you know that?”

“I don’t know nothin’,” I lied quickly. “I’m just figurin’ no one but a local would travel that road that time of night. It ain’t a road that leads much of anywhere, so out-of-towners wouldn’t be usin’ it.”

The sheriff stared at me for a minute before leaning down to spit in a tin cup, and I cringed at the sight of it.

“So, you don’t know nothin’?” he asked again, his eyes betraying his suspicion. “Well, I suppose you’d tell me if you did, seein’ as how it’d be sure to help out your friend Mr. Poe.”

“You keep callin’ him my friend.”

“Well, ain’t he?”

“Was a time he was your friend too, Sheriff. Was a time you’d see fit to treat a friend of yours better’n this.”

My tone was much softer this time and more pleading in nature.

Sheriff Clancy looked down at his feet and let his shoulders droop in resignation. “Miss Jessilyn, I got me a heap of
troubles right now, and I’d sure like to help Elmer Poe get back to his own home and out of trouble. But I got me a job to do, and I got to do it. That’s it in a nutshell.” He pulled his hat tighter onto his head. “You best get on, now. Looks like rain, and you got to walk back home.”

I could see he was done talking, and that meant I needed to be done trying to convince him he was wrong. I’d said all I could, and he hadn’t budged. I returned his gaze for a moment before I turned and left him behind. I didn’t like losing fights. There was a part of me that felt I should always be able to figure out a way to make things right. But I had found out in the past, and I was finding out again, that the world is full of things no amount of trying can fix.

Daddy’s head was hanging low when he came in from the fields the next evening, and I could see weariness written all over his face.

“You got any smiles for a tired man, Jessilyn?” he asked me when he caught the sad look on my face.

I wanted so much to tell him my worries, but I could see he had enough of his own, so I smiled as best I could. “It’s too hot for a full day’s work, Daddy.”

“Too much work to be done. The heat can’t matter on days like this.”

“I’ll get out there and work some tomorrow. I ain’t got to go to Miss Cleta’s if you need help.”

“Baby, no,” he said sharply.

Daddy didn’t think women should do labor like that, and though I knew he was unlikely to change his mind,
I persisted. “It ain’t no trouble. I’m young yet, and you know I got me more energy than a plow horse.”

He sighed. “Jessilyn Lassiter, there ain’t never a day I put my girls to work in heat like this, and there ain’t never gonna be a day. If a man can’t find a way to provide for his own family without seein’ his girls near about faintin’ in the fields, then what good is he?”

Daddy’s vehemence was something I’d seen only rarely, and I knew enough to hold my tongue. He sighed again and clomped through the house without even taking the time to remove his boots outside like he usually did.

I went on inside to help with supper and found Momma absentmindedly slicing green tomatoes. It was clear by the muddy footprints on her clean floor and by Momma’s strained expression that Daddy had already passed through here, leaving the wake of his worries behind him.

“Daddy ain’t happy,” I murmured, testing the waters to see if Momma was willing to talk about it.

“Tryin’ times, honey,” she said lightly, her voice quavering. “That’s all. We’ve made it through them before.”

I tied an apron around my waist, grabbed a long knife, and set to work with the carrots. “He says he won’t let me help.”

“You ought to know he won’t.”

“But these are different times. I ain’t a child no more, and he ain’t never been close to losin’ the farm before.”

“Not that you know, Jessilyn,” she interrupted. “Times were once when we didn’t know how we’d keep things
runnin’. Ain’t that long ago that money was scarce all over this country. It was God’s hand and your daddy’s smarts that kept us afloat while others were sinkin’, and it’ll be the same this time.”

“Did you tell Daddy so?”

“I tell your daddy so every day, baby. He just ain’t feelin’ it in his bones right now.” She dipped tomato slices in batter and tossed them into a hot skillet. “Jessilyn, you got enough worries of your own.” She wiped her hands on her apron and gently brushed a few stray hairs out of my face. “I can see it in your eyes. Don’t you go tryin’ to carry ours too. We’ve always worked things out, and we’ll do the same now.”

“But, Momma, that ain’t easy for me to accept now that I’m old enough to help. I want to do somethin’.”

“You already are.” She took my face in both of her hands and drew closer to me. “Baby, just seein’ your face every mornin’ gives your daddy and me all the strength we need. We look at you and we see how good you’re growin’ up. It makes us right pleased to see how fine you’ve become, and we’re feelin’ blessed just as much as we did when times were more secure. Only thing that would make things better . . .”

Her voice trailed off, but I knew what she’d considered saying. She was burdened because I didn’t know Jesus, and I knew it preyed on her heart like a curse. But I couldn’t say something was for me when it wasn’t, so I just smiled at her lightly. “Momma, I want to make you happy. . . .”

“I know, baby. I know.” She gave my cheek one soft pat
and padded across the floor to tend the tomatoes. “The Lord will bring it to your heart when the time is right.”

I didn’t know why I couldn’t feel like Momma did when it came to faith, but I just couldn’t, and the last thing I knew how to do was to be something I wasn’t. I looked at my momma, standing there at the range on her bare feet, her shoulders heavy with worry but her heart light with peace, and I wished I could know what she knew. There was no peace in any part of my body or mind just then, and I would have given anything to know what that felt like.

The last time I’d seen Luke, I’d been left feeling sore. He hadn’t been by our place since, and when I’d asked Daddy about it, he’d just said Luke must have something on his mind.

“But what is it he’s got on his mind, Daddy?” I asked. “Maybe we could help.”

“Reckon I don’t know, but there’s times a man’s just got to work things out for himself, baby. This is one of those times for Luke. He’ll work it out. You ain’t got to worry about him.”

But I didn’t believe him, one of the few times when I found it too easy to doubt my daddy. There had been times enough when I’d seen Luke angry at other people, but there had never been a day I’d known him to be downright angry with me. No doubt I could frustrate the life out of him, but his true
temper had never touched me once before that evening, and now it lay on my heart like a bruise.

I watched Daddy head out to his hard day’s work, finished drying the breakfast dishes, and started upstairs to get myself fixed up for work at Miss Cleta’s. I didn’t see hide nor hair of Gemma that morning, and the loss of her was paining me something fierce while I made my way to Miss Cleta’s.

“Got somethin’ on your mind,” Miss Cleta said with an exaggerated nod when I climbed her steps. She hopped up out of her rocker and opened her screen door. “You need an éclair.”

I didn’t think an éclair would solve anything, but I followed her inside and ate it nonetheless. Working for Miss Cleta, it was a good thing I was skinny by nature. By midmorning, she sent me over to Mae’s house with a platter of cookies.

“She probably won’t eat them, bless her heart,” she told me. “But I keep tryin’. That girl’s so thin these days, I swear that baby inside her won’t have nothin’ to live on.”

She was right about Mae, I found with sad certainty when I arrived. Mae was sitting on a chair in front of a window, her weary face staring into the glass without seeing. I knocked on the door and braced myself to talk to her, but she didn’t move a muscle.

“Mae,” I called softly through the screen. “It’s Jessilyn Lassiter.”

She still seemed unaware of my presence, so I opened the door and poked my head around the doorway to look at her. “It’s Jessilyn, Mae. Can I come in?”

The movement of my head roused her attention and she looked slowly in my direction.

“Oh, Jessilyn,” she drawled lazily. “I didn’t hear you comin’.”

“Wish you’d tell my momma that. She always tells me I clomp my feet too much,” I said, hoping some humor might lighten the air a bit. “But then, I always tell her I can’t help it because my feet are so big.”

Mae smiled, but it was the smile of someone who was trying to show something she didn’t feel. Her skin was pale, her eyes drawn, and her normally plump figure had grown thin and bony. She started to stand, but I was afraid she would topple over from sheer exhaustion.

“No need to get up, Mae,” I said hastily. “I can find a seat myself.” In truth, I had to look hard for a good place to sit down, her house was in such disarray. It was unlike Mae in its untidiness. She’d always run a tight ship with her cleaning and cooking, and I’d never seen her things out of order.

I cleared off a chair so I could sit and then walked the platter over to her. “Some cookies from Miss Cleta.” When she hesitated, I shook the platter lightly to get her attention. “They’re good,” I reassured her.

“Miss Cleta always makes good things,” she murmured, taking one, though I figured she was mostly taking it to keep from arguing with me about it. “She’s always brought us good things.”

I sat down and laid the platter on the floor, the only place
I could find for it. “She’s right kind that way,” I said, nibbling on a cookie. “Right kind.”

It must have been five minutes before another word was said, and the silence was more deafening to me than any noise could have been. Mae never took a single bite of that cookie; she just stared at an undefined spot in front of her with eyes that didn’t seem to be seeing.

Finally I spoke up just to break the quiet. “I sure do like Miss Cleta’s brownies. You ever tried one, Mae?”

When she said nothing in reply, I continued nervously. “She’s got some mighty fine tarts too. I like tarts. But then, I like near about anything that’s sweet. I got me an overdeveloped sweet tooth, so my momma likes to say.” I was rambling, and I knew it, but the way I figured it, someone had to talk, and words weren’t likely to come from the ghostly figure sitting stock-still across from me. “As a matter of fact, Miss Cleta’s bakin’ a coconut cake right now for me to take home to my family. I told her not to, but she insisted. I think it’s her way of showin’ kindness to people.”

I moved my head from side to side trying to catch Mae’s gaze, but it seemed an impossibility to do so.

“So . . . Miss Cleta says she’s makin’ a plate of gingersnaps too, since my daddy loves them so much and he’s been workin’ so hard. I said a coconut cake would go over just fine, but she said, ‘A hardworkin’ man needs somethin’ to lift his spirits at the end of the day, and your momma’s got enough to do without slavin’ in the kitchen on a hot day.’ And I said, ‘But, Miss Cleta, ain’t you slavin’ in the kitchen
on a hot day?’ And she said, ‘To me it ain’t slavin’. To me it’s a happy way to pass my time. I ain’t got all the things to do your momma has.’ So now she’s over there whippin’ up a cake and some cookies. Bet that oven’s got the whole house heated up right toasty.”

My long rant did nothing to change Mae’s shattered expression. “You like gingersnaps?” I asked helplessly. “I figure they’re best on a cold day with some hot cider, but my daddy, he likes them any which way.”

Mae stirred a bit, and I leaned forward in my seat to catch her attention. “You like gingersnaps, Mae?” I asked again.

A slight smile broke the blankness of her face, and she slowly aimed her eyes at me. They were so glassy, I couldn’t tell what was behind them, but I figured it out quickly enough when she said softly, “My Callie loved gingersnaps.”

My throat went dry, and the bite of cookie in my mouth felt like sand when I tried to swallow. I knew gingersnaps were Callie’s favorite. Hadn’t I seen my daddy sitting on the front porch sharing a plate with her more than once? Why did I have to open my mouth like that?

I was never so sure of my social graces, and I was even less sure now. Before I could say any more, a tear trickled down Mae’s cheek and landed on her untouched cookie.

“She’d sit there with one of Miss Cleta’s cookies, right there in that chair where you’re sittin’,” she said with a break in her voice. “And she’d smile like a Cheshire cat. Made a mess of crumbs on her good dress, but Miss Cleta, she’d just laugh at the sight, so I didn’t never make much fuss over it.”

She was talking to me, but then again she wasn’t, and I looked around the room uncomfortably, panicking inside, trying to think of some way to step out of the mess I’d stepped into.

“You know, Miss Cleta would like to see you, I’m sure. You want to come back with me to see her?” I asked.

But Mae was unaware of my words; she just kept rambling on. “Callie loved near about all sweets. But then, she liked near about everything. She was such a happy girl. . . .”

Her voice quavered, and she dropped off into a swell of tears. I jumped up, nearly upsetting the tray of cookies at my feet, and rushed to her side.

“Mae, I’m sorry,” I told her, my own voice breaking with emotion. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

She was inconsolable, her shoulders heaving. I ran out of the house to fetch Miss Cleta, but I ran square into Nate Colby before I reached the sidewalk.

“What’re you screechin’ around here for, Jessilyn?” he asked. “You got fire under your feet?”

I looked up into a face worn with creases just like Mae’s and shook my head. “It’s Mae.”

“What about Mae?” he asked, his tone more serious now. “She sick or somethin’?”

“She’s all upset,” I said though my throat was choked with unspent tears. “I done said somethin’ that reminded her of Callie and she got all upset.”