When the Tide Ebbs: An epic 1930's love story (A Grave Encounter) (15 page)

I saw Mama walking out the door. When she waved, I ducked my head, pretending not to see. She walked across the road and I jumped out and helped her up. “How was church, Mama?” I always asked. Not that I cared, but she was going to tell me, anyway, so I might as well make her happy and appear interested.

“The services were good, honey, but Parson Pruitt wasn’t there today. Brother Granger brought the message.”

I could see the handwriting on the wall, as Mama used to say. My jaw tightened. The parson and Dabney had run off together. I felt sorry for poor Mrs. Pruitt and Zann. They deserved better. I got hot under the collar knowing the parson had kept such a tight rein on his daughter, and yet he was out carousing around himself.

I didn’t care what happened to him or Dabney, though I couldn’t help being relieved Dabney’s baby would have what every child deserves to be given when brought into the world. He’d have his father’s name—his last name. Something I always wanted. If there was anything good coming from this mess that had to be it.

I reckon Mama sensed there was something bothering me because she said, “Kiah, what’s wrong?”

“Wrong? Nothing’s wrong, Mama.”

“You’ve been quiet all the way home. You haven’t even asked why the parson didn’t preach.”

Obviously, Mama didn’t know the truth, or she wouldn’t be grinning like a cat eyeing a milk bucket. But I knew why he didn’t show up for church. He’d skipped town with Dabney and it’d only be a matter of time before the whole town would know his dirty little secret. It stood to reason if the church ever learned the parson was the one who impregnated Dabney Foxworthy, he’d have to find another way to make a living, and I couldn’t picture him behind a mule.

Mama reached over and rubbed my back with her palm as I popped the reins. “He and Mrs. Pruitt have gone to New Orleans to get their daughter. I ‘speck they’ve missed her something awful. I figured you’d be glad to hear she’s coming home.”

My thoughts were as scrambled as if they’d been sent through a hay press. If the parson was with Mrs. Pruitt, then what did he do with Dabney? My stomach turned. What if she were lying out in the woods somewhere, with her throat slit? The last person she was seen with was the parson. Had he found a way out of his predicament?

Mama said, “Well, sugar, you don’t look very excited. Ain’t you still kinda sweet on the Pruitt girl?”

As much as I missed Zann, how could I get excited? I couldn’t imagine what the news would do to her.

Mama was full of chatter as we sat down to eat lunch. I was glad she felt better, although a little peace and quiet would’ve been welcomed. At first, I faked interest, but at the mention of Dabney’s name, she had my full attention.

My shoulders fell. “What? What did you say about Dabney?”

“I said I was disappointed I didn’t bother to find out where the midwife lives. I’m sure she’s had her young’un by now. I ‘spect she’s boarded up with the midwife, ‘til she gets back on her feet. Doctors, nowadays don’t cotton to a woman getting out of bed for a full nine days after birthing a baby.” Mama sighed. “I woulda been more’n happy to take care of her.”

“Shucks, Mama, she’s full-grown. Stop worrying. I’ll bet you didn’t stay in bed nine days after I was born.”

She chuckled. “Goodness, no. I had you under a chinaberry tree while working on a tobacco farm in Meigs, Georgia. It was a good thing some of the women there had birthed babies before, because I ain’t ashamed to tell you, I was a scared little young’un.”

“Georgia? I always thought I was born in Oklahoma.”

Mama shook her head. “No, when Papa kicked me out, Mama slipped me enough money to buy a bus ticket to Georgia. She wrote her sister, and asked if she’d take me in. Aunt Maude said she couldn’t, me being pregnant and not married, but she did help me get the job on the tobacco farm. She just didn’t let nobody know I was kin.” Mama smiled, as if the memory was a pleasant one. I can’t always understand Mama. With a little chuckle, she said, “You were born on Friday and I was back under the shed tying up tobacco leaves the following Monday, while you lay on a blanket under the same tree you was born under. But I can tell you, I don’t recommend it. I hope Dabney can take better care of herself.”

I swallowed hard. I hoped so too. For as long as I could remember, Mama had been sickly. There never seemed to be one particular thing wrong with her, but as soon as she overed one ailment, another seemed to latch on. I reckoned it all began the day she gave birth to me.

Mama reached over and poured me another glass of sweet iced tea. She was proud of the small ice box I’d managed to buy for her with the money I made trucking. One would’ve guessed I’d given her one of those General Electric monitor type refrigerators, the way she carried on. But my motive wasn’t entirely pure. Nothing tasted better than a big glass of sweet iced tea on a hot day. The ice truck didn’t come to Rooster Run, so I met him at Goodson’s Grocery every Saturday to buy a block of ice.

Mama sat back down, and picked up the conversation where she left off. “It’s a good thing Dabney landed a job with the Pruitts. There ain’t many places what would allow her to sit out for nine days.”

After lunch, I sat near the window and read. When the sun went down, Mama lit a lamp and said, “Kiah, that must be a mighty interesting story you’re reading. You haven’t budged since you sat down.”

Maybe it was. I couldn’t say. I couldn’t concentrate. I’d been watching Dabney’s door, through the window. Where was she? How long should I wait before notifying the sheriff? I wasn’t even sure we had a sheriff in Pivan Falls. Maybe I’d have to go all the way into Pascagoula to report what I’d witnessed.

Chapter 12

Sunday night I lay in bed and worried. If Dabney was dead, I’d have to testify. But what would my words do to Zann? Would she blame me for coming forward with the truth? All summer I’d longed for the day she’d return. Now, for her sake, I dreaded it. If only I could take her away and help her to escape the gossip which was bound to follow.

Afar off, the lonely sound of a whippoorwill chanted, “whip-o-will, whip-o-will.” Exactly when the little bird’s message changed, I can’t say, but as I listened, the monotonous chant seemed to switch to, “if-u-will, if-u-will.”

“Marry me, Zann,” I whispered in the darkness. “Marry me, if you will. If you will.” I smiled, hearing the whippoorwills echo my sentiments . . . “If you will, if you will.”

Every Monday morning my job was to get up at five-o’clock and build a fire under the iron washpot so the water would be hot enough for Mama to wash by the time folks dropped off their dirty clothes. She washed for three families. Three big families. She washed all day on Mondays, and ironed on Tuesdays, charging a dollar per family to wash and a dollar to iron.

She garnered only six dollars a week for a hot, back-breaking job. Lately, the loads had become much larger, though the pay remained the same. I suspected her clients included clothes belonging to folks outside their immediate family. I tried to get Mama to put a limit on the number of garments, but she was afraid of losing their business.

Now that I’d begun to make a little money working at the stockyard, I begged her to give up her job as a washwoman. I could see the toll it was taking on her. I worried. Mama hadn’t been well for a long time and lately she’d been having some fainting spells, which I attributed to fatigue. But if my mama had a fault, it was her stubbornness.

After breakfast, I grabbed my cap from off the nail by the door. “The water should be hot by now, Mama.”

“You going somewhere, son?”

“Yes’m. Mr. Farris wants me to deliver a load of cattle to the Marler Farms in Alabama, over near Mobile. It’ll be late when I come home, so don’t wait supper for me. I’ll pick up a can of Vienna sausages on the road.”

I didn’t like to leave Mama alone at night, but the money I made hauling made her life easier, for sure. We didn’t have much, but at least I’d been able to help put food on the table.

Sitting behind the wheel of the truck gave me plenty of time to ponder. I tried not to dwell on things I couldn’t change, but I didn’t seem to have much control over my thoughts. All my life I wanted to get a good education and be able to give Mama the things she’d never had. The first thing I’d buy her would be one of those new-fangled ringer washing machines like I saw in a wash house in Mobile. But what if she were to die before I could get a college degree? The ‘what ifs’ and those worrisome ‘buts’ were driving me crazy.

It must have been after nine o’clock when I returned and parked the truck at the stockyard. I walked home. I could see the oil lamp burning through the window, and Mama waiting up for me. There was no light coming from #3. A lump formed in my throat. Dabney never went to bed early. She wasn’t there. I wanted to believe Mama was right and Dabney was recuperating at the home of the midwife, but wishing it to be true wouldn’t make it so. I blew out a heavy breath. Dabney was dead. I knew it as sure as I knew my name was William Hezekiah Grave.

Mama was sitting in her rocker in her gown. “Kiah, we have plenty of ice left. Can I pour you a glass of tea? Have you had anything to eat, sugar?”

“No thanks, Mama. I ate a can of Vienna sausages and a pack of crackers in Mobile, and then I stopped on the way home and bought me a Nehi cola. I’m not hungry. You shouldn’t have waited up for me. I told you I’d be late.”

“Sugar, don’t you know it don’t do me no good to go to bed while you’re out on the road? I worry about you.”

I rolled my eyes. “Mama, I’m not a little boy. I’m a man. Seventeen. I wish you wouldn’t fuss over me.” I cringed. I’d done it again. Me and my big mouth. I could see the tears welling in her eyes.

I put my arms around her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s been a long day. You have every right to worry. You paid a big price for me, and I’d be upset if you weren’t concerned. Forgive me?”

She smiled through the tears. “There’s nothing to forgive, honey. It’s true I worry about you, but I had a special reason for waiting up tonight.”

I pulled off my sweaty shirt and walked over to the sink. I pumped water into a dishpan and reached in the window for a bar of lye soap. I lathered my upper body and said, “Well . . . what was it, Mama? The special reason?”

“I figured you’d want to know the little Pruitt girl is home. They got back this afternoon.”

I tried to swallow. I felt I couldn’t breathe. Leaning over the dishpan, I sloshed water in my face and with a rag, tried to wash off the soap. There were so many questions, yet I didn’t know what to ask first.

Mama handed me a towel and a night shirt. I saw her flinch as I grabbed the towel.

She lowered her head. “I’m sorry, Kiah. I know I should’ve let you get it for yourself.” Her lip quivered. “I don’t mean to fuss over you, son . . . but if I didn’t have you to fuss over, I’d go slam crazy. Without you, I’d have nothing. But I’ll try harder from now on. You’re right. You’re a man, and a fine one, too.”

I reached over and planted a kiss on her forehead. “Don’t you dare stop fussing over me. Even if I jump up and down, scream and holler and tell you to stop, don’t pay me no mind, you hear? Sometimes I get on my high horse and say things I don’t mean. You know it’s the truth. You’re the greatest, Mama.”

She grinned. “I declare, Kiah, you are so much like—”

I playfully popped her with the towel. “Whoa! Don’t say it, Mama. Don’t say it.” I tried to hold my smile, but the idea of me being like my daddy made it most difficult to keep a pleasant expression.

Now that the news had sunk in and I could breathe without panting, I asked, “How do you know Zann’s back?”

“Dabney told me.”

My knees turned to jelly. I pulled out a chair and sat down. “It sounded like you said Dabney told you.”

“Yeah. I did.” She reached down and picked up the shirt, which I’d thrown on the floor. Sometimes my mama could talk the ears off a mule, and now when I wanted her to explain, it was like trying to pull hens’ teeth.

I sucked in a deep breath. “Are you saying Dabney . . . Dabney was
here
? Here in this house?”

Mama shook her head.

I growled. “Then where was she, Mama?” My mouth felt dry. “Are you sure it was her?”

“Well, for land sakes, Kiah, why would you ask if I’m sure it was her? Of course, it was her.”

I threw my head back and moaned. “Mama, just tell me where you saw her.”

“I saw her at her place.”

I felt my brow lift. “Her place? You mean #3?”

Now, Mama was the one with the furrowed brow. “Honey, are you okay? You’re acting very peculiar. Did you stand out in the heat today, unloading them cows? I hear folks can get what they call heat strokes if they get overheated. Older folks can die from it, but if it don’t kill you, it can affect you in other ways . . . like talking out of your head.”

My blood boiled. I gnawed on my bottom lip and silently recited Little Boy Blue, afraid I’d say something I’d be sorry for. That was a little trick Mama taught me years ago. It worked whenever I’d bother to put it into practice. However, too often I was so angry I spouted off and couldn’t remember a single nursery rhyme. As soon as I reached, “He’s under the haystack, fast asleep,” in a calm, rational-sounding voice, I said, “Mama, I’m not suffering from heat stroke, and I’m not talking crazy. I have a perfectly logical reason for wondering why Dabney would’ve been at #3 today.”

She smiled. “Well, it is where she lives, you know. But I reckon you were surprised she’d be up and around so soon, since I’m the one who told you she’d more’n likely be laid up for days. But she came back to get her things.”

I waited. I didn’t want to say anything, which could be construed as crazy, but why did Mama get that far and stop? If I wasn’t already crazy, she’d drive me there, with all the riddles. I spoke slowly. Deliberately slow. “Why . . . did . . . she . . . need . . . to . . . get . . . her . . . things, Mama? She lives there. Where was she going?”

“Oh.” Mama said it like she hadn’t realized I might wonder. “She’s going over to stay with the Pruitts.” Mama let out a big yawn, and walked over to her bed. “Good night, sugar. See you in the morning.”

No. She couldn’t do this to me. I winced, knowing Mama had no idea the questions whirling inside my head. She stayed up to tell me Zann was back in town. She expected I’d be happy to hear the news. And I would’ve been, too, if it weren’t for the fact I was privy to sordid information to which Mama had no knowledge. I needed to calm down and let her go to bed.

Tired as I was, I was unable to fall asleep. I tossed and turned all night. Mama hadn’t mentioned Dabney’s baby. Maybe he didn’t survive. It was no wonder, the way Dabney worked right up until her time. Poor little creature, I reckoned he was better off, if he didn’t make it. There’d been plenty of times in my life I’d wished I’d died before I was born. But my logic didn’t keep me from feeling a bit sorrowful for the little fellow.

I wanted to see the light of day so I could grill Mama in a tactful way. I had to keep in mind that regardless of how frustrated the situation made me, it wasn’t her fault. I’d remain calm. Couldn’t have her thinking I was a candidate for the loony bin.

Tuesday morning I tried to sound chipper when I sat down to the breakfast table. “Yum! These flapjacks look wonderful. How did you know I’d wake up craving flapjacks?”

Mama’s smile stretched across her face. “Well, I’m glad. But they seem a little heavy this morning. I don’t know why, unless I got a bad batch of flour. At times, I can get a bag of flour that’ll make the fluffiest biscuits and the lightest pancakes . . . and then another time I’ll bring home a bag that won’t produce a decent biscuit. Reckon why that is?”

My resolve to have patience was being tested, as I had absolutely no interest in discussing flour. “I really can’t say. Does seem peculiar, though.” I feigned a smile. “Pass the syrup, Mama.” I poured cane syrup on my pancakes, took a bite, then picked up my napkin and wiped my mouth.

Mama’s eyes squinted. “Are they all right? The flapjacks?”

I rolled my eyes and licked my lips to show my approval. “Looks like you got a good bag this time, because these are delicious.” Now that I’d taken care of the chit-chat, I worked at turning the conversation around to get her to tell all she’d heard, concerning Dabney and the Pruitts, without it sounding like I was interrogating her.

“Mama, I’ve been wondering about what you said last night. You know . . . about Dabney going over to stay with the Pruitts. You didn’t mention anything about the baby. Did he—”

“You were thinking the sweet little tot didn’t make it, weren’t you, sugar? I’m sorry. I was dog-tired last night, and it didn’t cross my mind you might be wondering. I haven’t seen the baby, but when Dabney came back to pick up a few things she said he’s a living doll. Says he has a head full of black hair, and he’s so alert, he looks like he’s a month old. She said the little fellow has the clearest olive skin she’s ever seen on a newborn . . . not all wrinkled like red, like lots of babies.”

Then Mama changed the subject. “Kiah, you’ve been so good to me. I hate to ask, but—” She stopped and took a sip of coffee. “Honey, do you think we could afford one of them Singer sewing machines? If you think it’s too extravagant, I’ll understand. You’re better at managing money than I am, but I was thinking if I just had me a machine, I could make you some nice clothes . . . and I’d make me a Sunday dress. I can sew real good, if I do say so myself. My mama taught me how back when I was young. I just ain’t never had no machine of my own, although I managed to keep you in hand-made shirts through the years.” It’d just be a whole lot easier on me if I had a machine.”

I could only remember two store-bought shirts in my lifetime. One was a red flannel and the other was a blue plaid one I bought with my own money. I flinched, imagining Mama with a sewing machine. Did I really want to encourage her raw talent? What if she decided to make me a pair of trousers?

“Of course, if you think it’s too extravagant, I’ll understand. I just thought—”

“We’ll see how much they cost, Mama.” It seemed to satisfy her and I was in no mood to talk about flour nor sewing machines, nor anything other than Dabney’s baby. Head full of black hair, Mama said. Parson Pruitt had black hair. Zann once told me he was part Indian. I wanted to throw up.

For the next few minutes, the only sounds at the table came from the crunch of bacon rinds and the chink of forks against tin plates. I poured a little hot coffee into my saucer and slurped. “Sorry,” I mumbled, knowing how Mama hated it when I did that.

“Mama, what prompted Dabney to want to go stay with the Pruitts, when she has her own place?”

“Oh, didn’t I tell you? The Pruitts are adopting her baby, and they want her to be the little tyke’s nursemaid. Ain’t it wonderful how things work out, sometimes?”

My jaw dropped. “She . . . she gave him away?”