A Home in Drayton Valley (17 page)

Heat filled Joss's face. Partly shame, partly fury, and partly desire to lift a glass and feel the burn of whiskey draining down his throat followed by blissful numbness.

Tarsie touched his arm, her fingers resting gently on his sleeve. “I'm proud to see you didn't go searching for a bottle. Mary'd be proud, too.”

The mention of Mary sent a shaft of pain through Joss's middle. He stepped away from Tarsie's light touch. “Yeah, well, I found a job, but—”

“Where?”

He shook his head. Couldn't the yappy woman let him finish his sentence? “At the vineyard south of town. As a field worker. But—”

“A vineyard?” Tarsie's voice turned shrill. “You didn't take a job at a vineyard, did you?”

Defensiveness straightened Joss's spine. “I did.”

“Oh, but, Joss . . .”

The disapproval in her tone raised Joss's stubborn pride a notch. “And just why shouldn't I work at a vineyard?”

She fluttered her hands, her lips pursed. “You know why. They'll be brewing wine at a vineyard. Why be placing yourself in the midst of temptation?”

“We're makin' wine out there, not drinkin' it.” Joss growled the words, determined to put her in her place.

“But it'll be easily available to you.”

Joss clenched his fists. He leaned close, lowering his voice to a grating growl. “You got no say in this, Tarsie.”

She turned sharply away and sucked in several little breaths, her chest heaving with each intake. Her eyes snapped closed for several terse seconds, and when she opened them again, she met his fierce gaze with a calm resolve. “As your wife and the caretaker of your children, I should be havin' a say, Joss. I'm concerned for you, putting yourself in such a place. We came here to Kansas to help you lose your taste for the drink. But if you—”

Joss held up his hand, stilling her words. “I gotta earn a wage. Dock's gone, so I'm gonna work at the vineyard an' that's the way it is. No more talk.”

He ignored her sharp gasp of frustration and stepped off the porch. As he strode around the house to the wagon to fetch another pair of trousers, it occurred to him he'd just trapped himself. He slapped his forehead, inwardly berating himself for letting his pride run ahead of his mouth. With a growl, Joss heaved himself into the wagon and flopped onto his back on the quilt.

He was stuck with that job now, or Tarsie'd think she'd been the one to change his mind. Which would be harder to tolerate—following Simon's directions, or having Tarsie believe he cared about her opinion? He'd either be kowtowing to a black man or appearing to kowtow to a woman. Both ideas soured his stomach.

“Well, Brubacher,” he muttered to the flapping canvas cover above his head, “you got yourself in a fine pickle now.”

 17 

T
hat man's gonna be gettin' himself pickled every day, workin' at a place that makes wine,” Tarsie murmured to herself as she followed Emmy and Nathaniel down the mucky roadway toward the mercantile. Joss had given her three dollars and instructed her in his typical dictatorial tone to be careful with it because she wouldn't be getting more for another week at least.

Gray skies loomed overhead, promising another bout of rain. Tarsie heaved a sigh, already weary, even though the day had just begun. She'd lain awake last night, praying, asking God to give Joss the good sense to quit that job where he'd be tempted to succumb to foolish desires. But Joss had headed off to the vineyard anyway.

Tarsie ushered the children through the mercantile door and offered a quick warning. “Don't be touching anything. Be good children, an' when we get home we'll have a cookie with some milk.” Fortunately, one of her neighbors had agreed to barter a quart of milk a day in exchange for laundry services, so she needn't purchase canned milk, which was, in her opinion, overpriced.

The patter of footsteps and giggles erupted outside the store. Emmy dashed to the window to peer outside. She spun
to Tarsie, her expression beseeching. “There's some kids on the porch. Can we go out an' play with 'em?”

Tarsie hesitated. She didn't know any of the town children. As she considered the request, a woman with a bright red bandana tied over her hair and a round, cheerful face stepped inside the store. She glanced at Emmy, who stood with her fingers and nose pressed to the glass, and released a low chuckle.

“You watchin' my chillun out there bein' plumb silly?”

Emmy nodded. “I wanna play, too. But Tarsie didn't say yes.” Emmy's lower lip pooched out in a pout.

The woman swung a basket on her arm, her dark eyes twinkling. “An' they'd be right pleased to have a new playmate or two.” She held out her work-callused hand to Tarsie. “I be Ruth Foster—me 'n' my fam'ly live out south o' Drayton Valley. Don't b'lieve I evuh seen you befo'.”

Tarsie took the woman's hand and offered a shy smile. Friendliness radiated from this colored woman, drawing Tarsie in. “We're new in town. My . . . my husband”—fire seared her cheeks, speaking of Joss in such a personal manner—“had been working at the docks 'til the rain washed the dock away. But now he works at a vineyard.”

Ruth's thick eyebrows shot upward. “Tollison Vineyard?”

Tarsie searched her memory. Joss hadn't given a name, but he'd told her the location. “The vineyard south of town.”

The woman's face lit like a Fourth of July firecracker. “Ooh, now you got me all curious. Yo' husband—he be named Joss?”

It was Tarsie's turn to raise her brows in surprise. “How did you know?”

A deep, rich chuckle rumbled from the woman's throat, bringing an answering smile to Tarsie's lips. “I knows it, girl, 'cause he be workin' fo' my husband.”

Tarsie's mouth dropped open. “W-what?”

Pride lifted Ruth's chin. “That's right. Simon Foster—he be manager o' Tollison Vineyard, an' aftuh supper last night he tells me he gots a new man on the job. Says his name is Joss, an' that he's big as a mountain an' smart as a whip an'—” She fell abruptly silent, lowering her head to fiddle with the eggs in the basket.

Emmy darted to Tarsie's side and tugged on her elbow. “Can't me an' Nattie go out an' play with those kids? Pleeeeease?”

Apprehensive, Tarsie glanced at Ruth. The woman still looked down, clearly flustered. To give the other woman time to collect herself, Tarsie took both children by the hand and led them to the porch. Two boys—slightly older than Emmy—and a little girl close to Nathaniel's age ran back and forth from one spindled porch post to the other, their giggles running the scales. The oldest one caught the post with his palm and whirled around. He spotted Tarsie, Emmy, and Nathaniel and halted, holding out his arm to stop the younger two.

The three dark-faced children stared at Emmy and Nathaniel, who stared back, Nathaniel with one finger in his mouth. Before Tarsie could offer an introduction, Emmy took a step forward.

“I'm Emmy, an' that's Nattie.” She jammed her thumb at her little brother.

The oldest boy pulled his brother and sister forward. “This here is Naomi an' Malachi. I be Ezekiel, but folks call me E.Z.”

Emmy twisted her hands together and rocked from side to side. “Can me an' Nattie play, too?”

E.Z. broke into a broad grin. “We's just chasin', seein' who can get from one pole to the othuh the fastest.” He shrugged. “If'n yo' mama don't care, you can play.”

Joss might object, but Tarsie knew Mary wouldn't mind
Emmy and Nathaniel playing with these little Negro children. She gave the towheaded pair a gentle nudge forward. “Go ahead. I'll be right inside.”

With a joyful hoot, Emmy grabbed Nathaniel's hand, and they joined in the fun.

Tarsie watched for a few minutes, smiling at their antics. Satisfied they'd be fine, she reentered the store. Ruth browsed the aisles, her basket now empty of its eggs. Tarsie approached the woman. “Thank you for letting your young'uns play with Emmy and Nathaniel. Poor wee ones, they haven't met any friends here yet. It'll do 'em good to play with someone besides each other for a change.”

Ruth's smile returned, whatever had caused the shyness to surface forgotten. “Oh, those chillun, they do love to run an' shout. I's hopin' they'll get wore out good so they'll gib me some peace this aftuhnoon.” She laughed, the sound reminding Tarsie of molasses dripping slowly across a biscuit. “So I know yo' husband's name, but I didn't catch yours.”

Tarsie bobbed her head in greeting. “I'm Tarsie.”

Ruth's eyebrows rose. “Tarsie? That be a mighty unusual name. Cain't say I evuh heard of it before.”

“My real name is Treasa, but my da nicknamed me Tarsie when I was just a wee girl.” Tarsie's chest constricted, loneliness for her parents still strong even after so many years. She shrugged. “I like it.”

Ruth's eyes crinkled with her smile. “Why, Miz Tarsie, I b'lieve I do too.”

The two fell into step together, Ruth filling her basket and Tarsie filling her apron, which she held outward by the corners to create a pouch. Ruth examined Tarsie's apron, her full lips quirking into a grin. “You gon' carry ever'thing home thataway? I reckon it works, but it sho' look ungainly.”

Tarsie couldn't resist a chuckle. The teasing twinkle in Ruth's dark eyes invited gaiety. “I hope the proprietor will
have a crate I can use. I might be tearing my apron strings clean off if I load it too much.”

“Need a basket like I got—somethin' with a handle made for totin'.”

Tarsie admired Ruth's basket. Large, tightly woven of creamy bands, and with a thickly wound handle, it seemed capable of carrying nearly everything she'd need. “Yours is very nice, but I couldn't be affording such a luxury right now. It's more important to buy food than a vessel for carrying it.”

“Ooh, I didn't buy this basket. I made it.” Ruth plucked two jars of pickled pig's feet from the shelf and settled them in her basket.

Tarsie came to a stop in the aisle and stared at Ruth. “You did?”

Ruth sent a twinkly grin in Tarsie's direction. “Sho' did. Y'see, durin' the spring an' summuh, I collect reeds from down by the rivuh. Then, come wintertime when I cain't be out workin' the garden, I takes those reeds an' I make baskets. All shapes an' sizes. Gots plenty of 'em sittin' aroun' my house. If you like, I can gib you one for shoppin'.”

“Oh, no.” Tarsie shook her head hard, once again admiring the workmanship of Ruth's basket. “I couldn't take something that cost you so much time and effort. And I have no money to pay for one.” She bobbed the corners of her apron. “I'll make do.”

Ruth shrugged. “Suit yo'self.”

They finished their shopping. The lisping proprietor recorded Ruth's purchases against a credit in an account book, offering a thank-you for her bringing in fresh “eggth.” Then Tarsie laid out the items she'd chosen, praying she'd have enough money to cover it all. To her relief, the money Joss had given her proved more than adequate, but the proprietor didn't have a crate for her to carry the purchases home. With a sigh, she removed her apron, tied everything into a lumpy bundle, then gathered the bundle in her arms.

Ruth raised one brow at Tarsie's makeshift package, but she didn't comment. The women trailed outside where the children sat in a row on the edge of the porch, bouncing their feet on the muddy street below. None of Ruth's youngsters wore shoes. For some reason, the sight of those dirty, bare feet with broken, dirt-rimmed toenails made Tarsie's heart hurt.

“Come, Emmy and Nathaniel.” Tarsie nodded her head at the Foster children. “Tell your new friends good-bye. We must be goin' now.” The bundle weighed heavily in her arms, making her impatient to get home.

A chorus of childish good-byes rang, each voice tinged with regret. Just as the children pushed to their feet, the bell on the schoolhouse up the hill began to clang. Tarsie smiled as the doors burst open and children spilled out, lunch buckets in hand. She heard a sigh and shifted to look at the oldest of the Foster youngsters. The boy gazed up the hill, longing in his eyes. He turned to his mother.

“Cain't I be goin', Mama? Huh? Huh?”

Ruth cupped the boy's dirt-smudged cheek. “Now, E.Z., we done talked 'bout this befo'. You know that school's only fo' the white chillun. You's gon' hafta wait 'til somebody comes along willin' to make a school for the black chillun, too.”

E.Z. scuffed his toe on the porch floor. “Ain't nevuh gon' happen.”

Ruth swatted his bottom, and E.Z. yelped in surprise, holding his rear. Ruth pointed her finger at him. “Now you quit that kind o' talk. Yo' pappy an' me, we's prayin' ever' day 'bout school, an' God's gon' answer by an' by. Don't you be disbelievin', boy.”

E.Z. nodded solemnly. “I's sorry, Mama.”

Ruth's smile returned. She bounced it from E.Z. to Tarsie. “It was right nice meetin' you all. I hopes to cross paths with you'uns again soon.” Waving her arm, she turned to her children. “Well, come along now, no dallyin'. We gots work
to do at home.” The four traipsed off, the little girl skipping ahead, the youngest boy holding on to his mother's skirt, and E.Z. scuffing behind with his head low.

Tarsie watched them for a moment before she turned toward the house and headed up the road. Emmy and Nathaniel followed, chanting a nonsense song as they walked, but Tarsie paid little attention to their voices. Her thoughts were inward, churning. She'd heard mutters from her neighbors. Although many colored people resided in Drayton Valley, often working side by side with white men at the docks or in the warehouses, their homes were far separated. They attended different churches, buried their dead in different cemeteries, and apparently had a rule against colored children sitting under the same school roof as the white children. The white business owners had no trouble taking the blacks' money, however. It didn't seem fair.

By the time they reached their little house, Tarsie's arms ached from carrying the heavy load, and her heart ached from the seeming inequities between whites and blacks. Joss would certainly have much to say in defense of the current system. In fact, Joss would—

She gave a start, the bundle dropping from her arms to spill its contents across the clean-swept floor. She clutched her hands to her heart, her soul rejoicing. Ruth had indicated Joss worked under a black manager. Joss Brubacher—working for a black man. She shook her head, marveling. Hadn't she prayed for Joss to change? And apparently he had in some wonderful way or he'd never have taken that job at the vineyard. Although it still worried her to have him working in a place where wine was produced, she chose to push the worry aside. Perhaps this was God's way of softening Joss's heart.