The Path Was Steep (4 page)

Papa coddled the motor of the old Ford. It sputtered, heaved, then racketed forward. Davene, happy to be riding, didn’t even look back, but Sharon wept desolately, voicing my own thoughts: “Will we ever see Daddy again?”

4

Despite All, Well-fed and Loved

As we rode towards the small town of Morris, we were strangely quiet. Usually, with two Mosleys together, you had a conversation. Frequently a heated conversation. “Papa,” I said finally, with the pride bred in people in that era. We didn’t want to be beholden to anyone. We wanted the best things in life, but only if we earned them. We knew God’s law “In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread” and didn’t want relatives, friends, or a benign government in Washington to heap unearned benefits on us. So now I said, “I’ll be lots of trouble and expense, Papa. I’ll help with the farm work.”

His face reddened. He turned to speak; then he took my left hand in his, lapped his thumb and forefinger around the wrist, and said, “You—a farmhand?”

I looked at the wrist angrily. At that time, I was quite thin and practically boneless. Nature had given me very small hands. They were David’s special pride, but I looked at them in anger now. Of what earthly use were they?

“I’m stronger than I look,” I said.

“You’ve never been strong.”

“But I will help . . .”

“The boys can help all that I need,” Papa settled the matter. His heart as big and broad as the fields through which we passed, Papa understood all that I felt and thought. He had been close to my position all too recently. He’d worked in the mine for years; then at the beginning of the Depression, his section at Majestic mine closed. He was out of work, past fifty, with a wife and six children to support. Providentially, Mildred, his wife, had an income of $28.75 a month, insurance from a brother who had been killed in the war. Papa rented forty acres of land near Morris. His credit was good for a mule, a cow, and a few farming tools. Rent was three bales of cotton a year.

We left the Dixie Bee Line Highway and turned into a lane that led to the farmhouse. It was unpainted, age-silvered, with a front and back porch, and an open hall separating the rooms. There were two large front rooms, each with a rock fireplace. One room had a bed in each of three corners, a table, chairs, and an old phonograph. The other had two beds, a dresser, a wardrobe, a rocker, and a trunk whose flat surface served as a chair.

A small room was at the back of one bedroom and a kitchen behind the other. The kitchen was furnished with a Hoover cabinet in desperate need of paint, a cook table, and a shelf for water buckets and washpan. Big tin cans on the floor held sugar, meal, flour, and lard; they left room for the large dining table in winter.

A dog-run with a homemade bench and a few cowhide-bottomed chairs served as sitting room in summer, and we used the back porch for dining.

Here a long plank table was matched by benches at either side. Extra chairs seated as many as could crowd around the table. Water buckets, washpans, tubs of pepper, and flowers lined wide shelves. A gourd dipper added unbelievable sweetness to the water. Used to my own private glass, it was a few days before I could relish this, but “beggars can’t be choosers,” and I soon drank from the gourd as lustily as anyone.

A day or so later I set out sweet potato plants. Possibly I hoed a little, but other than that, I was practically useless. Miss Mildred did the cooking. I gathered vegetables and washed dishes. The children wore feedsack shorts and were bathed daily in a zinc tub under the pear tree. There was little washing and less ironing.

Three times a day the table was loaded with food. Around the table crowded the lively children, dogs, cats, chickens, and a swarm of happy flies. I soon grew used to noise, crowding, and insects, and all summer I kept a peach tree switch handy, waving uselessly against the flies. Miss Mildred was very kind. Not once did she ever make us feel unwelcome.

The railroad was only a mile away. At night, when I heard the lonesome wail of the train, I wept, thinking of David stealing a dangerous ride, and I wept for myself and the children. A few tears now and then spilled for others, but, selfishly, I had very few for any but my own woes.

A card finally came from David. He had gone to Detroit. The breadlines were staggering—no chance to earn a living in Detroit. He was leaving for Kentucky.

Papa, up before dawn, worked tirelessly; then after lunch he propped a chair upside-down against the wall in the cool breeze of the dog-run*, his head on a pillow that fitted onto the rungs of the chair. He would read his Bible and then take a short nap before returning to his plowing.

After dinner dishes were washed, I often sat in the hall, or lay on an old quilt while the children played, or took a nap.

Papa looked up from his Bible one day. “Sue, this will pass. You have to stay here until David can send for you. Why not make the best of it?”

“Papa—” A long look passed between us. “I will try.” He returned to his Bible reading. My eyes dropped to his hands: long, thin, muscled, aging, the very veins showing his mortality. A lump came into my throat, and my eyes dropped to my own small, white hands. Every finger and joint was shaped exactly like his. I had Mama’s big, dark eyes, but I realized suddenly that perhaps every wrinkle in my brain came from Papa—he understood me so well.

There was actually a great deal to enjoy. Mosley aunts, uncles, and cousins lived on nearby farms. My sister Maurine and her husband, Ezra Armour, owned a country store at Haig, six miles away. With five children, Maurine needed help, so our youngest sister, Lucile, had moved in to sew, sweep, clean house, and take a chief part in all the events of the community.

Our brother Clarence had been working in Tampa when the Depression hit, and he returned home. With a limp from polio and a hand that wouldn’t always obey him, Clarence was lucky that Ezra found work for him in the store. A large group of young people were in the area, and they had hilarious times together. Pat Buttram was one of this group. Later, Pat became known as “the boy from Winston County” on national radio. Still later, as a famous movie star, he provided the humor in Gene Autry movies.

The children enjoyed every minute on the farm. There were downy chickens just hatched, a hen bringing in a new brood every few days. There were kittens, dogs, flowers blooming, and gardens. Fruit would soon ripen. I became happy by day in the peace of summer on a farm, only at night letting my tears wet my pillow.

Davene learned to walk, the others cheering her on. Sharon, her blue eyes filled with love, seemed to think that she had done something wonderful the first time Davene walked the length of the hallway.

Miss Mildred’s check came, and Papa asked if I’d like to go to Birmingham with him to buy a month’s groceries: half a barrel of flour, 160 pounds of sugar, and coffee, soap, soda, etc. Our brief shopping ended, we drove out to see Thelma and George.

Sharon and Jean ran out to play, but soon came in crying. Jane Grant, carrying her small black dog, was with them. He had bitten Jean’s leg and Sharon’s hand.

“He is old,” Jane explained. “He doesn’t like children.”

“Is he sick?” I asked. We knew little of rabies then.

“Just bad-tempered.” Jane cuddled the dog, put her cheek against his silky coat. He whined and hid his face against her arm. My small fear died.

Back at Papa’s, we sank into the same routine. Day after day I trudged to the mailbox and returned with no mail from David.

Lucile invited me to the movies. She and John Suddeth, one of her current boyfriends, would be glad to have me along. Miss Mildred, happy that someone had a chance at some fun, offered to keep the girls.

I didn’t have as much fun as I’d hoped. I felt guilty and uneasy. Was David having fun? Did the girls miss me? When we reached home, a car was parked at the front. I said my hurried thanks and went inside. Thelma and George were there. “Lucile would have waited . . .” I began, but Thelma burst into sobs. “Oh, Sue!” she wept.

George put his arm around me.

“Now, now, don’t scare her,” Papa said.

An avalanche of ice crashed about me, putting fear in my chest, numbing my hands and feet. “David’s been killed!” I thought it would be a scream, but it was only a dry whisper.

“No, not that bad.” Thelma kissed me, and her tears wet my cheek.

I leaned against the doorframe, and my eyes focused on Jane Grant. The avalanche of fear took another direction, and the ice still crushed me.

“Sue—” Jane began to sob. “Our dog had rabies—two children—two little children.” She reached her hand towards me, pleading. “Sue, they died.”

As the earth shook, I turned, put my face against the solid doorframe, and clung for a minute.

“Sue—” Papa’s hand was on my shoulder.

“I don’t want you!” I told him savagely, as if he had just given me a mortal wound. “I want Sharon!” Then I kissed his cheek. “Papa, you start praying.” I headed towards the bedroom, then turned. “When did he bite the ones who . . .” But I couldn’t say the word.

“Two weeks ago. But on the face. It is much quicker there.”

“Thelma!” I put my arm around her, finding comfort that Jean’s bite was on her leg.

“We started Jean’s shots this afternoon,” she tried to smile. “And we brought two treatments for Sharon. Dr. McInery has ordered more; we’ll bring it tomorrow.”

“Sharon will be all right.” Papa blew his nose. “God will take care of her.”

But I scarcely heard. I was standing beside Sharon, looking at her. She was too beautiful and too good. Her lashes were black and very long against her pink cheeks. Her soft, gold hair waved against her forehead. She opened her eyes. “Mother, you all right?” she asked. Her eyes were too big and too blue, clear, shining . . .

“Yes,” I swallowed. “Yes, darling.”

Vaguely, I knew that Thelma and those with her had gone. I kissed Sharon, blew out the light, then fell on my knees beside the bed. “God!” I tried to pray, but no words came. “Oh, God!”

Most of the night I spent on my knees. “I don’t know where David is,” I explained once. Later, words spilled from me. “God, I’ll promise anything. Don’t let her die! Please, God!”

Up very early the next morning, I built a fire in the stove and started breakfast. Papa chopped cotton from six until seven. The doctor’s office opened at eight. Papa would drive us each day for fourteen days. His confidence in humanity was so great it never occurred to him that the doctor might charge for giving the shots. Papa was a former employee of the company, out of work through no fault of his own.

I carried both bottles of vaccine and explained what had happened. “I’ll be all right,” Sharon smiled. “Mother kissed my hand.”

The doctor must have seen the stark fear in my eyes. “The incubation period is rarely less than three weeks,” he said as he swabbed cotton on Sharon’s belly.

“But two children died after two weeks.”

“If the bite was deep, near the brain, even vaccine might not help,” he said. “But on the hand,” he picked up Sharon’s soft hand. “Don’t be afraid,” he smiled.

“I haven’t any money,” I said. “But I’ll pay as soon . . .”

“There is no charge for rabies treatment,” he smiled; then he frowned. “You kissed her hand? Better take the shots yourself. If you had a scratch on your lips, or a bad tooth . . .”

I certainly had a bad tooth. It didn’t occur to me that if any of the rabies germs had entered, they would be near my brain. Anyhow, I’d used up my quota of fear.

Each day for fourteen days, Papa left his work in the fields to drive us to Majestic. Miss Mildred, God bless her, kept Davene gladly, and had lunch ready for us when we returned. I worried about the expense and the time from Papa’s work. After each trip, I was too exhausted, mentally and physically, to help in the fields.

“Has to be done,” Papa waved time and expense away. “I love Sharon, too.” His eyes moistened.

Sharon’s belly was polka-dotted with needles, but she didn’t cry once, just kept her eyes trustingly on my face.

There were no polka-dots on my belly. My modesty would be unbelievable today. But then, some women died because of false modesty that kept them from having medical examinations. In Afghanistan, where women wore veils, when a man who was not a relative saw a woman’s face, he either married her or he died. Things weren’t that bad in our area. As “flappers,” my generation had brought naked arms into view, and legs, too, and some even wore low-backed dresses. Not many though, for a woman’s body from neck to knee was almost sacred. Even bathing, we wore a suit with a skirt longer than miniskirts today, and the neck was respectably high. The doctor must have shook with silent laughter, but he made no comment when, instead of my belly, I presented my arms for the shots. They became pretty sore, and I could do less work than usual.

Poor Sharon! Not only did she suffer from a sore belly, but never was a child watched so carefully. Miss Mildred and I thought a person “going mad” would have a rabid fit if she even saw water.

We kept the windlass* pretty busy as we drew water from the well, and we almost drowned Sharon. Obediently, she tried to drink the glasses of water we gave her. Sometimes she puffed and sighed. “I can hear it slosh around in my stomach,” she told me once. After that, I slacked off a little on the water bit. At least, I tried to slack. Yet, I’d start up suddenly, call her, and offer another drink. Drought or no drought, this was a deadly emergency.

Minutes became hours, then days. The vaccine was completed and Sharon pronounced out of danger. Now I could worry about something else. There was still no news from David. A little green monster perched on my shoulder and whispered, “David is a very good-looking man. Besides, who wants to be tied down with family in these times?”

“David has written to me,” I argued. “The letter has been lost.” And I ran all the way to the mailbox. My faith, I was convinced, had produced the two letters that were there. One had been mailed in Kentucky, the other in West Virginia. The date on the Kentucky letter was two weeks older than the other, so I read it first. “I’m asking my boarding mistress to mail this for me,” he had written. “There is a freight train out tonight, I’m catching it for W. Va. Will write as soon as I locate a job.” I cried a little, sent fiery darts towards the landlady in Kentucky for her delay in mailing the letter, and then I forgave her—she had mailed it finally.