When the Tide Ebbs: An epic 1930's love story (A Grave Encounter) (20 page)

I felt my brow furrow. “You mean . . . you have a letter, also?”

“Yes. I didn’t know until this morning. Her mother found it among Zann’s things when she unpacked her bags.”

“What did she say?”

Dabney shifted her eyes away from me. “Personal stuff, Kiah. Mainly girl talk.”

I wanted to press further. I wanted to keep hearing Zann’s voice, even if it was only through her written words to someone else. But I understood why Dabney chose not to reveal the contents. I felt the same way about my letter. The words were meant for me and me only.

But I was even more curious to know what was in Mrs. Pruitt’s letter.

Had Zann sensed that lunch would be a bad time for me? That the loneliness would be almost unbearable, so she asked her mother to send the maid to comfort me during my time of distress? What other reason would Mrs. Pruitt have for such an act of kindness? Still, it was too bizarre for me to wrap my thoughts around.

I wasn’t really hungry. I hadn’t wanted much to eat, since learning of Zann’s death, but I felt a sense of obligation to eat a drumstick.

Dabney said, “Mrs. Pruitt sent some cookies. Do you—”

Before she finished her statement, I interrupted. “Yes, I like raisins.”

Her brow lifted. “What did you say?”

“I said I like raisins.”

She shrugged. “Uh . . . yeah, me too. Sorry, though, I don’t have any. But how about a peanut butter cookie?” Dabney and I talked about a lot of things, but mostly about Zann. I was glad she came and surprised at how fast the hour went. After school I went by the old covered bridge before going home. There was something stuck to a cypress knee near the water’s edge. I reached down to retrieve it. A blue satin bow ribbon. The bow Zann wore the day I was supposed to meet her.

The day I let her down.

Chapter 17

For the next three weeks, Dabney waited under the big oak in front of the schoolhouse at lunch with a basket packed by her employer. No longer did I bring my syrup bucket to school, since Dabney brought more than enough for the two of us.

“I just don’t get it, Dabney. Why is she doing this? Sending you here with enough food for an army seems weird. I don’t need her charity.”

“Kiah, it isn’t charity.”

“Then what?”

“A mother’s promise.” She lowered her voice. “Kiah, what . . . what did Zann say to you in your letter?”

I chewed my bottom lip. A part of me wanted to tell her, but another part wanted to hold back.

She shrugged. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“Hey, if I remember correctly, I asked what was in your letter, so why shouldn’t you be equally curious?”

She smiled. “I’ll tell if you will.”

Maybe we
should
tell. It’d be like having Zann sitting between us. Perhaps it could bring healing to both of us. Before I could respond, the bell rang. I sucked in a deep breath, feeling a sense of relief. I didn’t need to make a quick decision on such an important issue. I was glad she didn’t press me for an answer. But Dab was like that. Seemed to have an uncanny sense of discernment. Almost as if she could read my mind at times.

Dabney gathered up the left overs and put them back into the basket. “You coming over tonight?” she asked.

I nodded. I missed Zann terribly, but I knew Dabney missed her also. Being able to share our grief seemed to be as important for Dab as it had been for me. A tangled thread of loneliness had wrapped around us and knotted us together. We spent almost every evening consoling one another. We sat out under the stars and laughed a little but cried a lot. Lately, though, I saw a mood change in both of us. Instead of crying a lot and laughing a little, we laughed a lot and cried a little. Sometimes I felt guilty, as if I had no right to laugh again. But I don’t know what I would’ve done, had it not been for Dabney’s friendship during those days following Zann’s death. Sometimes my ramblings didn’t make sense, but somehow Dabney could always comprehend what I was trying to say.

“Dabney, have you ever had a dream that was so real, so rich and vibrant that you didn’t want to wake up? And when you did, you tried to close your eyes tightly with hopes to recapture it once more? To pick up where you left off?”

She nodded.

“I dream of Zann every night. Sometimes we’re sitting under the old oak tree, and sometimes we’re down at the bridge, traipsing down the shallow stream, hand in hand. Laughing. We’re always laughing. Always. I can see her so plainly. I hear her laughter, and then it abruptly stops. I awake, and she’s gone. It startles me so. My heart races so rapidly I feel I can’t breathe. I’m covered with sweat. It’s like losing her all over again. Night after night, she returns, and then poof. She’s gone again. Will the pain ever go away?”

“Kiah, dreams can be thieves. They can lie to you—make you think you’re having a real experience and then rob you. But memories are different. Memories are forever. They don’t lie, and they don’t rob. You and Zann shared many beautiful memories and nothing or no one can take them away from you. She’s in your heart, Kiah, so enjoy the memories. When you wake from a dream, think on the good times and thank God for the time you shared together. Some people will live a lifetime and never know the kind of love you and Zann were privileged to share. What I’d give to know of love like yours for even a day.”

“But our time together was so short,” I complained.

“Kiah, tell me, truthfully. Would ten years have been long enough?”

I understood what she was saying. I shook my head. “No. Not ten, not twenty . . . I’m sure if we’d had fifty years together, I would’ve shed no less tears. But I miss her so, Dabney. Oh, how I miss her.”

Dabney and I spent countless hours together in the coming months, yet whenever I stopped to consider how little I knew about her, it shocked me. I didn’t know where she came from, if she had a father, how her mother died, if she had siblings, or how she wound up in Rooster Run. She never talked about herself, and I’d been so consumed with my own selfishness, I never bothered to ask.

All my information, I’d learned from filthy gossip, which circulated around the school yard. The fellows had a name for her. I swallowed hard, knowing first-hand what it felt like to be branded. I tried to shake the guilty feeling stirring in my gut. Why should I shoulder the blame? I didn’t put the label on her. She’d brought it on herself, hadn’t she? She made the choice to be loose, so why shouldn’t she wear the brand? Sure, I understood the pain of having people whisper and snicker when I walked past, but there was a big difference in our situations. I didn’t choose to be fatherless. It wasn’t fair that I bore the shame for someone else’s sin. But Dabney deserved what she got. Didn’t she? Then why did I die a little inside, each time I heard the snickers? True, in the beginning, I centered on me, with little consideration for her feelings and the pain she endured when she walked past and heard the crude remarks.

But lately, a transfer of feelings had taken place in my heart, and I wasn’t even sure when it happened. I found myself wanting to become her protector. Maybe it was because she seemed so defenseless. Many of the lurid stories were nothing more than young men’s fantasies. So why didn’t she refute the lies? I’ll concede she wasn’t as pure as the water flowing from an artesian well—but jeepers, couldn’t she at least let it be known that the school yard stories were greatly exaggerated? I wanted her to stand up and call them liars to their faces. What would she want with some little fourteen-year old, pimple-faced, foul-mouthed creep, without a red cent in his pocket? What would be in it for her? Dabney might not be as bright as a copper penny, but she was smarter than that. Anger burned on my face like a hot fever, intensifying with every snicker—every wayward look from evil-minded ignoramuses who lied about their wild exploits.

I wanted to spend every spare minute with her. She needed me, and I suppose as much as I hated to admit it, I needed Dabney Foxworthy.

Fall came and went, and I hardly noticed. It was my senior year, and I was still working for Mr. Farris at the stockyard. Christmas was upon us, and I found myself sinking into a deep depression as I recalled the events of one year ago. If only I had gone to the covered bridge at four o’clock. Instead of having a history to haunt me, I’d have a future to hold to. Four days before Christmas, we were sitting on Dabney’s steps, all wrapped up in a wool blanket and looking at the stars when Dabney asked, “Aren’t you going to get your Mama a tree? You know how proud she was last year of the one you cut for her, and she has all those beautiful decorations.”

I grunted.

“Was that a yes?”

I turned and scowled. “No, it wasn’t a yes. We’re not having a tree this year.”

“But why, Kiah?”

“No reason.”

She lowered her head. “I was hoping you would.”

“Why would you care?” I snapped.

“Because last Christmas was the best Christmas of my whole life. I felt like I was a part of a family when your Mama invited me over for dinner, and we sat and looked at the pretty ornaments on the tree and—” She choked up.

“And what?” I prompted.

“I was going to say I’d never had anyone to buy me a Christmas present before. Kiah, I never properly thanked you for the perfume, since I felt you didn’t want anyone to know you bought it for me, but I Suwannee, it was the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. I loved you for it.”

I shrugged. “It was no big deal.”

“It was to me.” She picked up a stick and doodled in the sand.

“Okay, okay, I’ll get a tree.” I expected her to smile, but she acted as if she hadn’t heard. She had a faraway look in her eyes.

“Kiah?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you know Arnold Evers is back in town?”

I grunted. “What do I care? I never liked him. He’s a bully and a braggart.”

Dabney held her head back and gazed at the stars. Her voice sounded strange when she said, “I don’t like him, either.”

I popped my knuckles. “I wasn’t surprised when he dropped out of school. He goofed off and wouldn’t have passed, anyway. I didn’t even know he’d left town. Where’s he been?”

“Somewhere in Alabama. I think he has kinfolk living around Montgomery.”

I hadn’t set my mind on Arnold since the day I busted his nose on the bridge. After then, he didn’t have much to do with me. But Dabney had aroused my curiosity. I asked, “How do you know so much about him?”

She sucked in a deep breath. “He came by to see me last night.”

I felt my jaw drop. “He what? I didn’t know you two were friends.” Even in the moonlight, I could see the color rising to her face.

“We aren’t friends.”

“Then why’d he go see you?” The minute the words fell from my lips, I gasped. I glared at Dabney and jumped up. “Well, I guess I get the prize for coming up with the stupidest question of the decade.” My pulse raced. “Last
night
?” I gasped. The more I thought about it, the hotter I became. I lashed out. “I was sitting here on the steps with you until after ten o’clock last night. But I suppose you keep late hours.” I ran my fingers through my hair. Arnold Evers hiding behind the iron gate, waiting for me to go home, made my blood boil.

Tears trailed down her cheeks. “But, Kiah, it’s not the way . . .”

“Save it, Dabney. You don’t owe me an explanation.”

“Kiah Grave, you wouldn’t believe me if I gave you one.”

“You’re probably right,” I sneered. “Goodnight, Dabney. I reckon I’d better go. You might have customers lined up, waiting for me to leave. I’d hate to hurt your business.” I stomped over to #4, madder than a run over dog. I’d stupidly believed her when she told me she’d changed. What a dunce I was. It was plain to see the only thing about her that changed was the company she kept, and that apparently had been changing on a nightly basis.

Dabney ran after me and grabbed me by the arm before I could open the screen door. “Kiah, you are the most stubborn person I’ve ever met, but you’re going to listen to what I have to say, even if I have to hog-tie you.”

I glared contemptuously at her hand, as she tightened her grasp. “We have nothing more to say, Dabney. I think you’ve said it all, already.”

“No, I haven’t. Kiah, you aren’t being fair.”

I reached over and prized her fingers from my arm. I scowled, “Go home, Dabney and leave me alone.”

She commenced to bawling. Not crying . . . not weeping . . . but plain out bawling.

“Stop the blubbering,” I said, trying to sound as if the tears hadn’t moved me. But they had.

Dabney Foxworthy had fought many tough battles in her life and she was tough as old shoe leather. So why was she acting so much like a . . . like a woman? I sucked in a deep breath. “Look Dabney, it’s late and I think we’re both tired. Go home and we’ll talk later.”

“You can’t forget, can you, Kiah? You’ll never be able to forget what I was.”

I swallowed. Hard. She was right. I couldn’t forget. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t blot it from my mind, anymore than the holier-than-thou folks couldn’t forget what I was. As Mama would say, my finger-pointing accusations were nothing less than ‘the pot calling the kettle black.’

Mama’s moans could be heard when I opened the door. Dabney’s eyes grew wide. She shoved past me. Mama lay sprawling on the floor. Dabney knelt down, gently picked up Mama’s head and laid it in her lap. “Fennie?” She whispered, tears trailing down her cheeks.

“Mama, can you hear me?” I picked up Mama’s limp arm to feel her pulse.

Dabney’s eyes glistened. “Is she . . . I mean, she’s not . . . is she, Kiah?”

I shook my head. “Her pulse is very weak. Dabney, if you’ll pull back her covers, I’ll lay her in the bed.”

I picked Mama up, laid her down and sat on the edge of the bed beside her. Dabney ran to the sink and pumped water onto a dish rag, folded it and laid it across Mama’s brow.

“Dabney, you stay with her and I’ll ride into town and see if I can get the doc to come check on her.”

Mama’s eyes opened slightly. Her voice sounded raspy. “No, Kiah. No doctor.”

The words gushed from my lips. “Mama, you don’t try to talk. I’ll be back in less than an hour.”

Her eyes squinted. “Kiah Grave, you hear me out. No doctor. You hear? No doctor.”

I bit my trembling lip. “But Mama, you’re very sick. You need help.”

She sucked in a deep breath. For a frightening moment, I thought it was her last. Halting after each spoken word, she said, “Kiah, I’ve known for some time that I was dying.”

My voice quavered. “No, Mama. You’re wrong. Don’t say such things.”

She reached up and stroked my face. “Kiah, I’m not afraid to die. Please don’t mourn for me, son. I’m going to a better place.”

I’d never wanted to believe in a place called Heaven, more than I did at the moment. Mama deserved a better place, and no doubt about it, anywhere would be better than Rooster Run. But even if it were true, and there indeed was a place called Heaven, would God let my Mama walk through the gate? I rubbed my hand over my face and thought of the Samaritan woman.