When the Tide Ebbs: An epic 1930's love story (A Grave Encounter) (3 page)

“The cookies have raisins in them. You like raisins?”

Before I could answer, she stood. I felt my pulse race. Was I supposed to stand, also? She quickly loosed her skirt from between her legs and plopped back down beside me. Close beside me.

Funny, the smell of gardenias had never made me feel this way before. My hand brushed against hers whenever I reached for another cookie. My face felt hot. I hoped I wasn’t blushing. I wondered if her mother was really so naïve, or if perhaps she trusted her daughter enough to know Zann would never allow anything improper to happen.

I averted my eyes, when fantasies, which I’m ashamed to admit I initially found entertaining, gnawed at my conscience and left me afflicted with a frightening deduction. Had I inherited more than my father’s looks? Perhaps I was no better than the scumbag. My nostrils flared at the ridiculous idea. I was nothing like him. Yet there was something about Zann that suddenly reminded me of Mama. I’d seen pictures of Mama when she was young, and she too, was quite beautiful in her day. But I imagined she’d been as unsuspecting of Will Lancaster’s wicked thoughts as Zann was of mine. Yet, there was one big difference between young William Hezekiah and the elder William Hezekiah. No way would I ever dishonor such a sweet girl to satisfy my own selfish desires. I had no control over thoughts flitting through my head, but I did have control over my actions. I may not be able to help it if a buzzard flies over my head, but I don’t have to let him make a nest in my hair.

Zann reached over and with her forefinger and thumb, lifted a curl from my brow. Obeying an impulse, I grimaced and shoved her hand away. Was she purposely trying to taunt me? Perhaps she wasn’t as naïve as I assumed. After all, it was her idea for us to study together. Maybe a vulture was flying over her head, too, and just maybe she was ready for him to nest. I wondered. Not that I’d act upon it, but judging from the look on her face, I wasn’t totally convinced she’d reject my advances if I wanted to pull her close and kiss her. What was I thinking? If I wanted to? I swallowed hard.

“Kiah, do you?”

My heart raced. Could she read my mind? I stammered. “Do I what?”

“I asked if you like raisins. Do you?”

I sucked in a deep breath and chuckled. “Sure. I like raisins.”

“Take more than one,” she said, shoving the checkered cloth toward me. Not wanting to appear too eager, I hum-hawed for a few seconds before taking a second one.

“Thanks.” I bit down. “Mmm . . . good.” The cookies were burned a tad on the bottom. Well, maybe more than a tad, but I happen to like crisp cookies.

She cocked her head to the side. “Listen! Do you hear something?”

I shook my head and swallowed. Could it be my chewing she heard? The munching of the brittle cookies grew louder with each bite. I tried to muffle the sound by letting each morsel remain in my mouth long enough for the saliva to soften the cookie.

She shrugged. “Probably a squirrel eating nuts.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

I hadn’t heard a squirrel. If it wasn’t my chewing she heard, more than likely it was the beating of my heart. The rat-a-tat-tat inside my chest caused the same thumping sound as wagon wheels, rolling along a corduroy dirt road. My insides jiggled and my teeth chattered. I tried to empty my mind of unwanted images and concentrate on our reason for being here. I cleared my throat and reached for the math book. We were here for only one reason. To study. Here, under an old bridge on a seldom traveled dirt road. Alone. With the tantalizing fragrance of gardenias hanging heavily in the air.

Chapter 2

After two weeks of meeting almost every day, I scratched my head and pondered how anyone as bright as Zann Pruitt could be so dense when it came to solving simple arithmetic problems.

I put away the text book and decided to begin by teaching basic principles. We’d worked for a couple of hours on percentages when the sun lowered. I tucked the writing tablet under my arm and extended a hand to lift her. “I suppose we’d better go.”

She refused my hand. Instead, she put her arms behind her and bracing herself with both hands on the ground, she leaned back with her legs extended in front of her. “Oh, not yet, Kiah,” she pleaded.

Such tiny ankles. I swallowed hard. Afraid she might read my thoughts, I quickly shifted my gaze toward the sky. “It’s getting late, Zann. It’ll soon be dark.”

“Surely, we deserve a little free time,” she pleaded. “All we’ve done is study. This is my favorite time of day. Look at the sun. Isn’t it gorgeous? Big and yellow like a giant moon pie. Let’s stay and watch it set.”

I shook my head. No way would I be hanging out in the middle of nowhere with the parson’s darling daughter, after dark. I pulled at my shirt collar, and reached out to her once more.

“Come on. Your parents will be worried.”

“Mother knows where I am, and she’ll be so proud when I tell her how much we’ve accomplished. You’re a swell teacher, Mr. Grave.” She giggled.

“I’m leaving, Zann. You coming?”

With a slight groan, she reached for my hand and I pulled her up.

She brushed off the back of her dress. “Where do you live, Kiah?”

My feet shifted. I coughed in my hand, stalling for time to come up with a suitable answer that would be neither a lie nor the whole truth.

“Not far from here,” I mumbled.

“Near Goodson’s Grocery?”

“No.” Perhaps she sensed I didn’t care to elaborate, because she ceased from questioning me further. When we neared her house, I stopped.

She said, “Are you sure you won’t walk me to my door and meet Mother and Daddy? They’ve heard a lot about you, and they’d love to meet you.”

I winced, wondering what they’d heard, but I had no desire to be in the presence of a preacher until they laid me in the ground, and I wasn’t dead yet. So, I made a lame excuse and stood at the edge of the road and watched until she safely entered the front door.

The parsonage sat next to the church. The house was small, but neat. There was a white picket fence around it and little shrubs planted near the porch. The yard was swept clean and next to the road was a little flower garden, filled with yellow flowers—chrysanthemums, I believe.

Mama would love to live in such a pretty place. One day she’d get the chance. I’d make something of myself and when I made good, I’d buy her all the things she never had. Instead of being a washwoman for other people, she’d have her own washwoman. She’d have fancy dresses and I’d buy her a bottle of perfume that smelled like gardenias. We’d have meat on the table every night and eat out of fine china at a table covered with a cut-lace cloth. A crystal chandelier with tiny prisms would hang low over our table. I saw such a swell dining room on the cover of The Saturday Evening Post, once.

I burned inside imagining my daddy dining on delicacies fit for a king in a similar luxurious setting, while my mama ate scraps not fit for a dog, by the light of an oil lamp. An oil lamp, which didn’t always have oil. The resentment was eating me alive, but I couldn’t seem to let it go. Every way I turned, there were reminders.

As I walked, I mulled over Zann’s words. Did she really mean it when she said I was a swell teacher? Though I’d never expressed such a notion to anyone, as far back as I could remember, I held to the idea that I’d one day become a famous professor at an Ivy League college.

Zann’s praise encouraged me. Perhaps the dream wasn’t so far-fetched, after all. I was smart, and I knew it. That’s the one thing I had going for me. Learning came easily. I didn’t have much to give the world, but if I could impart knowledge to help others, it seemed a worthy goal. It’d also be a way to provide for Mama and give her the dining room I wanted her to have.

Through the cut-off in the woods, Zann’s house was about two or two-and-a-half miles from Rooster Run—a squatter camp on the south side of town. Mama and I lived in cabin #4.

If you inquired, folks would tell you the camp was located on the ‘other side of the tracks.’ Stands to reason if I was in my own yard, looking across the tracks, I’d be seeing the ‘other side.’ Not so. There’s only one ‘other side,’ and it’s also referred to as the ‘wrong side.’ That’s the side we lived on. Rooster Run was so close to the railroad tracks, the house shook each time the train rumbled past. If it hadn’t been for Mama I would’ve hopped that train years ago to ride as far away as possible. But I’d never leave her. Shouldn’t that have been proof that I was nothing like William H. Lancaster IV?

A two-rut dirt road led into our tiny village and ended there. The camp consisted of eighteen makeshift shacks, nine on one side and nine on the other, with only two privies on the grounds. Most of the tenants had children, which presented a problem. Due to the lack of facilities, modesty was not always practiced in the squatter camp. When I asked how Rooster Run got its name, I was told a plump, Rhode Island Red, once taunted the residents by sitting on top of the shacks and crowing every morning, and then slyly evading capture when the residents tried to catch him. Since the rooster hadn’t been seen in a couple of years, it was rumored he wound up boiled in someone’s pot, though no one ever owned up to it.

Mama managed to buy us a mule and wagon, which I kept in a deserted stable down the road a piece. Mr. Farris, who owned the stockyards in Pivan Falls gave me all the hay I needed in exchange for cleaning stables at the yard. Sometimes I felt ol’ Dolly ate better than we did. I worried that one day that mule would end up with the same fate as the rooster. Hunger can cause folks to do strange things.

I lived for the day I could leave and let Rooster Run be nothing more than a bad memory, yet I reckon I had no right to complain. Compared to our neighbors, we faired well. I especially felt for families with lots of children. There was hardly room for Mama and me in our little cabin, and I couldn’t imagine trying to live in such cramped quarters with four or five young’uns in tow. If I hadn’t had a good reason for not falling in love already, living in Rooster Run would’ve provided me one. I’d seen the pain on the faces of the men with families. I wouldn’t feel like much of a man if I had to watch my children go hungry.

A rusty iron fence about twelve feet high surrounded the tiny settlement I called home. All sorts of wild tales circulated around the camp about why the fence was there, but no one seemed to know for sure. Though there was no lock on the gate, I still had an eerie feeling I was a prisoner within those walls. An education would be my only way out.

It was dark by the time I got back from walking Zann home. As I entered through the gate, the familiar stench of Rooster Run stole my breath. Would I never become accustomed to the smell? Children with dirty faces and matted hair played in the light of the moon. Some were wearing clothes. Some weren’t.

I could see light coming from the oil lamp in our little shanty. When I opened the door, I smelled baked apples. Mama sat in the old rocker, reading her Bible.

“You’re late, tonight, Kiah. Did Mr. Farris need you to help at the stockyards?”

I shook my head. “Been studying.” I preferred to store the events of the day in the private corner of my memory bank, not to be shared with anyone. Not even Mama. I needed time to sort out my feelings. I wasn’t quite sure what had taken place.

“Kiah, Lena Blue from #7 brought us a dozen apples today. Said her husband got a job sweeping floors at the grocery, and Mr. Goodson gave him a bushel basket of apples to divide between the folks at Rooster Run. Mr. Goodson didn’t charge Dewey a single copper penny for the whole lot of them. Imagine that. Some were rotten, but Lena and I cut off the bad parts. It was mighty nice of the man to do that, and Lena was right proud of being able to have something to share. Bless her heart, she’s not had much to give ’til now.”

Mama picked the Bible up from her lap and laid it on the apple crate beside her chair. I could tell she had something on her mind, and it wasn’t hard to figure out what it was.

“Kiah, you’ve been coming home later and later everyday from school, but you’ve never stayed out this late. It’s plum dark outside. I ain’t complaining, because you get your chores done, but I did get a mite worried when the sun went down and you hadn’t come home.”

“Sorry to trouble you,” I mumbled.

I walked over and lifted two soft-baked apples from the iron skillet onto my plate and sat it down on the small kitchen table.

“Where did you say you’ve been, Kiah?”

“Studying, Mama.”

I turned the straight back chair around backward at the table, and straddled it. I briefly bowed my head, knowing Mama would have something to say if I didn’t. I should’ve been thankful for apples, because they were better than nothing—but my mouth watered for something solid to sink my teeth into—something like a pork chop or a big slice of salty fat back. “Amen,” I said loudly and opened my eyes.

“We’ve got some grits in the cupboard, shug, if you’d like me to stir you up a pot.”

I shook my head. “Apples are fine, Mama.”

“You stayed at school ‘til this hour?”

“No ma’am. I was down at the . . . down at the bridge.” I could never get anything past Mama. She could always see through me.

Her eyes narrowed. “The old covered bridge?”

I nodded. “That’s the one. I like studying while listening to the gentle sounds of the rippling creek.” I don’t know why I failed to mention I was there with Zann. It wasn’t as if I’d done anything wrong, so why did I feel as though I had? Was it guilt, knowing what ran through my mind when I was with her?

“You’ve always loved the outdoors.” Mama smiled. “Your daddy was like that, too.”

I bristled. Now was not the time to remind me I was like William Lancaster. I didn’t want to hear it. “Mama, why do you have to keep harping on how much I’m like that man? I’m not like him. Can’t you get it through your head? Why can’t you accept the truth?”

The minute the words escaped, I wanted to pull them back in, but it was too late. The damage was evident in Mama’s glazed eyes. I grimaced at the bitterness raging inside me. This wasn’t the person I wanted to be, but it was who I was—a boiler about to blow.

“I’m sorry, Kiah. I didn’t mean to upset you, but sugar, you have him all wrong. Will Lancaster is a fine man.”

I’d made up my mind to apologize, but hearing her call the jerk a fine man made the hair on the back of my neck rise. I would never change my opinion of him, and after all these years, Mama wasn’t likely to change hers either.

I pushed the chair back, walked over and knelt beside her. I clasped her hands in mine. “Mama. I’m sorry I snapped at you. And I wasn’t exactly truthful about this afternoon, either. There were more sounds than the rippling creek . . . I was there with a girl.”

Red blood flushed in Mama’s pale cheeks as a look of panic filled her widened orbs. She nodded slightly, and murmured, “I see.” No questions, no other comment. “I see.” That was it.

What went through her mind? Did she still want to believe I was like her darling Will? Hot anger shot through me like a poisoned arrow but I tried not to let it show. The muscles in my jaw tightened. I sucked in a deep breath and managed to speak in a slow, calm voice.

“No, Mama, I don’t think you do see. I was there because a girl in my class is having a problem with math. She asked me to tutor her. Mr. Thatcher locks the building after school, so we’ve been going to the covered bridge to study.”

“Oh.” The lines on Mama’s face slowly faded. “Who is this girl? Do I know her?”

“I don’t think so. She’s the Parson Pruitt’s daughter.”

“Oh, my.” The lines returned between Mama’s eyes. She fumbled with a button on her dress. “The parson’s daughter, you say? But . . . but why did you choose such an odd place to study? The covered bridge? It’s so . . . so—”

I decided to help her. “Secluded? And dark?”

She blushed. “Well, yes. I think you might have picked a better place, Kiah.” Her eyes squinted as she held her frown. “What kind of girl is she?”

I gritted my teeth. My first impulse was to shout, “Not the kind of girl you were, if that’s what you’re afraid of.” To my relief, the lump in my throat prevented the stinging words from escaping. Hadn’t Mama paid for her sin, already? The good church folks at Piney Woods had thrust the dagger in her back. Did she need me to twist it? I drew a deep breath.

“She’s a very nice girl, Mama. I think you’d like her.”

Mama’s lips parted slightly and the air seeping out of her made a faint whistle. “I’m sure I will, Kiah. Maybe you’d like to bring her here to the cabin one day. I’ll make some applesauce and we can get acquainted. I’d like that. You’ve always said I make the best applesauce.” She made a waving motion toward the table. “Go sit back down, honey and finish your supper.”

How could I admit to Mama that I was too ashamed to tell Zann I lived in Rooster Run? No way would I ever bring her to this dump and sit her down to a bowl of applesauce. I glanced over at Mama. The dress she wore was clean, but with so many stains, who could tell? I’d watched as her weight dwindled down to less than a hundred pounds. She was in her late thirties, yet one would guess twenty years older. When I was younger, I asked why she had quotation marks between her eyes. She said it was the marks of a thinker. I later learned the truth. The marks of a worrier plowed deep furrows into her forehead—a gift from my dear dad. Almost overnight, Mama’s dark auburn hair faded to a wiry, dull orange. Her complexion paled and her green eyes, no longer open and bright, were partially hid beneath drooping lids. Her shoulders slumped and she walked with an awkward gait. The years had not been kind.