A Home in Drayton Valley (27 page)

 27 

H
e was drunk, you say?”

The dismay in Ruth's voice matched the heaviness in Tarsie's heart. Tarsie gazed out the open door to the grassless yard where the children used sticks to stir up mud pies in a battered tin bowl. Looking at little Nathaniel, hair standing on end and a beaming smile on his face, a mighty lump filled her throat. So innocent and carefree, but over time, would he become like his pa? Bitter and dependent on alcohol to meet his needs?

Turning back to Simon and Ruth, who sat on the opposite side of the cleared table, she sighed in frustration. “I thought he'd been doing better. Was changing. But seeing him liquored up that way . . .” She hung her head. “He hasn't changed. Not really.” Disappointment had chased away her fury. Disappointment was harder to bear.

Simon shook his head. “He's doin' what he knows, Miz Tarsie. He be a grown man now, so I ain't makin' excuses for him. He oughta be able to see that his pa's way didn't do nobody no good an' choose a better way. But to choose a better way, he's gotta have one laid out in front o' him.”

Tarsie shot Simon a defensive look. “But that's what Mary spent her life doing—being a living, breathing example of godly actions an' attitudes for her husband. An' she gave
me the responsibility right before she died. I . . . I know I fail sometimes.” Remorse smote her as she recalled the number of times she'd allowed anger to get the best of her. “But I try.”

“Oh, we knows you do, honey.” Ruth patted Tarsie's shoulder. “Me an' Simon, we done seen how you give an' give without 'spectin' nothin' in return. Nobody's faultin' you.”

Tarsie's defensiveness fizzled. She heaved a heavy sigh. “I'm not enough. If he can be sneaking out at night while his children lie asleep, he hasn't changed at all from the man he was in New York.”

From the yard, childish voices exploded in an argument, and a wail followed. Ruth jumped up. “That's Naomi's ‘I-be-upset' cry. I'll go settle the chilluns.” She bustled out.

Simon clicked his tongue on his teeth, his sorrowful eyes pinned on Tarsie's face. “I's sho' sorry, Miz Tarsie, for your heart-achin', but I gotta confess . . . you comin' here today an' tellin' 'bout Joss an' his downfall done give me the answer I been seekin'.”

“About what?”

“Pro'bition. An' how I's s'posed to vote.” He paused, his brow furrowing. “You see, I was feelin' plenty torn. On the one hand, I got a boss who's been real good to me an' my family. Mistuh Tollison's daddy, he buy my pappy's freedom an' brings him here to Kansas, where there ain't no slaves. I's born a free man thanks to ol' Mistuh Tollison's kindness, an' my pappy always tol' me we owe the Tollisons a mighty big debt.”

Tarsie listened intently, marveling at some men's inhumanity—enslaving others—and other men's kindness—setting slaves free. The Tollison family had her respect, though she'd never met a single one of them.

“I lived my whole life right here, an' Mistuh Tollison, he
give me a job managin' the vineyards. Managin' white men.” Simon's eyes widened in wonder. “You know any other white man who'd give a colored man such a job?” He shook his head, whistling through his teeth. “No, ma'am, it don't happen. Not even in free states befo' the war what ended slavery. But it happened here”—he jabbed his finger at the table—“thanks to Mistuh Tollison. But now . . .”

Tears flooded Simon's dark eyes. Tarsie's heart pinched in response to his obvious distress. Without thinking, she placed her hand over his. The difference in their skin color seemed more pronounced, so close. She knew many people would condemn her for daring to touch a black man. But she left her hand there as a symbol of their friendship. Of their kinship as children of the same mighty God.

Simon cleared his throat. “I been prayin' an' prayin' on what God would have me do—vote against pro'bition an' honor Mistuh Tollison, or vote fo' pro'bition. An' now I knows. Even to please the man who done give me a 'portant job, I gotta vote to get rid o' alcohol in our state. Long as men can buy it, they'll be seekin' answers in a bottle 'stead o' where they oughta.” He chuckled. “Oh, I's not fool enough to believe some men won't still find a way to drink. Men'll always find a way to indulge the flesh. But if it ain't legal, it'll be a heap harder to wallow in evil. So . . .” He sat up straight, slipping his hand from beneath Tarsie's. “I'll be castin' my vote in favor o' pro'bition.”

Tarsie nibbled her lower lip. As much as she gloried in Simon's convictions, worry still plagued her. “But what of your job, Simon? If the vineyard closes, what will you do?”

Simon drew in a deep breath that raised his shoulders a notch. “I'll trust. That's what—I'll trust. Took me a while to wrap my mind around it—I ain't educated like some men, so I be a mite slow in thinkin'—but while you was talkin', just seemed like God was sayin', ‘Simon Foster, I
allus met your needs in the past. Why you wastin' time worryin' about the future? Do right an' I'll see to the rest.'” He smiled, flashing white teeth. “God'll provide, Miz Tarsie. Same way He'll provide for you an' Joss an' your chillun. Wait an' see.”

Ruth stomped into the room and stopped in front of Simon's chair, hands on hips. “Them boys o' yours . . .”

Simon chuckled, rising to his feet. “If they's mine, they's been into mischief.”

Ruth snorted. “Mischief an' then some. They got to flingin' mud patties at one another an' caught their li'l sister in the middle of it. She'll be needin' a dip in the creek fo' sho' to get all the mud outta her hair.”

Simon ambled toward the door. “How's 'bout I take all the chillun to the creek. Let 'em do some wadin'. Hot day like this, that watuh's bound to feel mighty good.”

“Take 'em.” Ruth flapped her hands at Simon, then sank down at the table. “Splash the ornery out of 'em while you's there.”

Simon laughed and headed out. As soon as he'd departed, Ruth folded her hands on the edge of the table, her smile bright. “Now that it's quiet 'round here, you reckon the Lawd'd mind if we done work on His day? Sho' would pleasure me to study on a few mo' words. I already knows how to spell the name o' my Maker. Now I wanna learn my Savior's name. Can you teach me how to spell Jesus?”

Tarsie grinned, eager to move on to happier topics. “Fetch your Bible.”

The women bent over the book and, for the next half hour, studied the first chapter in the book of Luke.

Slowly, painstakingly, Ruth read aloud the glorious words of the angel who visited Mary. “‘. . . behold, thou shalt conceive in thy womb, and bring forth a son, and shalt call his name Jesus.'” Eyes closed and nostrils flaring, she drew in
a breath as if savoring the name. She turned to face Tarsie. Tears glistened in her eyes. “Ah, I nevuh knowed such pleasure as this, bein' able to read fo' myself the very Word o' God. Thank you, Tarsie. Thank you fo' teachin' me.”

Tarsie started to tell Ruth the pleasure was all hers, being allowed to share reading with her friend, but before she could speak, the patter of footsteps intruded.

E.Z. bounded into the house, his brown eyes wide and fear-filled. “Mama! Miss Tarsie! Pappy says come quick! Nathaniel—he done hurt hisself real bad!”

Joss awakened with a start. He blinked into bright sunlight, confused. Why was he under the tree? The sun hurt his eyes, and he cupped his hand to shield himself from the rays, trying to make sense of his whereabouts. Slowly, realization crept over him. Buying that bottle Saturday night, creeping into the yard after Tarsie and the youngsters left for church, drinking the entire thing. A sour taste filled his mouth, and he smacked his lips, trying to rid himself of the foul flavor. How could something that tasted so good going down leave such an unpleasant aftertaste?

He squinted skyward, noting the position of the sun. Late afternoon already. He'd near slept the day away. He'd meant to string ropes on the frames he and Simon had built the evening before so Emmy, Nathaniel, and Tarsie wouldn't have to sleep on the floor anymore. But he wouldn't get them done now. Tarsie'd surely be putting supper on the table soon.

His stomach spun. He hadn't eaten a thing, avoiding breakfast because of his headache and then sleeping right through lunch. Clutching his belly with one hand, he pushed to his feet and staggered into the house. He stood for a moment, studying the table with its plates set out in a circle. The plates meant a meal was coming. But no food simmered on the stove.
Where was Tarsie? She usually rested on Sunday afternoons, just like the young'uns, but she ought to be up already, getting their supper cooked.

Dragging his heels, he crossed to the dividing wall and paused. “Uh . . . Tarsie?” No answer. He spoke again, a little louder. “Tarsie?” Only silence greeted him. She must be sick, to sleep so sound. He peeked behind the dividing wall, then drew back, startled. Her pallet was empty, as were the children's. Where could they be?

He snorted. Of course. Where else would they be except out at the Foster place? He couldn't recall her words—the whiskey still muddled his mind—but he remembered Tarsie kneeling in front of him, harping at him, looking angry. And sad. His stomach twisted again, but this time for reasons other than hunger.

He dropped onto the bench, lowering his head to his hands. Pain throbbed in his temples, and his tongue felt dry and swollen. Why did he do this to himself? The brief escape he received from numbing his brain—was it worth all this? No. But he never could seem to remember the ill affects when he was craving a bottle. He'd be forever trapped in his desire to drink. Just like Pa had been.

With a snarl, he pushed the table aside and bolted to his feet. He'd go fetch Tarsie and the young'uns. He could wait for them to walk back, but that'd take too long. He wanted supper now. To rid himself of the flavor of his morning's binge now. Cringing at the fierce pounding in his head, he stumbled out the door and down the hill toward the livery.