A Home in Drayton Valley (31 page)

They stood in silence, her hand pressed to his chest, his
hands deep in his pockets. She gazed into his sternly set face, praying for him to soften, while he stared past her head to some unknown point behind her. His lips parted and she held her breath, anticipating the sweet moment when he'd finally acknowledge his need for God in his life and pledge to change.

“Get on out o' here now.”

Tarsie stumbled backward, tears spurting into her eyes. Although his words were soft—gentle even—he couldn't have hurt her more if he'd slapped her.

“Go see to Mary's children. Don't be stewin' over me.” He pressed his lips together as if a deep pain stabbed him. “No matter what you say, I ain't worth stewin' over.” He stomped to the corner and flung himself down on the blankets with his face to the wall.

Tarsie stared at him for a moment, hardly able to breathe her chest ached so badly.
Strength, Father
 . . . Gathering the tattered edges of her dignity about her, she did as he'd commanded.

 31 

J
oss was awakened Sunday morning by someone kicking the soles of his feet. Even without looking, he knew who'd done it. He grunted in response, then sat up, groggy and grumpy. “I know, I know. I'm leavin'.”

Tollison's cook, a rotund woman with a bulbous nose and three chins, waved a rolling pin. “And be quick about it. I need wood chopped—enough to last through tomorrow's baking.”

Joss tugged on his boots, then squinted upward. “Got coffee goin' yet?”

“You'll get your coffee with your breakfast. Now scat—don't want you underfoot while I'm cooking.”

Muttering under his breath, Joss scuffed into the soft glow of predawn. One lone bird chirped from a treetop. A sharp, scolding chirp that reminded Joss of the cook's harpy voice. He'd wondered a time or two over the past week whether three meals and a place to sleep was worth putting up with her crotchety attitude. She acted too much like—

He stopped in his tracks. She acted like Pa. And like him.

Tarsie's words—the same words that had haunted him far into the night—returned.
“When you let Him pluck out all that pain, Joss—the pain you've tried to numb by pouring whiskey down your throat, it'll leave an opening for Him to slip in an' change you from the inside out.”

Joss had grown up hating his father, yet he'd become his father. Deep down, he wanted to change. For Mary. For Emmy and Nathaniel. Even for Tarsie, who'd had every right to rant and rave and throw pots at his head for his trickery. He'd come so close to asking her how to let God fill that place inside of him that always felt empty, but pride—and guilt over fooling her into thinking they were married—rose up and stopped him. He'd sent her away instead. And she'd stay away. Not even a promise to Mary would let her come back after all he'd said and done.

“You!”

A familiar voice blasted from behind him, scaring him half out of his wits. The bird shot off with a raucous chirping as Joss turned around. The cook stood outside the summer kitchen, red-faced and glowering. “Why aren't you chopping wood? You want any breakfast today, you better get busy!”

Joss swallowed a sharp retort and took off at a trot toward the woodshed, where a chopping block, axe, and pile of tree trunk sections waited his attention. He worked up a sweat turning round chunks into splintery wedges that would fit the cookstove's belly. The cook rewarded him with coffee, three fried eggs, a big scoop of grits with gravy, and two biscuits. He might complain about her prickliness, but he couldn't fault her cooking.

He ate outside, seated on the stoop with the plate balanced on his knees, as the sun crept from its sleeping place behind the horizon and crawled skyward to peek at him from behind tree branches. When he'd finished, he returned the plate and fork to the kitchen but held on to his cup.

“Can I have more coffee?”

The cook scowled, but she sloshed the strong brew into his cup. As Joss raised the cup to his lips, she said, “You ought to mosey to the creek this morning and give yourself a dunking.” She yanked up the bar of soap that sat next to the washbasin
and dropped it into Joss's shirt pocket. “You're starting to stink up this place with your sweat odor.”

Joss raised one brow, resisting a snide comment. His sweat couldn't smell worse than the onions she fried for every meal and even in between. Who ate onions six times a day? But as much as her statement irritated him, he couldn't deny a dip in the creek—and a good all-over wash—would feel mighty good. He drained his cup, dropped it in the basin without a word, and aimed himself outside.

Little Beaver Creek, which fed into the Missouri River, wove its way all along the northwest edge of the Tollison land. The colored workers lived along Little Beaver Creek between Tollison's place and town, but the creek ran enough distance that Joss could avoid the cluster of houses. He intended to give his clothes a good scrubbing when he went in for his bath, which might take a while, and he had no desire for someone to come along and spot him, stark naked, rubbing his britches on a rock. It being Sunday, the colored folks would be gathering for a service. He'd just make sure to be done before they let out and maybe decided to cool their toes in the creek.

He worked his way along a deer-carved pathway through a stand of trees and brush so thick only slivers of sunlight penetrated. The sunbeams formed slanted pillars of shimmery dust. It was quiet there away from everything and everyone, cooler with the heavy cover of shade. Peaceful. Or it should've been peaceful. But the aching emptiness in his gut—the emptiness that had increased with Tarsie's visit—traveled with him. Maybe the cool, sparkling, clear water would wash the uncomfortable feeling away.

But even after washing himself from the top of his head to the soles of his feet, using the soap to scrub the majority of grime from his long johns, britches, shirt, and socks, and taking a leisurely swim to give his clothes a chance to dry out
before he dressed again, he still hadn't managed to rid himself of the dirtiness inside. He splashed his way to the bank and sat on a large rock, staring across the water with his chin propped up by one fist. All the scrubbing with the strongest soap couldn't penetrate below his skin. The realization left him out of sorts. And more sad than he wanted to admit.

The sun shone directly overhead when he wriggled into his damp clothes. Cook would have dinner going—probably something extra special, it being Sunday. After he ate, he'd take a nap. Maybe make up for some of the sleep he'd missed last night, lying awake fretting over his conversation with Tarsie. As he ambled along the narrow path, he heard voices—childish ones laughing and then a woman gently chiding followed by a man's throaty chuckle.

He tried to duck back out of sight, but he hesitated a moment too long. Simon Foster, his wife, and their children came up the path right toward him. The children skipped in the lead, with Simon and Ruth close behind. A large basket hung from Ruth's arm and Simon carried a ratty-looking quilt. Heading for a picnic, no doubt. A coil of longing twined through Joss's middle. How many meals had he eaten with Mary, Tarsie, and the young'uns on the trail? It'd been nice, all clustered together on a quilt on the ground.

The two little boys, who led the pack, stopped and gaped at Joss. The biggest one pointed. “Ain't that Emmy an' Nattie's pappy?”

Ruth reached out and pushed the boy's hand down. “Ezekiel Foster, you gots better manners than to be pointin' at folks.”

The boy poked his bare toe against the ground, shame-faced.

Simon limped past his family, his smile wide. “We's gon' have ourselves a picnic down by the crick.”

Joss squirmed in place, wishing he'd managed to escape
before they spotted him. “I figured as much.” The scent of fried chicken reached his nose. Unconsciously, he turned his gaze on the basket. “I'll get out o' the way so you all can head down.”

“Why don'tcha come with us?” Simon's face glistened with a fine sheen of perspiration. It was shady here in the trees, but the long walk on his bad foot must tax him. “Ruth, she wrung the necks o' two birds yestuhday. Got plenty.”

Ruth's face briefly reflected disapproval, but the expression disappeared so quickly Joss thought he might have imagined it. “Why, sho',” she said. “We'd be right pleased to share.”

Joss stood, uncertain. Chicken sounded good. The idea of not spending the afternoon all alone with his thoughts sounded better. And Simon knew God—how many times had Joss inwardly accused the man of sounding like a preacher? Maybe Simon could answer a few questions . . . if they had a chance to sneak off and talk. He wouldn't say much in front of Ruth. She'd repeat it all to Tarsie.

Tarsie . . . Joss swallowed hard. He sure wished things could be different for him and Tarsie. But if he'd messed things up with God, he'd messed things up even worse with Tarsie.

Simon's boy—the one they called E.Z.—sidled up beside his daddy. Simon's hand rose and descended on the boy's wiry hair. Gave it a pat. A loving pat. A lump filled Joss's throat. Much as it pained him to admit it, he could learn an awful lot from Simon.

“Thanks for the invitation,” Joss finally said. “I . . . I think I would like to have a piece of that chicken.”

Joss's response couldn't have surprised Simon more if the man had picked up a rock and chucked it at E.Z.'s head. The way he stared at the boy, with his forehead all creased
and angry-looking, Simon half worried Joss wanted to take after little E.Z. But then he agreed to eat with them. Would wonders never cease?

“Well, c'mon then.” Ruth gave him a little nudge from behind. “This basket o' food's pullin' on my arm. I'm ready to toss out that blanket an' have us a set-down.”

The children giggled, then dashed up the path, nearly trampling Joss's feet as they passed. Ruth came alongside him, and Joss held out his hand.

“Lemme carry that for you.”

Ruth seemed to freeze for a moment, her lips flapping a bit as if fighting for words. But then, with a self-conscious chortle, she handed it over. “Thank you. It ain't the chicken so much as the jars o' pickles an' such I put in there that's weighin' it down.”

“It all sounds real good,” Joss said, his voice quiet and serious.

Ruth scuttled on up the path, holding her skirts up above her bare ankles, and Joss followed. Simon trailed behind, shaking his head in puzzlement. A week away from Tarsie had surely broken something inside that man. Talking soft and gentle instead of loud and angry. And being willing to eat with a black family? Simon would never have imagined it.

They reached the creek, and the children darted straight for the water. Simon called out, “You be careful, now—watch where you step. 'Member that busted glass little Nathaniel got hisself cut on.”

“We'll be watchful, Pappy,” Malachi responded. He took Naomi's hand and the pair waded in together with E.Z. splashing more exuberantly a few feet away.

“They'll be fine.” Ruth took the quilt and spread it on the mossy ground. “Bunch o' men came down an' cleaned up all that glass. Must o' been four, five bottles worth in all! I ain't heard no hoorawin' down here since, so I reckon we's safe.”
She snorted under her breath, taking the basket from Joss's hand. “Fo' now, anyways.”

Simon sent a sidelong glance toward Joss. The man stood to the side, his solemn gaze on the children. What was he thinking, listening to Ruth disparage men who'd come down to the creek, drank themselves silly, then tossed their bottles aside without a care for who might come along later? He'd probably never know. Joss was one closemouthed man.

Ruth filled the center of their quilt with the contents of the basket. Crisp fried chicken, biscuits, hard-boiled eggs, and jars of pickles, spiced peaches, and okra. Simon's mouth watered in eagerness. He struggled down on one knee to lay out the plates. He placed them just so, then frowned.

“Whoops. Only got five plates.”