Jacob's Way (16 page)

Reisa finished her washing, hung it out on the line, and came in smiling as she saw the pair.
This is good for Zaideh
, she thought.
Sam is one of the kindest Christians I have ever seen
. She sat down and listened, picking up on the conversation.

Sam said, “Go back to that part that we read before about he was despised and rejected of men.” He waited until Jacob had found it, then said, “Look at what it says after that. ‘Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows: yet we did esteem him stricken, smitten of God, and afflicted. But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed.'”

As Sam read these last words, his voice suddenly trembled, and both Jacob and Reisa looked at him with surprise to see tears standing in his eyes. Pulling out a dirty red bandanna, he wiped his eyes and muttered, “Can't never read that without cryin'. Don't know why. Just to think about Jesus dying for me. That next verse says, ‘All we like sheep have gone astray. We have turned every one to his own way, and the LORD hath laid on him the iniquity of us all.” He blew his nose, put his handkerchief away, and smiled, but his lips were trembling. “That's what Jesus done for me. I was one of them lost sheep. I'd hate for you to know what a wicked feller I was, but then I called on the Lord, and he saved me. Redeemed me, set my feet on firm ground. He snatched me out of the pit…”

Both Jacob and Reisa were shocked at the intensity of Sam's feeling. There was no question at all about the little man's sincerity.

Later that evening when Jacob and Reisa were alone, Reisa said, “I've never seen a man that loves God more than Sam.”

“He is indeed an unusual man,” Jacob agreed. “He knows the Bible so well! One would think he almost has it memorized.”

Reisa hesitated. “What do you think about his interpretation of Isaiah?”

Jacob did not answer. He merely shook his head and said, “It is something to think on.”

Reisa, for the next few days, cleaned the house until it shone. Dov had done more work than the two men could have accomplished in many days. He was a tireless machine never stopping. Sam said to Phineas, speaking privately, “That fellow is a hoss! I've never seen the like of him!”

“They've earned their keep.” Phineas nodded reluctantly. “The old man ain't too well, though.”

“No, he isn't. I'm worried about him,” Sam said.

Reisa was worried also. She said nothing, but on Tuesday night she insisted on cooking. “I'm going to cook a good Jewish meal for you. You got plenty of vegetables, and you've got chickens. I'll see what I can do.”

That night they all gathered and sat down at the table. “This is stuffed potato cakes. We call them
varnishkes
. This is
borscht
, beet soup, as you would call it. And this is
kreplach
. Just dough filled with chicken. And for dessert we have sweet cake
streudel
.”

Sam and Phineas both ate heartily, and Phineas was complimentary. “This is mighty fine cooking, Miss Reisa. I'd like to learn how to make those things.”

“I will teach you how, Phineas.”

Later that night Reisa said to Sam, “I'm going to make a trip tomorrow. Would you care for my grandfather?”

“A trip!” Sam was surprised. “Where in the world would you be going?”

“I must go sell some things. We came to sell goods to the people, and we must do it. It is not fair for us to be here without paying you.”

“Ah, Miss Reisa, don't fuss about that.”

“I must go.”

“No. I can't let you do that. There's some purty rough people around here. A young woman like you, you wouldn't be safe.”

“Dov will be with me. I think I will be safe enough.”

“Well, he could whup anybody that came at you with his fist, but there's fellows out there with guns.” He thought a minute and said, “Wait right here.” He left but was back in a moment. “Here. Look at this.” Reisa saw that he had a very small revolver. “It's what's called a pepper box. Fits right in your hand.”

It was indeed a small weapon with a circular barrel.

“Shoots four times. Of course, you got to be up close. You take this and stick it in your pocket somewhere. If you get into real trouble, this here little number will discourage whoever's bothering you.”

Reisa knew she would never use it, but Sam insisted she take it. Reluctantly, she agreed.

Thirteen

T
he rank, fetid odors of the cell block had long ago ceased to trouble Ben Driver. Now as he stood staring out of the bars, he studied the blue sky as he had every day for four years, three months, and twelve days. The sounds of other men caged with him came to him, but he had long ago learned to filter them out. The hoarse coughing, the raw cursing, the shoutings—none of them penetrated Driver's thoughts now. His right eye was covered by a black patch, but with his good eye, he saw a red-tailed hawk suddenly fold his wings and descend like a plummet. It disappeared, his dive masked by the leprous gray prison wall, but Driver knew that he had probably made his kill.

“I'm gonna miss you, Ben. But I'm glad you're getting out of here.”

Driver turned to the man who sat on a thin mattress covering the steel springs of his bunk. He said, “Charlie, I wish you were—” A spasm of hoarse, deep coughs racked his body, bending him double. He could not get control of himself and leaned against the wall, holding his chest. The coughing spell was so violent that he felt that he was tearing something fragile inside his chest.

Charlie Oats rose instantly and stood there helplessly. Driver was a tall man, an inch over six feet, and when he had entered the penitentiary had weighed a hundred and eighty pounds. Now he was down to one hundred and forty.

“You oughta go to the infirmary with that cough, Ben. I've been tryin' to get you in for two days.”

Finally Driver got control. Slowly he straightened up, his face pale and his cheeks sunk in. His coppery red hair with a slight curl he had hacked off himself when it reached his collar. His face was wedge-shaped, and the black patch over his right eye gave him a pirate's appearance. His long lips were now tightened so that they were almost white, and the bristles of a three-day beard glinted in the early morning sunlight that filtered through the small window. He had high cheekbones, a sharp English nose with a break from an old battle, and a scar on the right side of his mouth which drew his lip up slightly. His body also bore other mementos of youthful battles.

“I'm okay now, Charlie.”

“You oughta go to the infirmary,” Oats insisted. He was a small man of medium build, with a pale face and light blonde hair. He had occupied the same cell when Ben had first come, and the two men had become close. Oats had been glad to get a man like Ben, for he knew there were worse companions. Driver was quiet almost to a fault, but the two got along very well.

“I'll write you, Charlie.”

“Yeah. Let's keep up with each other.”

Hard heels sounded on the concrete walkway outside the cell and Driver turned quickly. A figure came to a halt before the barred door, and there was a metallic click as he opened the cell door and swung it back. “All right, Driver, come out of there.”

Moving to pick up the small bundle on his bunk, Driver turned to shake hands with Charlie, his single eye warm for a moment. “I'll write to you.”

“Take care of yourself, Ben.”

“Come on out of there, Driver.” The guard was a big man with a belly that overflowed his belt. His name was Grooms, and Driver had long been the victim of his sadistic methods. Grooms eyed the tall man who exited from the cell, and his lips twisted. “You'll be back. I can't wait for you to get back.”

Driver ignored him, and Grooms rapped him sharply across the shoulders. “All right. Get out of here!”

As the two walked down the corridor, men from the cells on both sides called their farewell: “So long, Ben.”

“Find yourself a woman—”

“Don't come back, Driver!”

Driver spoke to a few of them briefly. These men had been his companions for what seemed like a lifetime. He followed Grooms, and when they left the cell block, Grooms led him down another passageway.

“Well, Ben. Congratulations.”

The speaker was a man almost round in shape. He was so fat that his chins were tripled or even more. They quivered like jelly, but his eyes were warm enough. “Got your goin'-away suit all ready.”

Ben took the suit, stripped down, and the trustee whose name was Horton picked his prison clothes up. “Don't guess you want these.” He threw them into a basket and watched as Ben put on the suit, which was ill-fitting and cheap. A pair of shiny, flimsy shoes followed, and then Grooms snapped, “All right, get moving—and you get back to work, Horton.”

When Ben Driver stepped out of the door, the sun was creeping over the wall. It was a yellow disk that shed brilliant rays over the prison exercise yard. At the gate, Driver found Warden Otis Taylor.

The warden handed him an envelope, then put his hand out. “Ben, you've lost four years of life, but you're a young man. Start all over again. Going home, are you?”

“I guess so, Warden.”

“Where is your home?”

“The other side of Richmond.”

“Well, don't let me see you again,” the warden said. “Open up, Matthews.”

A guard opened one of the huge gates and stepped aside. As Driver went through, he nodded and said, “Good luck, Driver.”

“Thanks.”

Ben turned down the road and walked away. The penitentiary was located just outside of Richmond, and to get home he had a long walk ahead of him. He began coughing again and had to stop once until the spasm passed. His face felt red and flushed, but he ignored that.

Overhead the morning clouds already were a dirty gray underneath, and Driver knew that rain was in the air. He carried nothing but a small sack with his razor and soap and personal belongings. He had collected almost nothing during the four years, and now at the age of twenty-seven he had nothing in the world except a ten-dollar bill and the cheap suit on his back.

Ten dollars in twenty-seven years, plus a cheap suit and a rotten pair of shoes. Not much to show for a life
.

He had walked for ten minutes when he heard the sound of a wagon approaching. He did not turn until it was behind him, and when he did wheel around he saw the driver study him carefully. For a moment it seemed that he would pull the team up and offer him a ride, but the woman said something to the driver and shook her head. The man shrugged his shoulders, gave Ben an odd look, and slapped the lines on the team.

Driver had expected nothing else. He knew that people in the vicinity of the penitentiary were wary of the inmates, even though they had served their time. His life had been hard, and now as he trudged along the road under the darkening sky, he tried to put four years of prison life and five years of terrible war behind him. He had learned to do this in prison by reading. He had read every book in the prison library, some of them five times. The choice had been limited, but the printed words seemed to drive away the bitterness that would rise in him if he simply lay on his bunk and thought about what his life had been.

He had walked steadily for an hour when a drop of rain struck his hand. He glanced up and saw that the sky had turned gun-metal gray. The wind was beginning to blow harder, and the drops began to fall more quickly. In ten minutes the drizzle had increased to a slow, steady shower, and he was soaking wet. He did not slacken his pace but pulled the black slouch hat that they had given him down over his face, trudging doggedly along the road. Anything to get away from what had been his “home” for the past four years!

Justin Farnsworth studied the tall figure trudging along the road. He was a cautious man and was going to drive past the man, but an impulse overtook him. He pulled the team down to a slow walk until the traveler turned to face him. “How about a ride?”

“Thanks.” The tall man climbed up on the seat beside Farnsworth. He was wearing a cheap suit that had been soaked in the recent shower, and yellow mud clung to his shoes. “Mighty nice of you—” He broke off and a siege of violent coughing doubled him over.

“I hope that ain't catchin',” Farnsworth said nervously.

“I'll sit on my own side so you won't get anything.”

“Lot of sickness going around,” Justin commented. “Where you headed?”

“My family lives up ahead.”

Farnsworth turned to look at him. “I know most folks around here. Who are your people?”

“The John Driver place.”

Justin's eyes narrowed, and he chewed his lip thoughtfully. “I know you,” he said. “I didn't recognize you. You're Ben Driver.”

“That's right.”

“I remember when you first came back out of the army. I was just fifteen then, but I saw you win the shootin' match over at Oak Grove at the fair.”

“I remember that.”

Justin was curious, but it went against his better judgment to ask questions. “Your people will be glad to see you,” he finally remarked.

After an extended pause, Driver murmured, “I hope so.”

Farnsworth knew a little of Ben Driver's history. He knew that Driver had served honorably and with distinction during the Civil War—but he had also heard that after Appomattox he had turned wild and had drunk far too much. Farnsworth did not remember the details, but he knew there had been a robbery, and that Driver had been involved and been sentenced to prison.

Stealing a glance at the man beside him, Farnsworth kept his silence. He did say finally, “I saw your mother last week. She looked mighty well.”

“That's good to hear.”

The conversation was one-sided, and Farnsworth shrugged, then kept his silence as the wagon lurched along through the mud. Finally he said, “Well, there's your place.” He pulled up, and the team champed and snorted while Driver got to the ground. He looked up and held up his hand. “Thanks for the ride, Mr. Farnsworth.” He started coughing then and had to turn away.

“Better get somethin' for that cough. It sounds like it got pretty deep.” Farnsworth watched as Driver walked away, then slapped the team with the lines. As they moved forward he thought,
Ben Driver—well, he was a good man once, but I doubt he'll be welcome back here.

Ben walked slowly down the road that led to the house which was set back almost a quarter of a mile. His eyes went over the place, and he saw that the fields were all planted. He knew every foot of this place, which at one time had comprised over a thousand acres. He did not know how much his father had been able to save during Reconstruction. Letters from his mother had mentioned from time to time some of the affairs of the plantation, but he had not had a letter from his father. Not since the judge had sentenced him to prison.

A huge magnolia tree rose up, towering and drooping its limbs in the very front of the yard. Driver stopped in the shade of the tree and stared at the house, its shape pulling old memories out of his mind. It was a large house two stories high with barns and outbuildings kept in the back. Two black men were working in a small garden over east of the house, and on the left was a large pasture where a herd of some twenty beef cattle were grazing placidly.

Ben stood there thinking of how he had spent the happiest days of his life in this place. He had joined the army at the age of sixteen, and that had ended most happiness for him. Now as he stood there, the impulse came to turn and go away. But he straightened up and pulled his hat firmly over his face. He walked quickly up toward the front of the house where two large pecan trees shaded the front windows. He had eaten pecans off these trees most of his life, but they seemed smaller. They had grown, perhaps, in his memory.

When he reached the trees, he paused again. The bitterness that lay deeply buried within him suddenly seemed to rise. He could not move for a moment, and finally he made a half turn, determining to leave. But at that instant he heard a voice crying out, “Ben—Ben!”

Driver turned to see his mother flying down the steep steps of the high porch. She ran toward him, her arms outstretched. Driver caught her as she came, and held her close. He smelled the sweet fragrance of her hair, and he heard her voice crying brokenly, “Ben—oh, Ben—!”

Marianne Driver was sixty, but as she drew back Ben saw that she looked twenty years younger. She looked, he realized with a shock, exactly as she had the day he went off to war. She was one of those human beings over whom time seemed to have no power. She had auburn hair and green eyes, and now she held his hands, unable to speak, her eyes swimming with tears.