The Dirty Parts of the Bible: A Novel (20 page)

For lunch, I devoured a piece of Old Squeal on a bun. He tasted a hell of a lot better than he looked. I taunted Craw with the succulent meat. “Come on—just one bite.”

He turned up his nose. “I have my dignity. Besides, I’ve got to save room for beer. Why eat lunch when you can drink it?”

Around two o’clock, I started wondering when Sarah would arrive. Or was I supposed to pick her up?
Damn—how do these things work?
Just then, two bony arms seized me from behind and lifted me straight off the ground. I squirmed loose and turned to face a shriveled old woman half my height and twice my strength. She caught me again in her vice-like grip. “My own flesh and blood!”

“I—I’m Tobias,” I said. “Malachi’s son.”

“I damn well know who ye are. Don’t ye know me? I’m yer Granny!”

I should have known—her few scraggly hairs were dyed bright peach. To give her another hug would have been overkill, so I held out my hand to shake hers. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Granny.”

Her hand felt like a skeleton’s covered over with parchment paper. She squinted her eyes, searching around me. “Now where in tarnation is that boy of mine?”

She must have meant my father. “He’s sorry he couldn’t make it down,” I said. “But the church, you know—”

“I ain’t seen hide nor hair of that boy in damn near twenty years.” Granny spat a stream of brown tobacco juice onto the ground. “You tell him to get his ass down here where I can whup it.”

Then she pushed me onto a picnic bench seat and squeezed up next to me. “Now, child, let yer Granny tell you everything you need to know about your illustrious forebears.” For the next half-hour, she regaled me with Henry family lore. Her front teeth were missing, her breath reeked of minty tobacco, and she yelled as though I were deaf—but I loved every minute of it.

According to Granny, the Henry family tree boasted dozens of war heroes, including six Civil War generals—all Confederate, of course. “If Jeff Davis had put a Henry in charge, instead of that fool Lee, you bet yer ass they’d be flying the Stars an Bars over the Potomac today.”

Out of pure spite, historians never gave the Henrys their due, Granny said. “Do you know who invented the automobile?”

I shrugged. “Henry Ford?”

“Horse shit!” she screeched. “Is that what they teach children in those Michigan schools? Well, they got it backwards—it was Ford Henry, not Henry Ford.”

Just as Granny was recounting the exploits of Ace Henry, fighter pilot in the Great War, Craw broke in from behind. He cleared his throat and bowed. “Pardon me, miss, but I need to borrow this boy for a moment.”

I turned around and caught a glimpse of dark hair and a red dress. When I stood up, I realized it was Sarah. Craw stood between us. “Tobias Henry, I’d like you to meet the girl who puts the rose in Glen Rose, Miss Sarah Hawthorn.” He put our hands together.

It must have been the beer emboldening me, because I bowed and touched her fingers to my lips. Craw poked me in the ribs. “I knew you’d learn fast.”

Then he turned to Granny, who was stuffing a pinch of snuff under her lip. “And who might this lovely lady be?”

“Granny, meet Craw,” I said. “Craw, Granny.” I whispered in Craw’s ear—“Just try taking
her
back to your shed.” Craw grinned, tipped the brim of his white hat, and sat down in my place.

Granny gave him a squint. “How the hell am I related to you?”

“Well, now,” Craw said. “Surely you remember Moses Henry, the great explorer?”

I didn’t get to hear the rest of his story, because Sarah tapped my shoulder. “Your excuse is here.”

“A fine excuse.” We snuck away, walking so close that my sleeve brushed against her bare arm. “Especially in that dress.”

Sarah tugged at the waist. “This old thing? Mama sewed it from some feed sacks.”

I touched the sleeve. It was coarse fabric all right, but I’d never seen a scarlet feed sack. “How’d she get it that color?”

“Soaked it in wine.”

“Better not stand too close. I might get drunk.” I already felt tipsy.

Sarah put her hands on my shoulders. “Sorry—I forgot Baptists can’t drink.”

“They can’t dance, either.”

“So what are we going to do?”

I carefully placed my hands on her waist. “I’m a bad Baptist.”

+ + +

When Old Squeal’s bones were picked clean, Wilburn, JP, and the others brought out their instruments and tuned up. At the front of the tent, a row of hay bales marked the dirt dance floor.

Uncle Will called out a “one, two, three,” and the Golden Melody Makers kicked up a swing tune I recognized from the
Texas Stampede
. Wilburn strummed his banjo and sang:

Chicken in the bread pan peckin’ out dough,

Granny will your dog bite, no child no;

Hurry up boys and don’t fool around,

Grab your partner and truck on down.

Ida Red, Ida Red,

I’m a plumb fool ’bout Ida Red.

Sarah tugged my sleeve. “Well? Let’s see your steps, Toby—”

My mouth went dry. I’d been expecting to square dance, which wasn’t really dancing so much as sashaying around while somebody tells you where to go. I had no idea how to swing dance. I’d never held a girl’s hand, much less held a girl’s hand while moving my feet in rhythm. Not even the beer could save me now.

As she took my hands, I was watching out of the corner of my eye to see how others were doing it. Sarah swung her arms, stamped her feet, and rocked back. I almost tumbled over on top of her.

“Silly,” she said. “You’re supposed to pull me back.”

“Got it.” I nodded like it was all a simple misunderstanding. Like somehow, I’d thought we were
supposed
to fall flat on our faces. Then I took her hands again, counting out the beats inside my head. I stomped along with her a few times, then landed my boot on top of her bare toes. “Shit—” she let go and grabbed her foot. There was no explaining that one away. I was a bad Baptist and a worse dancer.

Sarah bravely took my hands a third time, and by the last verse I started to get the hang of it.
Tap-tap, tap-tap, rock back
…

My ol’ missus swore to me,

When she died she’d set me free;

She lived so long her head got bald,

Then she took a notion not to die at all.

Ida Red, Ida Red,

I’m a plumb fool ’bout Ida Red.

“You can twirl me if you like,” Sarah said.

“Sure you want to take that risk?” My head was already twirling as it was. Sarah let go of one hand, lifted the other above her head, and spun around under it. Then she wrapped herself inside my arm, turning till she bumped flush against me. Glancing down, I caught a glimpse of paradise down her dress front. Thankfully, the song ended before my body had a chance to react.

Sarah stepped back and tucked her hair behind her ears. “What are you smiling about?”

“You’ve got a nice form.” The beer made me as bold as Craw.

She raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ve got a nice shape to you, that’s all.”

She laughed. “I’ve got the same shape as a washing board, silly.”

I didn’t tell her so, but that was one washing board I wanted to see.

Why do girls always fret about chest size? The fact that a girl
has
breasts is the exciting thing—doesn’t matter how large they are. Sarah’s might have been on the small side, but they crowned her body like rubies on a delicate silver band.

+ + +

Across the tent, I saw Craw leading Granny onto the dance floor. Were they really holding hands? Craw whispered something in her ear, and Granny giggled and slapped his chest.

Wilburn called out over the crowd, “Y’all feeling good?” Everyone cheered. “Then why not kick off your boots and stay a little longer?” At that cue, JP dragged the bow across his fiddle, giving off a whine that made the hairs on my neck stand up. Bass and guitars joined in, then Uncle Will’s voice.

Sitting in the window, singing to my love,

Slop bucket fell from the window up above;

Mule and the grasshopper eatin’ ice cream,

mule got sick, so they laid him on the green.

Stay all night, stay a little longer,

Dance all night, dance a little longer;

Pull off your coat, throw it in the corner,

Don’t see why you can’t stay a little longer.

Craw and Granny went whirling past us, hand in hook. Craw looked at me over his shoulder. “Why are Baptists against fornication?”

“I don’t know.”

“They’re afraid it might lead to dancing.” Then he twirled Granny till she crowed with delight.

Grab your partner, pat her on the head,

If she don’t like biscuits, feed her cornbread;

Girls around Big Creek, bout half grown,

Jump on a man like a dog on a bone.

Stay all night, stay a little longer,

Dance all night, dance a little longer;

Pull off your coat, throw it in the corner,

Don’t see why you can’t stay a little longer.

To me, the Melody Makers sounded at least as good as the bands on the radio. Could Uncle Will be right that Father had the best voice in the family? I’d only heard him sing God-awful hymns.

After a couple more swing tunes, Granny jumped up on top of a picnic table and called out a square dance. We sashayed, do-si-doed, flutterwheeled, passed the ocean, and promenaded for at least an hour. Square dancing wasn’t half as easy as I expected. While Granny stomped, clapped, and hollered, I dodged and wove my way through the traffic, trying to avoid collisions.

In between reels, Craw pulled me aside and whistled. “Your grandmother is one firecracker of a lady.”

“Granny?”

He shook his head. “If only she and I were younger …”

I put my hands over my ears. “Don’t talk about my grandmother that way—that’s sick.”

“Oh, I don’t mean it
that
way.” Craw put his arm around my shoulder. “I assure you, my boy—my intentions towards her are purely platonical.”

By the time the sun started to sink, the Henry men had drunk too much to walk straight and the women had great rings of sweat under their arms. “Let’s wind it down,” Uncle Will said, “with an ole-timey waltz. Just like the good ol days.” At first, I didn’t recognize the song:

I’m dreaming dear of you, day by day

Dreaming when the skies are blue,

when they’re gray;

When the silv’ry moonlight gleams,

still I wander on in dreams,

In a land of love, it seems, just with you.

I held Sarah’s hand and put my hand on her back. She smiled up at me. “Lead me wherever you want to go, Toby.”

“I don’t know how.”

“It’s as easy as sliding in a box,” Sarah said. I mirrored her steps as she counted out the beats—
one
-two-three,
one
-two-three … It was easy, as long as I forgot about what my right hand was doing against the curve of Sarah’s back.

Then Uncle Will started on the chorus:

Let me call you sweetheart, I’m in love with you.

Let me hear you whisper that you love me too.

Keep the love-light glowing in your eyes so true.

Let me call you sweetheart, I’m in love with you.

It was the song Father sang to Mama the day they met, the one that swept her off her feet. Only this time, I was the one getting swept off my feet. Sarah might not have been pretty in the usual way, but it was her little quirks that got to me. Her freckles, pointy eyebrows, the fine, downy hairs on her arms, the way she smelled. Other girls powdered over their skin, plucked their hairs, perfumed their hair. Sarah was a wild rose—graceful without trying, beautiful without knowing it.

Whether it was love, lust, or just the effects of beer and a wine-colored dress, I didn’t know. But I was smitten.