The Path Was Steep (19 page)

Clarence had shaved and even wore a tie. It wasn’t every day he had the chance to drive a car. We all sat in the front seat, and he mashed the starter. Nothing happened.

Clarence tried again. And again. “Needs hot water,” he said, and hurried to the kitchen and came back with the black kettle, steam spouting from its throat. That didn’t work.

Clarence lifted the hood, jiggled wires, walked around the car, kicked a tire. But Thunderbolt remained silent. “Nobody can start that car!” he snorted, and stalked to the house.

“If it weren’t so far, I’d walk,” Miss Mildred said.

“Why not ride the mules?” I asked.

“Nobody can ride Jack.”

“I’m not afraid of him.”

“You haven’t got sense enough to be afraid,” Papa frowned. “Jack is mean. He’ll kill you.” I looked at Papa in surprise. Jack was his favorite of the two mules. Big Johnny was gentle and slow, but Jack, Papa vowed, “would kill himself if I didn’t make him rest.”

“Sue can ride Jack,” Lee boasted. “She is not afraid.”

That did it. I had to ride him now. We dressed again, in the boys’ overalls this time. Lee and Grayson harnessed the mules and tied blankets on their backs. No saddles on this farm. Papa’s hands waved frantically. I’d kill myself; nobody could ride Jack.

But Sue, unafraid, smiled in her stupidity. Lee brought Jack to the edge of the porch. “Now, now, Sue,” Papa waved. But Sue was off the porch and safely mounted.

Jack looked at me, stretched his neck, and galloped down the lane. “Hurry!” I threw the word at Mildred.

She hurried until Johnny was close behind. Jack was unhappy with another mule that close to his tail. Like a freight train, he shot ahead. We won the race by half a mile. “Whoah!” I sawed at the reins. Jack swerved and galloped back towards the house. We passed Miss Mildred and Johnny. Papa and the boys raced to assist me, but Jack turned again. This was fun!

Johnny had slowed to a walk. We overtook him like a Pony Express rider. Johnny, fired by Jack’s example, entered the race, but Jack wouldn’t let any mule that close to his tail. He increased his speed. “Can’t you hold him?” Miss Mildred called.

“Just keep farther behind.” I pressed my legs to Jack’s sides. This infuriated him. Jack did not like close contact. He bounced and galloped madly. Getting the message, I held my legs wide. Jack slowed to a brisk walk. Once, he even walked beside Johnny a few paces. But when my legs tired and I let them rest against his side, he tried to break the all-time speed record.

The road had puddles of ice. Jack slipped once and knelt on his forelegs as if in prayer. I clung to his neck, my legs tight against his ribs. This indignity he remedied by galloping almost before he regained his feet. But now Johnny was ahead. We sailed past with flying colors.

In record time, we reached Maurine’s house. Lucile was in the yard, pruning shrubbery. She ran to meet us. Jack took an instant aversion to her person and headed back the way he had come. I sawed at his right lip, and he turned. Tommy and Ray, Maurine’s boys, almost grown now, stopped us, held Jack until I could dismount, then tied him to a small tree. I staggered to earth for the usual crying and kissing. Maurine, Cora, Malone, and Verna ran to join us. By the time we had kissed a round or two, Miss Mildred arrived and was helped to the earth.

We babbled away as we selected things from Ezra’s store and tied the packages to the mules. Then it was time to go. Jack and Johnny drowsed peacefully under their trees. “How can we mount them?” Miss Mildred asked. Maurine’s porch was too low to be of any help. She was short, and Johnny was very tall.

“That’s easy,” I said and walked up to Jack. “Hold him, Tommy.” I grabbed a limb and swung high.

At the last second, Jack stepped expertly aside, and I jolted to the earth. A crowd of men from the store stood on the porch to watch. This didn’t increase my poise, but I tried again.

And again, and again.

Jack had never had so much fun. He timed his moves to the split-second. I made feints, then didn’t grab the limb. Just as he was off-balance, I jumped, but he outmaneuvered me and glanced around. His eyes (I solemnly affirm) were twinkling. A chorus of laughter from the watchers made Jack raise his head and give a close imitation of a smirk. Papa could have hired this mule out in Hollywood.

Lucile grew angry at the laughter. “Somebody could help!” she said and ran to grab me by the seat of the pants. She heaved as I swung high again. Jack, interested in this new development, forgot to step aside. I was mounted and ready to go.

So was Jack.

Off we started at a canter. “Whoah!” I shouted. The only language Jack understood was the cut of the bit on his lip. He turned, never lessening his speed, and galloped past the house and store.

Mildred was trying to mount Johnny. Jack turned again at the one signal he understood. We made about six runs back and forth, to the total enjoyment of the onlookers. Dignity forgotten, I held my legs wide to lessen Jack’s speed. Ray finally thought to lead Johnny to a stone wall. Jack and I were making a turn beyond the store when he saw Johnny ahead. He remedied this in a few seconds, and we would have broken our own record on the way home, but adventure was ahead.

A giant road machine came towards us. Johnny, a true Southern gentleman, pulled to the right. But Jack was no gentleman. He had filed claim to the center of the road, and no machine was going to take it from him. He charged straight ahead. But the machine was a giant. At the last minute, Jack turned and started back the way he had come. A driveway circled a house at the side of the road. Jack, obedient to the suggestion of my reins, entered the driveway. We circled the house and were on the road, headed home again. A pair of eyes appeared at the window as we passed.

Then a second machine appeared on the horizon. The first stopped to watch. Jack held his resolution until we were a few feet from the machine. Then he turned and bolted Haig-ward again. I managed to start him into the driveway. We circled the house a second time, and again were homeward bound. Two pairs of eyes were now at the window.

Machine number three now appeared. Jack had begun to enjoy the game. So had the drivers who had passed. Their laughter was loud and appreciative. Jack now fully entered into the spirit of this new game. He came almost nose to nose to the next machine, whirled, circled the house, and was headed towards home and fodder.

A tall woman, wearing a pink sunbonnet on this cold day, now stood on the porch. She carried an enormous fat stomach before her with evident pride. Above the stomach was a waistline that seemed stuffed with pillows. Three abundant chins nestled under the bonnet. Dwarfing a miniature man who stood beside her, the woman clung to his arm and began to chuckle—the most musical yet most infuriating chuckle I had ever heard. The man, short and thin, stood with the pride of a bantam rooster, and his pointed, snowy beard followed every move that Jack made.

I nodded, said “How do you do?” and we entered the main road again. Feet held wide, I sat with as much dignity as possible until this ordeal was over. My business was to get home to my children, if not in good shape, at least alive.

Seven road machines were in that caravan. All of them outwitted at last, Jack, in the center of the road, missed Johnny and galloped ahead. There Johnny was, far down the road. The blanket was thin and Jack’s spine not the most comfortable spot on earth as I bounded up and down.

I wasn’t much help around the house for the next few days, and I took my meals standing. David didn’t write, and I remembered the housing situation in Piper. No one ever moved from Piper, if it were possible to stay. Would we ever, ever be in our own home again?

18

Best Medicine in the World

A slow drizzle had fallen all day. The chickens stood around the doorway, feathers wet, tails drooping. Now and then one tried to sing, but the notes stuck in her throat. The old rooster clucked at an occasional crumb, tried to interest a hen, then clomped sullenly towards the barn.

Any note I tried would have stuck in my throat, too. This last waiting seemed harder than all the times before. Christmas was almost here, and I wanted to be in my own home. No matter how welcome our stay, this wasn’t the best time to visit. Clarence and one or two boys still slept in the cotton house at night.

David, his first week’s work finished, should be here any minute. I made a path from the fireplace to the door to stare into the gloom. Through the mists he came at last, slogging through the mud. Was he limping? I ran into the rain to meet him. As I tried to kiss him, he dodged; then I saw his red nose and watery eyes. “You have a cold,” I accused as if he personally were to blame.

In the house, he dodged the children’s kisses, but they didn’t mind: he’d brought something better, a sack full of candy. Enough to share with all.

Papa was reading his Bible. “How are you, son?” He paused for a minute, then returned to his reading.

“Plenty to eat,” Mildred smiled.

In the kitchen, I went to the old stove, took a match from a box on top of the warmer, struck it, and lighted a kerosene lamp. David’s hair was the brightest thing in the room.

“Do you have a house?” I asked as he wolfed baked potato and milk.

“Not a house for rent in Piper.” He wiped his lips and rolled a cigarette. Seeing my gloom, he said, “We could go back to West Virginia. I haven’t quit my job there yet.”

“Have you completely lost your mind?”

He laughed and shook his head.

Like chickens, the children went to bed at dark. Miss Mildred pulled the churn to the fire, looked at the milk, and went to scald the dasher and lid.

“I’ll draw a bucket of water,” David said when she emptied the black kettle that had been on a bed of coals. He filled it from the bucket and put it on to heat again.

I went to the well with David. The long zinc well bucket leaked so much it took four drawings* to fill the water buckets. David sneezed.

“I’ve got to do something for that cold,” I said.

“Brought my own medicine.” He took out a bottle.

“That won’t do any good!”

“Best medicine in the world,” he said.

“Papa, will whiskey help a cold?” I asked as we came into the house.

“Paw always said it was the best medicine in the world.”

David gave a triumphant grin.

Papa was reading the paper now. He peered over his spectacles. “Bring your own medicine?” he asked.

“Sure did.” David sneezed again, took out his bottle, and handed it to Papa.

He took a drink and returned the bottle. David didn’t stint himself with his own dose of medicine.

“I’ll soak your feet in hot water,” I offered my remedy and went for the washpan. I pulled off David’s shoes and socks and looked carefully at his broken foot. It seemed to be all right.

“Onion is good for a cold,” I said.

Miss Mildred, coming from the kitchen, laughed and held up a big yellow onion.

David soaked his feet, ate onion, and sipped at his bottle. His tongue was thick when he finally went to bed.

The old rooster woke us the next morning. “I never felt better in my life,” David said. “Grandpa was right.”

His cold was certainly better. “It was the onion and soaking your foot,” I affirmed. David was so sure that his remedy had been the cure that he didn’t even bother to argue.

Clarence had spent the night with Forrest and Gert. He came in soon after breakfast. “That car won’t start,” he told David.

“You just don’t know how to start it,” David said.

“That’s what you think.” Clarence fished in his pocket and handed the key to David. We all escorted him to the car.

David raised the hood, hit the motor a few times, jiggled a wire or so, and turned to me. “Bring a kettle of hot water,” he said.

“I tried that.” Clarence was smug.

David filled the radiator and mashed the starter. Thunderbolt protested, chugged, skipped a beat, then bellowed, giving off firecracker sounds a minute or so before he settled to his steady roar.

We had gorged ourselves as usual on sorghum, biscuits and butter, and home-cured bacon. Keeping a fire in the kitchen stove, I bathed the girls; then I closed the doors, went behind the stove, and took a bath. I didn’t know what David had planned, but I knew the day would be exciting. My black wool dress had been steam-pressed and the last of the cotton brushed away. A white linen collar gave it an almost-new look. It was nearing eleven when we all were dressed.

George had been called back to work at Woodward Iron, and we hadn’t seen them. “Let’s go to see Thelma and George,” David suggested.

“Better eat a bite first,” Miss Mildred told us. She took out a pan of sweet potatoes, freshly baked, and poured glasses of thick buttermilk. Thirty minutes afterward, I was all packed and ready.

The gray house was the first on the left after crossing the railroad going towards Bessemer. Soot and grime settled steadily over the area. Thelma saw us at the door and came running, a half-plucked turkey in her hand. George, with his usual luck, had won a turkey in a raffle.

Soot and grime were welcome. They meant that men were working, but none of it was allowed to stay in Thelma’s house, which shone with cleanness and Christmas decorations. She could take pine cones, scraps of red, and greens from the shrubbery and fill a house with Christmas.

Our unexpected arrival didn’t upset her. George helped David with the last of his medicine even though he didn’t have a cold. Ailene and Jean, Sharon and Davene, the wonder of Christmas in their eyes, whispered and laughed and talked.

David and Thelma seemed to have lots to say to each other in private. “Oh, Sue will just die!” Thelma said once, loud enough for me to hear. My ears had been tuned their way.

David has bought me an expensive present, I thought miserably. We had so little money; he should have saved every penny to buy furniture.

He must have read the look of thrift in my eyes but ignored it. “Need to get anything in Bessemer?” David asked after we’d had an early afternoon snack. We had all talked ourselves hoarse. “This is Christmas,” he said, “and my compensation check came yesterday.”