His cronies have no way of knowing that whenever Grampa would come over to Lilyfield for Sunday lunch, he’d bark at Mama fetch me this, fetch me that. He threw insults and ordered her around. But it wasn’t only her. He talked to Gramma like she was one of his prize retrievers, too. If they tried to enter into a conversation the men were having around the table, Grampa’d cut them off with, “Yap… yap… yap… you girls don’t have one useful brain between ya.”
After they’d cleaned up the kitchen, they’d go for a walk near the garden. Mama would tell Gramma, “Gus doesn’t own you, Ruth Love. You’re not one of his parcels of land. Possession may be ninth tenths of the law, but it isn’t the same as love. Don’t… don’t you see that?” Mama would beg her to get a backbone and Gramma would smile and nod her head, but I think it must be true that you can’t teach an old dog new tricks because I have never heard her tell our grandfather to sit down and shut up. Not once.
I say to Woody, “I’ve been thinkin’. No matter how put off you’ve been by Gramma lately, Mama’d want you to go out of your way for her when she comes this weekend. Play with her dolls, let her show you the pictures in the album, all right? I’ll put Vick’s VapoRub under your nose so you won’t smell her Ben-Gay.” I nudge my sister pretty hard. “Are you or are you not asleep?” Her slow breathing is leading me to believe she is, but she could be playing possum again. I lift up her arm and it drops heavily onto Ivory’s back, which is balled into her tummy. Carefully pulling myself away from the two of them, I remove Sam’s aviator sunglasses off of the dog and place them over Woody’s eyes. They’ll prevent the lightning that’s coming from waking her up. E. J. nailed a bit of galvanized tin over part of the fort last month when I told him we were spending more time up here than in our room, so the two of them will stay dry when the rain finally comes. E. J. sure does come in handy with a hammer. I was such a piglet to him today. I’ll bring him some extra breakfast tomorrow.
I tickle my sister’s cheek one last time, wanting to make sure she’s out. I slipped one of the pills I took out of Papa’s medicine cabinet this morning into our last piece of pecan fudge and fed it to her. They’re the same calming pills he put into Mama’s tea. But unlike what he did to her, me doing this really is for my sister’s own good. I got something important to do and I can’t get worried while I’m gone about Woody wandering off to the Triple S or the hobo camp or Lord knows where.
I tug her thumb out of her mouth and open her fingers. A jagged square of Mama’s shredded chiffon scarf is bunched in her hot palm the way I knew it would be. I kiss every single one of her bit-to-the-quick nails, pat Ivory on the snout, and say, “Watch over her.” The both of them smell like rose soap.
Sticking my flashlight into my shorts, I get the rope between my fingers and lift the fort hatch, reminding myself to watch my step. Papa came back a little while ago from wherever he went. I heard his Lincoln Continental drive up. And I think Uncle Blackie must be around here somewhere, he usually is. His house is down creek from us but since he’s been messing with Lou in the meadow, much to my and Woody’s dismay, he’s over at Lilyfield a lot more than he used to be, which is another good reason to stay on my toes.
A dog is good but not as good as a mother at giving comfort and Woody really needs extra sweet loving. ASAP. I’m sure that the anniversary of Mama’s leaving is going to hit her like a tidal wave. I can already see it coming. She’s going to need something to hold on to, something all in one piece. I’m going into town to break into What Goes Around Comes Around to get my sister a backup boomba.
It’s not stealing to take back something that is rightfully yours.
Is it?
Chapter Nineteen
The C &O runs close enough to Lilyfield that I can hear the train’s clickety clack and the good-bye whistle as it chugs out of Lexington on its way over the mountains to Lynchburg.
The tracks smell as black as they look with tar and oil, but I’ve always thought the train makes a lulling sound. Unfortunately, that chug… chug… chug is not enough to dispel my fears this evening. Besides all the other worries that I got on my mind, these woods that I love to stroll through during the day turn into something straight out of a horror movie once the sun sets. Animals eat each other down to the bone and bats come flying at you. I saw a wolf once, at least I think it was a wolf, E. J. told me it wasn’t. Another night, I heard footsteps behind me and when I turned a man stepped out of the shadows. I could see by his appearance that he was a hobo. His barn door was unzipped and he was lost and in tears. After I gave him directions on how to follow the railroad tracks to the water tower so he could be with his own kind, he hugged me, and I let him, because I hadn’t been hugged in so long. When I told Curry Weaver about that encounter, even though he is a “man of the rails” himself, he warned me to be careful. “I know that seeing someone down on their luck is heartbreaking,” he said, fanning his arm around the hobo camp, “but you’ve got to remember that having nothing to lose is a dangerous way to feel.”
I sure wish I knew Curry’s circumstances and how long he’s intending to stay. Woody is really fond of him and his harmonica. And I like sitting on the trestle with him. Answering his questions makes me feel important. That’s the hardest part about becoming friendly with those travelers. You get to know and like them and off they go.
How nice it must be to hop a train and leave your troubles behind. I’ve been thinking for some time that Woody and me should get away from Lilyfield. Like Mama did. Maybe our leaving for a bit would jar Papa into remembering how much he loves Woody and me. I didn’t know what I had in Mama until she was gone. But the second somebody saw us hustling towards the depot with our suitcases they’d call up to Lilyfield and tell Papa. (Most everybody in town thinks the sun comes up just to hear him crow.)
We could go to Beezy’s, but he knows how much we love her, so that’s the first place Papa would come looking for us. And Mr. Cole has nowhere to put us but in his cottage and Lou lives there. We get enough of her as it is. Sam? He’s who I’d really like to go to, but he’d get in the worst trouble of his life if we got found over there. Besides, his cabin smells like used spark plugs.
That leaves Vera Ledbetter. Even if Papa put pressure on her, she wouldn’t tell where we were. She doesn’t care for him. Vera is one of Mama’s forbidden fruit friends, who’s got a bungalow on Montgomery Street. She lives alone with her parrot so I’m sure she’d be happy to have the company. Vera’s also a professional cook at Slidell’s Drugstore and since all of Woody’s and my clothes are getting as loose as E. J.’s are on him, she could fatten us back up. That could work out just great. I’m going to talk to Woody about that hiding-out idea as soon as I get back from town. (Since Vera has that talking bird, I’m sure my critter-loving sister will be thrilled.)
When I come out of the woods that end at the meadow that butts up to the creek, I can see the Jacksons’ cottage lights shining through the rustling leaves. I’d never tell Lou, but I dearly miss those evenings that Woody and me spent over at their place. Her telling us those bayou stories when she was still nice. Those yummy hush puppies Mr. Cole would do up for us. I can’t remember the last time I ate. I’m so tempted to wander over there, but I can’t. I got a sisterly duty to perform. Maybe when I get back from town. If Lou’s in one of her less wicked moods, I can persuade her to tell us a Rex the alligator tale and Mr. Cole will feed us. I could get Mama’s watch back from her, too. Mr. Cole would make her give it.