Smoke on the Mountain, page 17
When a soft smile played over her face and a tenderness shone in her eyes, Homer could contain himself no longer. Grabbing her in his arms roughly, he pressed his mouth upon her open lips. For a moment she appeared to yield, for all her strength gave way to the warmth that swept over her body and tingled into her shoes. Then an awareness came to her and she pushed against him with such violence he fell to the ground. He lay there, staring up at her foolishly.
Jurie stood with her arms folded over her breasts, pressing hard against the fast beating of her heart, afraid of the emotion that shook her.
“If you ever do that again, Homer Simmons, I’ll knock hell out of ye!”
Homer stumbled to his feet. “I reckon it pleases me enough knowing no other man has made ye know yourself, Jurie. I ain’t never felt this way, either. I’ll be waitin’ around and when ye say th’ word, we’ll run off and get married.”
“Why, Homer Simmons, if you run off and leave old Grandma after what she’s done fer you, I wouldn’t put no dependence in ye a-tall!”
“Don’t go makin’ excuses, Jurie. Don’t take but a day to get married and Grandma won’t mind bein’ by herself that long. And remember, Aaron can’t do a thing once you’re married. It ain’t far over to your house if Ophie needs ye.”
Jurie turned and walked down the trail, calling back, “I ain’t trustin’ myself squirrel huntin’ in th’ woods with you, Homer Simmons.”
Homer ran up and joined her again. “Look, Jurie, don’t let me keep ye from comin’ to Grandma’s. I can’t help lovin’ ye, can I? But, if ye don’t want me close, then I won’t. I thought maybe you’d help Grandma with th’ sausage while I cut wood. It’s awful hard, Jurie, just with a axe. Can’t ye come tomorrow?”
“Maybe,” she called back.
Homer stood in the path until Jurie was out of sight, then he threw back his head and laughed lustily. Funny how he’d worried about courting a girl. Why, there wasn’t nothin’ to it a-tall. Grandma was right; a woman did have nature just like a man, only it was a woman’s way to be sorter shy and slow. He’d be more careful from now on.
Breaking into a run, he left the protection of the woods and entered the cleared space back of Grandma’s cabin. A wind, keen and biting, struck his face and he looked toward the mountains across the hollow. It was snowing up there; every peak showed white. A couple of days and it would reach this cove and he didn’t have enough wood cut. He wished now he had left that hog for another time. A whole day of work and it wasn’t finished yet. Stepping into the kitchen for the milk pail, he found Grandma standing over the range, stirring fat in an iron kettle.
“Gosh A’mighty, Grandma! You still at that hawg business? You ought to be in bed. I can do it tomorrow.”
“No ye won’t, Homer. Tomorrow is for wood and don’t be botherin’ about this lard. I’m just boiling out a bit of grease to make some cracklin’s. I been hankerin’ fer some cracklin’ bread. You like it?”
“Sure I do. I like everything ye cook, Grandma.”
Grandma turned, smiling. “You looked at yourself in that big lookin’ glass lately?” she asked.
Homer turned at the door, holding the milk pail. “No, why?”
“I reckon you’re lookin’ more of a man ever day, gettin’ taller and fillin’ out here and there.”
“Gee!” Homer ran across the barn lot, swinging the milk bucket.
Next morning, he rose from the table, smiling over yesterday. “You think Jurie would make a good wife, Grandma?” he asked.
“Wouldn’t do no good what I thought, feelin’ as you do about her, Homer. A man in love ain’t got no sense, blind as a bat. A woman in love is worse. The stronger her feelings, the less her strength against it. I just don’t know about Jurie. She’s a Biggers.”
“Well,” he said, reaching for his cap and opening the door, “she won’t be a Biggers long.”
Grandma sat on at the table, having no strength nor will to do otherwise. Not in a long time had she done such work as yesterday. That was a mistake, she should be saving herself. Queer, these spells she was having.
She came to herself with a start and rose to gather the dishes. The door opened suddenly and Jurie ran in.
“Grandma, Ma’s havin’ pains and Pa didn’t come home last night from Lige Holder’s. I’m awful scared, Grandma. Reckon you could come over? Pa’s got th’ team and I had to come on foot, and I run th’ whole way.”
“How many months is Ophie?” Grandma asked.
“She says seven but she might be wrong and, anyhow, she likely worked too hard on th’ butcherin’. She said tell
ye th’ water’s done broke.”
That last remark galvanized Grandma to action and made her forget the strange feeling of weakness. “Run quick, Jurie. Call Homer off th’ ridge and tell him to hitch up!” she ordered.
Jurie flew through the door and Grandma began to gather her bags and bottles. She fumbled in her haste to dress, choosing the warm new stockings and shoes the doctor had brought her, buttoning the sweater close to her throat. On top of the coat she put the rain cape, then her woolen cap.
“Grandma,” Jurie said, laughing, “it ain’t that cold. Why, ye look plumb stuffed!”
Grandma didn’t answer. She climbed into the wagon and looked back at Homer, who stood on the porch smiling up at Jurie.
“If I ain’t back by dark, Homer, come after me. I don’t want no fussin’ with Aaron if he turns up.”
Homer nodded and Jurie drove through the gate and whipped the mule to a trot. Grandma pulled herself into her wrappings until only her small wizened eyes peeped out. “Sleet in them clouds,” she said in a muffled voice. “Winter’s comin’ early this year and it’ll be th’ worst one you ever seen.” She glanced up at Jurie, who was wearing one of Aaron’s old hats turned up in front, a ragged coat open and blowing in the wind. Yep, Jurie was beautiful.
“Grandma, any way of tellin’ if that baby is a boy?” Jurie asked.
“Not till ye see it,” Grandma answered. “Makes me think of Homer when Effie was born. He was a little tad about six, I reckon. When I was leavin’, he run out to the wagon and asked me did I know they had a new baby. ‘Is it a boy or a girl?’ I asked.
“ ‘I don’t know,’ Homer yelled. ‘I didn’t see nothin’ but its head.’ ”
When Jurie drove on, solemn and unsmiling, Grandma continued. “Ye look just like your pa now, Jurie. I never saw Aaron laugh over nothing. Why, his smile is so crooked it’s made a mean line in his face.”
“I ain’t got no quarrel with anybody over Pa, Grandma.”
“Then, for Gowd’s sake, let him be a lesson to ye, Jurie. Stop actin’ like somethin’ without feelings. You got spirit, but your pa’s got ye in a harness. How long ye aim to let him drive ye?” Jurie made no reply as she turned the team into the yard and brought the wagon to a stop by the back door.
Maudie ran out to meet them, white and shaken. “Ma’s dead,” she said. “She gave a yell and then laid down. She won’t say nothin’.”
Jurie helped Grandma to the ground. Tying the mule to the side fence, she ran into the house, calling to Maudie.
"Keep Bertie in the kitchen, Maudie, and stuff that stove till it roars!”
Grandma walked into the house and found the other children sitting around the bed, pale and solemn.
“Ma’s dead, Grandma,” Hannah said, her lip trembling.
“No, your ma ain’t dead, honey. Take the two little ’uns upstairs and get in bed till I call ye.”
“I don’t wanta go,” Ellie yelled. “I aim to see th’ baby come.”
Jurie laid hands on Ellie and spanked her up the loft
steps. Then she closed and locked the door against her cries of rage. The next hour ushered Jurie into the gruesome realization of life’s greatest secret.
“Nothin’ to worry over now, Ophie,” Grandma said later. “Here, drink this hot toddy and go to sleep.” Grandma reeled drunkenly against the headboard.
“Is it a boy?” Ophie asked weakly.
Grandma hesitated, then decided the truth was best. “The baby was a boy but it was born dead. I wish I could a- helped ye give this son to Aaron. You’ve been workin’ too hard, Ophie, and it’s Aaron’s fault. This is God’s punishment on him, running around doin’ injustice to people and payin’ no mind to his family. Maybe it’ll learn him a lesson.” Grandma pulled the covers around Ophie’s shoulders, then turned and limped toward the fire. “Get me some hot water and some sugar, Jurie.”
In the kitchen Maudie sat by the stove holding Bertie in her small arms.
“Is it over, Jurie?” Maudie asked. “I think I’ll go out and sit in th’ hayloft.”
“You’ll do no such thing, Maudie Biggers! Your days of hidin’ off is over. Hand Bertie to Grandma. If anything happens to him, Pa’ll kill ever’ one of us.”
Grandma sat sipping her toddy, gazing down on Bertie reflectively. “Heat a cup of morning’s milk and hand me that whiskey bottle, Jurie,” she said, finally.
“Why, Grandma!”
“Do as I say and stop standin’ there lookin’ like a ninny!”
Grandma lifted Bertie to her lap and with a spoon began to feed him what she called upholstered milk. Bertie
grabbed at the spoon and almost overturned the cup.
“Look at the pore little thing. Starved plumb to death, Jurie. That’s all in th’ world that’s wrong with this young’un. See th’ color comin’ in his face?”
Jurie walked over and opened the loft door and the three young ones crept quietly into the room.
“Maudie,” Jurie directed, “take th’ kids to th’ barn and hunt th’ eggs.” Hannah hung back and Jurie leaned over and whispered to Grandma.
“Shore,” Grandma answered. “It can’t hurt her. Come here, Hannah, and get some of Grandma’s good tonic. It’ll make ye grow strong, like Maudie.”
A silence fell on the room suddenly and Grandma looked up to see Aaron standing in the doorway. “What’s goin’ on around here?” he demanded. Grandma handed Bertie to Jurie and limped across the floor. At that moment Aaron saw Ophie in bed.
“Oh, it’s come. It’s a boy, ain’t it?” The look on Aaron’s face was the only soft expression Grandma had ever seen there. She stood looking at him in pity and the words she meant to say did not come.
“It was a boy, Aaron, but it was borned dead. I sure am sorry, ’cause it’s th’ last baby I’ll ever bring.”
Aaron turned to Grandma and his happy look turned to grief and disappointment.
“You almost lost Ophie, too, Aaron,” Grandma went on. "You’ll lose her yet if ye don’t take better care of her.”
Anger flooded Aaron’s face now and the look he gave Grandma was calculating and suspicious.
“Funny thing to me you can bring Jed’s kids all right. I reckon you didn’t half try. I reckon you’re glad,” he accused.
“You never have thought about anybody exceptin’ yourself, Aaron Biggers. If you’d stayed home where ye belong, did th’ hard work you left Ophie, that baby could a-been borned alive. It’s your fault, so don’t go blaming nobody else.”
“Shut up!” Aaron shouted. Pushing Grandma roughly aside, he walked over to the bed. Ophie moaned and Bertie awakened with a scream. Hannah ran to the back door and Maudie scampered up the steps to the loft.
Jurie looked down at two-year-old Mona, clutching at her skirts, then over to Grandma who stood in the middle of the floor, her hand trembling violently on her cane.
“Get your wraps, Grandma, and I’ll take you home,” she said.
“You’ll do no such thing,” Aaron yelled. “Let her drive her own stolen mule and her own stolen wagon. She hates me, always has. She done this a-purpose.”
Grandma whispered to Jurie. “Give your ma another toddy and spike it strong. Don’t worry over me, I hear Homer in the yard.” Grandma slipped through the door and closed it quietly behind her.
“You don’t look so strong, Grandma,” Homer said, when he drove her into her yard. “Wait and let me help ye down.” Jumping to the ground, Homer reached up and lifted Grandma from the wagon seat and stood there holding her in his arms.
“Why, Granny, you’re jest as little as Effie; don’t weigh nothin’ a-tall.” Walking up the steps and into the cabin, Homer deposited Grandma on her brass bed.
“Want I should take off your shoes and pull th’ covers back?” he asked, worried. She didn’t even seem to hear what he said. When she lay back on the pillows, he removed her shoes, then, turning her gently, he pulled off the coat and rain cape and threw the quilt over her. He stood by the bed anxiously. Perhaps he shouldn’t leave her but he must get to that wood while he could. There was a moisture in the air, a promise of sleet and snow. By tomorrow that trail to the ridge might be slick as glass and to get that old mule up and down would be impossible. Those logs out in the yard wouldn’t last two weeks and Grandma had said that when winter struck, it would hold without breaking.
He leaned over the bed and tugged at her sleeve. ‘‘Want me to heat ye some coffee?” he whispered.
Grandma stirred. “Get me a cup of whiskey from that jug on th’ shelf, Homer. Then hand me one of them pink pills Doc Mayberry left. I’m just tired and I reckon a bit of sleep will fix me up. Don’t worry, honey.”
Opening the back door later, Homer reached for the axe and sped up the slope to the ridge. He shivered in his thin overalls and jumper. Once he stopped and looked over in the direction of the Biggers farm. “Jurie,” he whispered.
His axe rang out in the woods, and choosing pines and oaks of a foot thickness and because they would be of a size easier to handle, he laid them to the ground with a number of strokes unbelievable in a boy of his apparent strength. Stripping off the limbs was the part he hated most. When he had a goodly amount on hand, he decided to get the mule and drag what he could down to Grandma’s yard. As he started down the trail, a fine drizzle hit his face and his spirit fell. If it only didn’t sleet. If it would
just rain instead and not crust the ground, he’d be able to get those logs off that ridge in no time.
The old mule balked, realizing what the chains meant, but Homer was in no mood for persuasion. He beat and urged it on, one trip after another until the last of his cut logs lay in Grandma’s yard. Although night was near he didn’t stop.
I’ll go back and lay down one of them big hickories, he thought. By mornin’, the mule will be fresh to drag it. Old Bess lowed as Homer led the mule into the bam. Throwing down corn and hay for both animals, he made for the ridge trail on a run. He was frightened. He could not remember a single day at Grandma’s when he hadn’t worked the entire daylight. He should have remembered that wood could not be left to the last. The rain had turned to a fine flying snow and that was a bad sign.
Homer chose a tall hickory nearest home and sunk his axe deep. The chips flew and perhaps because each stroke brought from him a grunt in exertion, he did not hear the man approach.
“Hey! Don’t you know it’s against the rules to cut that live timber? Plenty of dead stuff around these woods without that, buddy,” the man said gruffly.
Homer rested his axe on the ground and surveyed the forester. “And what business is it of yourn that a feller cuts his own trees?” he asked angrily.
“So you think this is your woods?” he asked.
“This land belongs to Grandma Weller,” Homer answered, “and I work for her. That’s th’ same thing, ain’t it?”
The man turned and without another word started down the trail toward Grandma’s.
Homer ran after him. “Don’t ye go down there worryin’ old Grandma. She’ sick and unsettled in her mind and I ain’t goin’ to have her bothered.” Reaching in his pocket, Homer drew forth a sack of tobacco and started rolling a cigarette.
“Put that down, son,” the man ordered. “No smoking in these woods. And as for that rifle I see leaning against a tree back there, don’t go to shooting around here, either.”
Homer looked at the forester in astonishment, his face red and angry.
“Now let’s get this straight, mister: I reckon you take care of th’ Park and that’s all right by me but this land ain’t th’ Park now and I have my doubts it ever will be. You’re a quarter mile over your boundary, mister, so get goin’!”
The man smiled down at Homer, stepped up to touch the boy’s shoulder, admiring his spirit. Homer drew back and raised the axe.
“You’re a bantam fighter, kid,” he said. “You’re the real goods if I ever saw it. If you ever want a job, come over to the station and call for Brownlow. Remember that name, Brownlow.”
Homer stood, watching the forester disappear through the woods in the direction of Bud Latham’s. He wondered if Bud had sold his land. Well, Grandma must not know this. It would make her sick with worry. Good Gawd! What would a feller want to live up here for if he couldn’t cut wood on his land, couldn’t smoke, and couldn’t hunt game? What sort of livin’ was that? Maybe this was the sort of laws them valley people had.
Homer turned back to his tree but night was so near he could not finish the job. When a squirrel barked above him and he saw him scurry tail up and peep from behind the trunk of a beech tree, he raised his rifle and brought him to the ground, taking perverse pleasure in the act, carrying him by the tail, wrapped around his rifle. Grandma might like some stew for breakfast.
Reaching the house, Homer peeped through the window and saw by the firelight that Grandma was still in bed. He stood there leaning against the wall, cold and tired. Snow was falling thickly now and the ground showed white under a thin mantle. Only the moaning of the wind through the trees broke the deep silence around him. There was something ominous in the atmosphere, some dread that pressed next to his chest and made him afraid. Maybe Grandma was dead! If Sam had not taken old Ezra to the valley, he might be sitting there now in the snow, howling. Shivering in his thin clothes, he opened the cabin door and crept to the bed.
