Cherokee America, page 37
Puny jumped. “Lord, Lizzie. You sceered me. Why don’t ya give a person a warning?” He picked his handkerchief from his pocket and patted his brow.
“I want to know now.”
Lizzie wore a dress made out of a burlap sack. She was flat-chested, and her feet were bare. She’d perspired at the stove, and there was a path of sweat down her neck. Puny couldn’t recall why he’d found her attractive. But he felt a tug of responsibility for her, and she was, after all, another Negro. Too, Ezell had taken a liking to her. Puny appreciated how difficult that must have been. And he thought when they finally went back to Ohio, they’d probably take Lizzie with them. He knew where the baby’s grave was. Sanders had told him the general location. And told him to look for a sandstone with a golden streak sticking out from the ground. He hadn’t done that himself. But he thought he could lead Lizzie to it. He said, “I’ll meet ya behind the barn.”
They rode to the swale, Lizzie holding Puny’s belt. He stopped when he saw the flat stone close ahead. He hesitated, thinking about whether he should get off and walk with Lizzie over to it. He didn’t really want to do that. He wanted the whole thing behind him. Wanted to stay in good with his wife. To forget his own lust and desire, not only for Lizzie, but for the child. He shifted in the saddle. Said, “It’s over yonder.” He pointed. “Hop off.”
Lizzie slid over the rump and tail to the ground. Hopped back quickly to avoid getting kicked. Puny shifted in his saddle again. When Lizzie was parallel to his leg, she said, “Where?”
Puny pointed. “Over there. Big flat sandstone. Got a gold streak.”
Lizzie looked in that direction. She looked back up at Puny. He seemed like an uncle, or the husband of a friend. But someone who could be contrary and infuriating. She was still irritated over him holding secrets at breakfast. She said, “I see it. Ya don’t hav’ta wait.”
And Puny, so thankful that even his horse felt relief, said, “I’ll get on to work, then.” He turned his steed. Tapped his heels to its side.
Lizzie just stood for a while. The potato plants were dark green and high. Their tops rippled in the wind. The corn in the next field was higher still. Half the height it would grow, but also dark green. The breeze rustled through those leaves and stalks, shaking them like a rattle over a baby’s crib. The swale was surrounded by scrub, with some clearly growing into trees. Her baby would feed those trees. Maybe they would grow into a forest. Reclaim the land, the entire horizon, spread everywhere, in every direction.
Lizzie walked towards the sandstone with more feelings of hope than despair. When she got to the rock, sunlight caught the streak. Made it look like a band of gold wrapped around the stone. The baby. The earth. Lizzie’s heart. She sank to her knees at the edge of the rock. She reached out and touched it. Fingered the gold. The stone was warm. She bent over, lay on her side in the dirt and weeds, and put an arm over the rock. She cried for a while. Her thin body shook. Then she heard a rustling that wasn’t corn. She jumped up. The swale was a snaky place. She’d never been out there before. But everybody in the bottoms knew the kinds of places the snakes liked to nest.
Lizzie looked around for a stick, found one, and picked it up. She suddenly hated for her little girl to be out there. Surrounded by stinky, poisonous snakes. But she couldn’t dig her up. Moving a body would bring a luck so dark she’d never overcome it. So she listened again for the snake. Mustered her loudest voice: “Come out where I can see ya. I’ll beat yer ass to death.” And because she knew cottonmouths move in pairs, she added, “And yer mama’s ass, too.”
But Lizzie didn’t hear any more rustling except that of the crops. She tapped her stick against the ground and said, “Cowards.” She turned around and started through the potatoes, hoping she’d live to see the day that snaky swale was cleared, the snakes run out, the ground turned over, and food grown there. She knew that was unlikely to happen soon, but she was planning to live a long life. She said under her breath, “I’ll be back. I won’t ever leave ya.” And then, because she’d been so out of her head when she’d given birth, she started thinking on a name for her baby.
The Women’s Plan
Connell told his mother he had business in town. He was taking an extra shirt with him. There was a dance at the corner that night. He wouldn’t dance, out of respect for his father, but she shouldn’t worry or wait up. He’d stay at the Benges’. Or bring one of them back with him. He kissed Check on top of her head, a place she didn’t much like being kissed. And that, in particular, reminded her that Connell was grown up, and could do almost whatever he wanted. He’d been even less forthcoming under questioning than had his brother. She didn’t kiss him back; she tapped him on the thigh. And as soon as he left for the barn, she went hunting for Hugh. In the kitchen, Ezell told her he’d taken Clifford and Otter fishing. Hadn’t mentioned where to.
Next, she asked if Puny had said anything interesting. And, disappointed with Ezell’s answer, she took the breakfast slop to the chickens. She talked tough to the hens. They didn’t pay any attention. They were busy pecking scraps. And that got Check to thinking about what scraps might be thrown to the men to loosen them up. She mulled on that more while she pumped and carried water to fill the chickens’ tins. But she didn’t arrive at anything she thought would prime the men’s pumps. She went back to the house feeling glum. Not looking forward to a day that was turning hot and humdrum.
Lizzie returned from the swale, washed her face, hands, and arms, changed her dress, and went to the kitchen to work on the noon meal. She didn’t want to talk to Ezell about her morning. So as soon as she crossed the threshold, she started in on the mystery of how Turtle’s murderers had been killed. Ezell was still busting with the same curiosity. She fell into that line of talk rather quickly. Then both women turned to how irritating Puny had been. They extended their irritation to all the men.
So, after the hands came in for their meal, but before the cleaning up, the two cooks approached Check with a plan: none of the guilty men would get decent food until they served up what the women wanted. “Life goes both ways” Ezell was heard to say.
Check said, “It sure does.”
Lizzie added, “You betcha.”
Ezell’s Advice
Hugh returned from the river with a stringer of fish and two dirty boys. He sent Cliff to the house for clean clothes, and Otter to the kitchen for a pan. He drew water from the pump into buckets, and when the boys returned, told them to strip. He doused them, and they screamed with delight. Then he handed them soap, and poured water over them again. Afterwards, he gutted the fish on the pump’s platform, threw entrails to chickens, cleaned his arms to the elbows, and washed the back of his neck. Then he tucked the pan under his arm, and entered the kitchen with it tilted in Ezell’s direction. He said, “Lookee here.”
“Whooee, he’s a granddaddy.” Ezell pointed to the largest fish.
“Bass. Caught him at the rocks on the bend.” Hugh set the pan on the table.
“You let the little boys fish?”
“Cliff fished. Otter’s more interested in making forts out of sand and rocks.” Hugh pulled out a chair. Sat down at the table. Ezell took the pan to the sink, poured out the water, pumped more in, and added salt. She set the pan on the counter and covered it with an old flour sack. When she turned, Hugh was still there. He said, “You think we could have fish for dinner?”
“Don’t see why not.” She would have to burn his, and cook the others just right. She wasn’t sure exactly how she would manage that. “You ain’t going to the dance?”
“Can’t dance in mourning.” Hugh glanced up at a cleaver on a hook over the table. He’d never liked it hanging there, and had an irrational fear it would suddenly drop. Cut off an arm, hand, or finger. He usually envisioned the appendage as his. And the accident occurring when he was reaching for more potatoes, meat, or green beans.
Ezell looked at the stones of the floor. Hugh loved his daddy and missed him. But Hugh not dancing didn’t sound right. She said, “I believe yer brother’s already off to town.”
“He’s sparking. That’s different. Florence expects attention.”
Ezell thought Connell would dance a jig for Florence for the rest of his life. But, since shot, Hugh hadn’t been off the farm except to bury his daddy, hunt Jenny, bring his mother the wagon, and ride with the posse. He hadn’t had any fun. She said, “No cockfights tonight? Are they off-limits?”
Hugh looked at the cleaver. “They’re sorta brutal for no reason.”
“Horse races? Ya got that nice track.”
Hugh put his hands on the table and started up.
Ezell said, “I made a pie this morning.”
Hugh sat back down. He’d spied it and had lingered out of pie lust.
Ezell turned her back, reached in the drawer for a pie server. She was reaching for a plate when she said, “Puny Tower won’t tell me nothing. Won’t tell me what happen to those killers. Won’t tell me what happen down there at that bawdy house.” She turned around. “Whatever that was, ya might as well go on and hold yer head up. None of us gets out without sompthing bad happening. Think on Lizzie and that baby. Ya think I enjoyed that much?”
Hugh brushed his hair back with his hand. “I imagine not. You aren’t guilty, though. I am.”
Ezell cut a slice, slid it onto a plate, and held it out. It was against the plan, but she felt mercy, and would burn his fish anyway. “Here. There’s redemption for us all. That’s what the Lord says. Eat up.”
The Perfect Time of the Evening
Connell escaped the females’ food plot for supper by taking Florence for a buggy ride on the road towards the Cherokee National Cemetery. Before reaching it, they turned north onto the ruts to the US Army’s burial ground. At its entrance was a cabin. During the day, a soldier was stationed there. But it was late in the afternoon and a dance was in town, so the spot was deserted. The air was cooling, the breeze gentle, and the trees throwing shade on the ground. Connell spread a quilt under a cluster of elms at the edge of the graves. Florence pulled a picnic supper from a basket.
They talked wedding plans. And where they’d live after they married. Florence didn’t want to live in the bottoms, and in all practicality, they couldn’t bunk with Hugh. But the farm wouldn’t run itself; and Connell couldn’t ride in to work in the dark of the mornings, and ride home alone in the dark of night in the winter. They talked about building their own house, of sandstone, close to the Military Road. It would be expensive, but Florence’s mother was a wealthy woman; and unlike her father and Check, didn’t have to reinvest her money in running a business. They decided on a plan of Check supplying the land and Suzanne paying for the house. That was settled—at least, between them—by the time the sun dipped into the trees and the sky turned pink. And by then, too, Connell had brought out a bottle of port wine, and had confirmed in his mind they were far enough out in the country to be safe from company.
He scooted closer to Florence. Whispered in her hair. She giggled. They drank a little more port. Connell slipped his fingers to the buttons of Florence’s blouse. The lump in his trousers had been hard for a while. Florence had noticed, and found it attractive. Connell kissed her neck. He undid the next two buttons. The top curve of Florence’s right breast emerged. It was so soft and smooth that Connell couldn’t resist. He kissed it. Presently, he swung a leg over Florence’s skirt. Started work on her corset. He needed help, and Florence’s smaller fingers knew its tricks. But once Connell’s hand was inside, cupping her right breast, Florence put her hand over his. She said, “We have to be careful.”
“Hum?” Connell kissed her neck again. Played with her nipple. Moved his leg further up her skirt towards her hip.
“I can’t get in a family way.”
Connell paused. He’d thought continually of Hugh’s tip. Figured it was the time to mention it. He wasn’t sure how. He said, “I got some information.”
“From who?”
“A safe source.”
“Who?”
“That’s confidential.”
Florence leaned away. She tucked her breast into her corset.
“Don’t, baby.” Connell wrapped his fingers around hers.
“Tell me, then.”
Connell straightened his leg. Adjusted the lump in his pants. He reached in the basket for the port and held it up. Florence shook her head. He poured himself some, took a sip, and, while searching for an answer, tried to look like he was weighing whether it was ethical to reveal his source. He said, “Well,” and examined his glass.
“Well?” Florence tied her corset strings into a bow. She started buttoning her blouse.
“Well, I read it in a book.”
Florence stopped buttoning. “What’d it say?”
Connell looked to the horizon. The sky was filled with faint wisps. The sun almost down. “It said the best way to keep a family from expanding is to use another opening.”
Florence looked down the hill to the gravestones. They stood in straight rows, and still white in the fading light. She couldn’t imagine what the book recommended. “And that would be?”
Connell took another sip. He looked off towards the graves also. “Well, couples who really love each other, and who, you know, aren’t in a position to start a family . . . maybe because they don’t yet have a house . . . or because they’re in mourning . . . and they can’t get married solely because of that . . . they make accommodations.” He sat his glass on a wooden tray. He rubbed the lump in his trousers.
Florence’s eyes went to Connell’s hand. She felt a tingle between her legs. She’d never really gotten a good look at Connell’s equipment. She licked her lips. “What kind of accommodations?”
Connell moved his hand to his belt. Started unbuckling it. “Well, the woman kisses the man down below.”
“Down below where?”
Connell slipped the leather out of the buckle. Undid his top button. “Down here. Where my hand is.”
Florence looked off at the graves. Her brow knotted. “Kisses his trousers?”
Connell wanted to sound confident. “No, silly thing, kisses his you-know.”
“His ‘you-know’?” Florence fastened another button on her blouse.
Connell didn’t take that as a good sign. “Baby, have some mercy on me.” He rubbed himself again.
Florence said, “You mean, she kisses his cock?”
Connell was sort of shocked Florence said “cock.” But also relieved. She understood. “Yes, his cock. Then that makes him expel his seed, and it’s in the kiss . . . not in her you-know.”
Suddenly, the graves came quite into Florence’s focus. She pulled her chin in. Fastened her top button without looking down. She looked at Connell. Her eyes went to slits. “You’ve got to be out of your mind.” She placed a hand to the ground and hopped up. “What kind of filthy book did you read that in?”
Connell’s heart sank to his crotch. But he hoped to salvage something. He spread his arms and showed his palms. He widened his eyes. “One in my parents’ study. You know there’re a lot of books in there.”
“You have a book in your house that recommends that?”
“Yeah, it’s on a shelf with some books on breeding cattle.”
“Breeding cattle?”
Connell realized that was a mistake. He buckled his belt and pushed up also. “There’re all sorts of other books in there, too. I just didn’t want to embarrass us by asking anyone anything.”
Florence crossed her arms in front of her breasts. She tapped her foot. She was never going to kiss his cock. But she wanted some loving as much as Connell did. So she didn’t want to tell him that. In fact, she thought she wouldn’t tell him that until the stone house was built and they were married. She said, “I appreciate that. I’m just . . .” She looked down at the quilt. “I just have to trust you. You’ve got to always pull out, Connell. It’s not my fault we can’t get married yet. And if I get in a family way, we’ll have to get married in spite of the mourning. That would set me off on the wrong foot with your mother. Can you understand that?”
“I do,” Connell said. “I do, baby. You’re the most important thing in the world to me.” He stepped closer. Put his arms around her. “I want to do this right.”
Florence looked around Connell’s shoulder. It was now dark enough that they probably wouldn’t be seen. But not so dark that the gravestones felt threatening. And the lightning bugs made the whole hillside look romantic. It was the perfect time of the evening.
3
Justice
The Marshals Come to Town
They were hungry. They stopped first at Nash’s store. It’d have jerky, canned goods, and food out of barrels, and they’d been told the owner was a white man with sympathies towards the United States of America. Tom Rusk saw a boy on a ladder stacking a bolt of denim. He called, “Mr. Taylor in the store?”
Jim was afraid he’d lose his balance and tip the ladder if he turned around. He said, “You probably walked past him. Was on the porch.” He pushed the bolt towards the wall.
Rusk looked out the window. Men were leaning on posts and lining a bench. Two were in rockers, hunched over a checkerboard. Rusk said, “Which one is he?”
Bowden said, “Can we git sompthing to eat first? I’m powerful hungry.” They’d left out after church on Sunday, ridden hard, and had cooked supper and breakfast for themselves. Bowden wasn’t used to campfire vittles.
Jim shoved the bolt farther in and descended. Once on the floor, he said, “Who’s asking?”
