Bittersweet (3 page)

Her twin, Ishmael, nodded. “I slung the snake o’er yonder.”

Gritting her teeth to keep from whimpering, she walked toward the yard-long headless rattler. Others said snake meat tasted good, but Ivy hadn’t ever gotten past her revulsion enough to eat any. Her stomach lurched at the sight, but Ishmael’s hunger kept her resolve strong. She stared down at the hideous reptile. “I’d rather stay hungry, myself, Mr. Snake, but my brother’s belly is growlin’ like a winter-waked bear.”

“What’s holdin’ you up, gal?” Pa shaded his eyes and scowled at her. “Got us that fine meat, jest a-layin thar. ’Tain’t gonna slither its own way into a fryin’ pan.”

“Yes, Pa.” Ivy shuddered and lifted the snake.

“And mind how you skin ’im. I tole Ishmael to make it into a belt or hatband. No use wastin’ somethin’ that’ll put cash money in my hand.”

After dumping the snake by the ring of stones that served as her kitchen fire pit, Ivy grabbed two buckets and hiked over to the small creek. Sluicing water over her filthy hands, she tried to ignore her rippled reflection. On Ishmael, white-blond hair looked fine. On her, it looked as washed out as her one and only dress. Just as scraggly, too. “’Tain’t like nobody’s gonna ever pay me any heed, no how,” she muttered.

The creek wasn’t deep enough to submerge the buckets, so she tilted each, then poured the contents of one into the other.

Having a bucket and a half beat having just two piddlin’ halves.

The water here tasted cool and sweet. Pa had decided since corn grew well for lots of folks in the area, this would be as good a spot as any to stop. Ivy didn’t know whose land it was. She didn’t bother to ask, either.

For the past six years, Pa had been dragging her and Ishmael from one town to the next. The first two years she’d kept hoping they’d finally set down roots and Pa would stop fiddling with his still. Four years back, Ivy gave up that false hope. Pa was jug-bit. ’Twas a sickness, and no one knew the cure. Plenty of folks were more than willing to buy corn likker, but there was always someone who sent the law after them. As a result, she and Ishmael tramped along with Pa to wherever he took a notion to go.

Cagey as could be, Pa had things down to an art—they couldn’t draw attention to themselves, so instead of chopping a lot of logs to build a habitation, they lived in a tent and immediately cleared the land to put in a crop of corn. Folks who noticed figured the Grubbs were like many farmers—barely eking by.

Pa always promised they’d build a cabin and stay, but more often than not, the only thing he and Ishmael constructed was a lean-to. The lean-to wasn’t for shelter; it served as a shield so folks couldn’t see what he was up to.

Ishmael and she tended the corn and gathered wood. A little went for cooking but most fired Pa’s still. In the end, it never mattered that they hadn’t built a cabin. Seven places in six years taught Ivy the only things she could rely on were Pa’s lies, having to pull up stakes and move on, and that Ishmael was the only good thing in her life.

Their first day there, Pa had spent his time pitching the tent—though why it took him from sunup to sundown that first day to do that simple task didn’t bear any scrutiny. Pa didn’t much like having to work. Depending on the day, he’d rub his back or knees or elbows and carry on about how his rheumatiz was kicking up and nobody’d ever know just how much he endured. That suffering was his reason for brewing moonshine—nothing else helped with the pain. He reckoned he was doing a great service by providing his white lightning to plenty of other folks who also suffered.

Over the years Ivy had come to the conclusion that Pa could rightfully claim only one affliction: selfishness. Folks with rheumatiz ended up with knotty hands or scraggly, twisted limbs or a gnarled back. If they didn’t have those, their joints popped and cracked or got all swoll up. Pa—well, if work needed doing, it was one of his “bad” days. Once the work got done, he’d suddenly improve.

Ivy worried that poor Ishmael would probably end up worse than a knotted oak by the time he reached his middle years—what with Pa always making him do the hard work. The way her own back ached might be nasty, but Ishmael never let her do the hardest labor. He loved her. A gal couldn’t have a better brother.

A quick glance at her brother made Ivy wince. He stooped and wrapped his big hands around a stone the size of one of Pa’s kegs. Ivy fought the urge to go help him. Pa would wallop both of them if she didn’t get supper fixed soon.

“Haaa-ehhh!” Ishmael hefted the rock and headed toward the side of the lean-to. “Pa, I got another one!”

“Set it yonder and fetch least four more what’re bigger afore we eat.”

Four? Ivy started to skin the rattler.
I’ve gotta time this right. Pa’s
a-wantin’ chow now, but Ishmael’s gonna catch what-for if he don’t haul four
more stones
.

“My belly’s achin’, gal!” Pa exited from the side of the leanto and scowled at her. “You ain’t even started the cook fire yet.”

“I brung buckets of water, Pa. I’m bein’ mindful like you tell me to. If ’n the fire takes a mind to blaze hot, I cain stop it afore folks catch wind of it at a distance.”

“Wind’s fixin’ to shift.” He tilted his head back and sniffed like a hound dog. “Reset the fire ring to the far side of the tree.”

“Yes, Pa.” Glad to have a task that she could dawdle over to give her brother a little more time, Ivy cast a quick look at Ishmael. He’d started toward another big rock. “Ishmael, betcha I have my rocks moved afore you do!”

He flashed her a grin. “Don’t count on it.”

“Cut out your jawin’ and get busy.” Pa went back to tinker with his copper tubes.

Ivy relocated the stones and created a new cooking pit. The location Pa instructed her to use didn’t seem quite right. A mess of leaves and twigs covered the ground. She scuffed her feet as she walked in an attempt to clear the area.

Ishmael sauntered over and pretended to assess another big rock. “Gimme the snake. I’ll skin ’im for you.”

“I’ll do it. I’m lollygaggin’ so’s you’ll have time to haul the rocks.”

“I’ve been dawdlin’, thinkin’ you needed more time to cook!”

Ivy laughed. “Poor Mr. Snake. He gave his life for your supper, and now we’re both makin’ him wait to be served.”

Ishmael chortled softly as he set his big foot on a stone and shoved against it to loosen it from the ground. Ivy watched him lift the large hunk of granite, and then she used the flint to start the fire. A hundred times or more, she’d thought of leaving Pa, but she couldn’t ever leave Ishmael.

The wind shifted—but not the way Pa had predicted. Sparks hit some leaves, and fire shot across the ground outside the fire pit. Twigs, the pile of firewood, and a lightning-struck ghost tree all ignited.

Ivy jumped into action and tossed the water bucket onto the spreading flames. Ishmael grabbed the shovel and set to work. Pa bellowed loud enough to wake the dead and ran to save his precious copper tubing. “Wet a blanket!” Ishmael called to her.

Ivy did as he bade, and they managed to put out the fire. Pa finally left his still and came over. “You near kilt me! Stupid gal.

I—” His eyes narrowed. “That’s my blanket!”

Ivy looked down at the heavy cloth in her hands. The olivecolored wool was now muddy and mottled with ash. Singed edges and burnt holes made it clear the blanket couldn’t be salvaged.

“My blanket!” he hollered again. “You went and ruint it.”

“I’ll trade you, Pa.” Ishmael stepped between her and Pa. “You cain have mine.”

“You swapped Ivy last winter. A spider web is thicker than yourn. My old bones cain’t take the cold. Gal, what yore a-holdin’ is what’s yourn now. Don’t matter what it is, you spoil ever’thang.”

Ivy chewed on her lower lip.

Pa muttered a stream of cuss words and went back behind the lean-to.

A short time later, Ivy knelt over the frying pan and poked at the segments of snake so they’d turn. “Better we et you than you try to et us,” she muttered. Her stomach cramped from hunger, but she couldn’t convince herself to eat the meat.

Holding the frying pan’s handle securely, Ivy stood and called, “Come and get—” The words died on her lips as a redheaded man on a scrappy little mustang raced into camp.

He pulled back on the reins and surveyed the place. “You’re trespassing.”

“Didn’t see no fences,” Pa said as he sauntered out from behind the lean-to. “Just tryin’ to set down roots and provide for my own. Times are lean, but we’re doin’ our best. Why don’t you come down offa that horse? Join us. My daughter’s got supper ready.”

“Rattler,” Ivy said as she jostled the pan to keep the snake from burning.
Don’t rightly know whether I’m tellin’ him what’s for chow
or warnin’ him ’bout Pa
.

The man frowned at her. “You and your brother—”

“That’d be me.” Ishmael dusted his hands off on the sides of his britches. “I recollect you. You was the feller in town ’bout two months back. You gave me and Ivy them jars of food for holpin’ you tote a mess of ’em into the grocery.”

“I am.” The man nodded curtly. His face remained harsh. “But this land is already claimed.”

“Cain’t blame us. No fences. Nobody improvin’ it.” Pa got his poor-pitiful-me look. “Thunk we was finally set.”

“My family owns clear to the ridge.” The man swept his hand to encompass a sizable area. “We’ve been here for years and have the legal claim.”

“But we ain’t hurtin’ nuthin’ or nobody.” Pa managed to sound like somebody just shot his best coon-huntin’ hound.

“This is my land. You have to leave.”

“Ow!” Ivy grabbed her skirts with her left hand and transferred the frying pan over to that hand. “Sorry. Seems snakes ain’t any better at waitin’ when they’re dead than when they’re alive.”

“Go on and serve it up, lambkin,” Pa said.

She started dishing up the chunks. Pa rarely even called her by her name. Most often it was
gal
said in something akin to a snarl.

“And,” Pa tacked on, “be shore to make up a plate for the gentleman.”

Pa knows we only got three plates. Good thang I didn’t get my mouth all
set for eating tonight
.

“I’ve already eaten.” The stranger’s tone sounded downright polite, all things considered.

“Hope you don’t mind us diggin’ in. We’ve worked up a powerful appetite, and food’s scarce.” Pa took the plate with the most on it and sat in the dirt.

Ishmael accepted his plate and murmured, “Thanks, sis.”

“Shore you don’t want none, mister?” Ivy held the plate up to him.

“No. Thanks.”

She went back toward Ishmael and tilted her plate so all of the snake rolled onto his. Shoving her other hand into a patch pocket she’d sewn on her skirt, she declared, “Good thang I found this here wild onion today. Niver could abide snake.”

Ishmael patted the spot beside him. “Have a sit-down. You’ve been workin’ hard all day.”

While every last one of Pa’s actions and words carried the intent of making the stranger give in, Ishmael was just acting the same as always. Ivy sat next to him and took a small bite from the onion.

Pa smacked his lips. “Mister, it ain’t too late for you to have yourself a taste of this.”

“You need to leave by tomorrow.”

“Awww, now.” Pa put aside his plate. “You just done went and ruint my appetite. And why? Why, I ask you? I’ll tell you why. For no good reason. As a matter of fact, us bein’ here is a holp to you. Until yore ready to work this section of land, we’re willin’ to work to improve it. Take a gander at what we done in just a little while.”

The man’s face stayed cold as sleet as he stared at the charred mess and ashes. “I’m doing just that.”

Pa looked affronted. “We was fixin’ to rich-up the soil. Ever’body knows mixin’ ash with the ground gives it better growin’ power. I got a buildin’ and a crop both put in, too.”

“Used the last of our seed on that corn.” Ishmael poked another piece of snake with his knife and lifted it to his mouth.

“Shouldn’t have.” Pa shook his head. “But my boy took a mind to put in a crop. I done tole him, if it’s not knee-high by the Fourth of July, you’re in trouble.” Regardless of his claim to have lost his appetite, Pa snatched up his plate again and gulped down another bite.

Ivy held her tongue. It wasn’t right, Pa blaming Ishmael, when the truth was Pa had insisted on planting the crop.

“We’re in Californy.” Ishmael’s voice sounded calm as could be, even though Pa wronged him by telling such a lie. “S’posed to be sunny here later.”

Pa shook his head. “I’m tellin’ ya, mister. I’m sore afraid I’m gonna have to watch my kids go hungry all winter.”

Niver bothered him afore now. Long as he stays roostered on his shine, he
don’t feel cold or hunger
.

“If there’s a late fall, it might still yield,” the man said as he finally dismounted. “Several farmers actually plant a second crop.”

“Mister, you gotta let us stay on here,” Pa said.

“Leastways through the winter.” Ishmael’s comment took Ivy by surprise. He usually let Pa do all of the fancy talking when things were bad. Her brother cast a worried look at her, then stood up. “We don’t got much, but you could either have us sharecrop or I could come over to that place of yourn and work.”

“Now, thar’s a fine plan!” Pa slapped his leg. “My son already proved hisself to you that day in town. He’s a hard worker and got a strong back. The gal and me—we’d keep thangs goin’ here. Why, by spring when you’re ready to do your plantin’ and such, you’ll be beggin’ us to stay on so’s you cain have my son’s holp.”

The man stood in silence.

Ivy’s heart plummeted. Ishmael’s offer might have tempted him, but Pa went on and on, making it sound like the Grubbs were doing the man a favor by squatting on his land.
Pa, shut up!
Only Pa wasn’t a man to pass up an opportunity to hear himself talk. He kept right on. She took another small bite of the onion.

When the man had heard more than enough of Pa’s palaver, he turned his attention to Ishmael, then glanced at her. “I can’t afford to pay a hand.”

Ivy blinked and looked down. She hoped he’d assume the tears in her eyes were from the onion.