Diamond Duo (12 page)

B
ertha held her shawl above her head, but it proved pointless. She surveyed the mess that made up Mose, Rhodie, and herself and stifled a laugh. Mose’s battered hat hung like a woman’s bonnet, channeling sheets of water past his chin. Rhodie, so drenched her eyelashes drooped in streaming tangles, sat upright next to Bertha. She had no shawl, given she wore her usual tattered overalls, no longer spattered with mud because the rain had washed them clean. Rhodie accepted the downpour, pelting her head and running off her braids in twin rivulets, the way she accepted most things–with quiet dignity.

The sky had opened up a quarter mile back, just when Bertha figured she’d make it to town high and dry. And no matter how hard Mose flicked the reins or how loudly he bellowed, the overburdened horse had given his all. A slow, lanky pace proved the most the poor creature could muster, hardly enough to save them from a good soaking, though the weather did seem to perk him up. The way his head had lifted and swung from side to side, Bertha reckoned his refusal to hurry might be on purpose, as if he were bent on taking revenge.

Mose raised his voice to be heard over the roar of the pounding rain. “We have to turn here, Bertha. Can’t take you clear to town.

Our pa will be watching for us in this weather.”

Rhodie picked up Bertha’s hand. “Come, go home with us. You can dry off and change into something warm. Our baby sister’s garb should fit you fine.”

Bertha shook her head. “Just drop me by Magda’s place. I need to see her anyway.”

Rhodie scrunched up her face. “Are you sure?”

Bertha smiled at the wringing-wet girl. “Yes, but thanks.”

They lumbered to the lane up ahead, hardly more than a rut that had been cut through the trees on each side. Overgrown branches crowded the entry, causing recent travelers to veer to the right, if the circle of tracks in the high grass were any sign. Past that point, what had been the long byway to Magda’s house now appeared to be a wide, shallow lake.

Bertha placed a hand on Mose’s arm. “Stop here. You’ll just get stuck if you turn down there. I can walk across the pasture where the ground’s higher.”

Mose pulled back on the reins, and she climbed down and sloshed around to where he leaned over waiting to speak to her. “You gonna be all right? I sure don’t like leaving you out here.”

Bertha looked to the sky where the cloudburst had dwindled to a hard shower. The murky clouds that once swirled over their heads had slid off to the southern horizon and piled up over the town of Marshall like a billowing swarm. “It’s slacked off now. Looks like it’s blowing to the south.”

Mose stared down at her, chubby bottom lip laced behind his top row of teeth. “Ain’t you cold?” he asked, releasing it. “Feels like a norther’s done snuck in behind that front.”

As if to underscore his statement, a strong gust howled through, shaking the wagon and raising the hair on Bertha’s neck. She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered.

Mose shook his head then turned around to dig under the seat. “Ain’t we got a blanket under here somewhere, Rhodie?”

Rhodie nudged him with her shoulder. “It’s wet, Mose.”

Bertha pointed up the path to the tumbledown shack where
Magda lived. “Don’t fret yourself, Mose. Look. I’m nearly there.”

Rhodie leaned behind Mose’s back to point at Bertha’s shoes. “Don’t see how you plan to make it in them infernal things.”

Bertha looked down at her feet. The low leather pumps were soaked and filled with muck where they gaped at the ankles. Wet grass plastered the pointed toes, and rust-colored pine needles threaded the delicate buttoned straps in a scattered crisscross.

She smiled up at Rhodie. “Better than bare feet, but just barely.”

Rhodie giggled. “Sounds like a limerick.”

Mose nodded toward the field. “Be watchful of snakes out there.” Then he faced forward and released the brake. “We’d best get going. Pa will be in a stew.”

He jerked the reins, and the wheels started to roll. Without thinking, Bertha stepped back to avoid being splashed with muddy water then smiled at the futile notion.

Rhodie turned on the seat and raised her hand to the sky. “Bye, Bertha.”

Bertha waved back. “Much obliged for the ride.”

She waited until they’d gone a respectable distance then lifted her soggy skirt and pulled plastered petticoats away from her legs. Holding the whole sodden mess in her hands, she jumped the ditch, nearly landing on her bottom on the other side. She fought for balance then picked her way to higher ground, came close to losing her shoe in a soft spot, and shuddered when more thick mud spilled over the instep.

Halfway across the pasture, dodging crawdad mounds and roving clusters of homeless ants, she wished she’d been less stubborn and taken Rhodie up on the offer of shelter and dry clothes. Or Thad’s offer to take her home, for that matter. He’d have seen her straight to her doorstep, dry as gunpowder. And it might’ve given him the chance to say what seemed to be gnawing at him.

The last few yards to Magda’s house put her in floodwater up to her ankles. She thought of her new bronze heels and tried not to imagine the look on Mama’s face when she saw them, but at least the water sifted the sludge from between her toes. Thankfully,
there was no sign of snakes.

The door opened before she reached it, and Magda’s mama appeared on the stoop with a blanket. She rushed to Bertha the second she stepped up on the porch, enveloped her in scratchy wool, and hauled her inside as if pulling her to safety.

“Ach, Bert’a! Your
mutter
knows you’re out in
das schmuddelwetter
?”

Bertha drew the cover closer and stamped her feet before she entered the house. “Foul weather, indeed, Mrs. Hayes. Bless you for taking in a poor drowned wretch.”

Mrs. Hayes scurried to the hearth, scooted a low stool in front then waved Bertha closer. “
Bitte kommen
. Sit by the fire,
kleine
. Ve roast dem feets lest you’re taken vit fever.”

Bertha smiled.
Kleine
meant “little one,” yet Magda’s mama stood no taller than Bertha, her body as slight as a hummingbird. And the braided blond ropes that crowned her head made up a fair portion of any weight she carried.

Tiny Gerta Fricks had traded the home country and her German culture for big Jacob Hayes of Nacogdoches before coming to settle in Marion County. Magda took after her big-boned papa’s side of the family and could easily lift her mama straight off the ground. Magda’s papa came from mixed culture himself, his father a Texan, his mother a Sicilian immigrant.

For the first time, Bertha noticed Magda at the stove. She stood with her back to them and seemed in no hurry to turn around. Bertha knew she would still be miffed because they called her a talebearer. But Magda’s mishandling of a confidence reminded Bertha of a quote she’d read by C. C. Colton:
“None are so fond of secrets as those who do not mean to keep them.”
Only Magda never betrayed a trust on purpose. It seemed the weight of the secret pressed the words right out of her mouth.

Still, Magda was Bertha’s dearest friend, and she felt bound to make amends. She sidled up behind her. “Hey there.”

No answer. Magda lowered her left hip and shifted her body away.

Bertha tried again. “Say, what’s in the pot? Sure smells tasty.”

Magda paused her stirring and raised her face to the ceiling. “It’s sauerkraut, Bertha. You hate sauerkraut.”

“Sauerkraut? Why, fancy that. I’d never have guessed.” She moved a bit closer. “You must’ve done something clever to make it smell so nice.”

Magda didn’t speak. Just went back to pushing the pungent shreds of cabbage around a skillet with a broad wooden spoon.

“Come, Bert’a. Sit and take off dem shoes,
liebchen
. Dey are soaked clean through.”

Bertha waved toward Mrs. Hayes, her attention still on Magda’s back. “Yes, ma’am. One second, please.” She took a step closer to the stove. “I came to talk to you, Magda. It’s real important. Come sit by the hearth for a spell, won’t you?”

Mrs. Hayes scurried to her daughter and took the spoon from her hand. “Dis kraut is done, Magdalena. You von’t make it any more so by vorrying de life out of it.” She set the spoon on a saucer and shoved the heavy pan to the back of the stove. “Go now,
Tochter
. Stoke the fire for your friend and sit vit her.” The tiny woman nudged Magda aside with her hip. “Dat’s right, go on. Go help Bert’a vit dem shoes. And fetch hot vahter for her feet.”

Magda scooted to the side at her mama’s urging but stood like a headstrong statue, as rigid as the cast iron stove.

Bertha gathered the blanket tighter under her chin and closed the space between them. “Very well. If you won’t come sit with me, I’ll stand with you. Of course, there’s a draft through here, and it’s caused me quite a chill. My teeth are starting to chatter.” She edged closer. “It’s likely you can hear them if you listen. I’m sure to come down with lung fever.”

She leaned around to look. Magda still scowled, so she tried again. “My feet are so cold I can’t feel my pinkie toes or their nearest neighbors. I imagine they’re as blue and shriveled as dead toads.” When this brought the hint of a grudging smile to Magda’s face, Bertha went on. “If I find them loose inside my shoes, I’ll save them for Thad. They’ll make good catfish bait.”

The words melted Magda’s resolve like honey in hot tea. Her
stingy smile became a generous toothy grin that brightened her eyes and lifted the apples of her cheeks. “Hush your crazy talk and go over by the fire before your silly words come to pass.” The power of her smile dimmed a bit when she turned to stare into Bertha’s eyes. “I’ll fetch water for your dirty feet, just like our Savior did for His betrayer.” She flipped the hand towel from the counter over her shoulder and lifted a washtub from the corner. Then she glanced back at Bertha, her smile completely gone. “But you owe me an apology, Bertha Maye Biddie. I intend to get it if you’d like me to ever speak to you again.”

Thad turned his horse. He couldn’t just ride home and let another day pass without telling Bertha he was leaving. He never should’ve let her get away from him again. But she’d been so upset about whatever bee buzzed inside her bonnet, the weight of her excitement pushed aside his important news. But the time had come to fess up. He had handed off the fishing gear to Charlie along with a promise to tell Bertha before the sun went down. He pressed the edges of his heels to the horse’s side. If he hurried, he could catch up to them.

He thought of Bertha unprotected in such heavy rain and winced. If she became ill, he’d blame himself. He never should’ve let her go off with that scatter-thought Moses Pharr. The boy only paid attention to cypress wood and a well-turned ankle and had trouble juggling between the two. He lacked the common sense required to find shelter for Bertha and Rhodie.

As if to confirm his thoughts, the fresh wagon tracks never veered from the road, where they might’ve sought relief at a farmhouse or under a thick grove of trees, but carried on straight through the mud.

He glanced up the road and sighed then felt his jaw tighten.

Wait’ll I get my hands on that careless boy.

B
ertha’s gaze followed the row of bundled herbs that hung drying over the mantelpiece from a length of twine like laundry pinned to a clothesline. She recognized some, like the puccoon Mrs. Hayes used for red dye and the root of Dutchman’s-pipe, a remedy for snakebite. Most of the fragrant bunches she’d never seen before but guessed they played a big part in the wonderful German meals Magda’s mama stirred up.

The chimney corner in Magda’s house had become the hub of the family wheel. The fireplace took up most of one wall in the tiny two-room dwelling and served the household well. The women used it to roast meat and vegetables, boil water, even make coffee when they had the stove tied up with other chores. Along with the wood-burning stove, it provided a source of heat when the weather turned cold. Magda, an only child with no warm siblings to curl up with, slept near it for warmth in the wintertime.

To the left of the fire pit, in back of the low, sturdy stool where Bertha perched, stood a box filled with split oak, fuel to feed the benevolent fire. On the right, behind where Magda stood, barrels of dried corn were pushed into the corner, the drums so full a few ears spilled out onto the floor. Staggered in front of the corn was a collection of baskets overflowing with plump new pecans, some in
husks, others shucked down to their mottled shells.

Bertha loved the room. The sights and smells that dwelled in the Hayes kitchen always set her stomach to rumbling even if she’d just had a respectable meal.

“Watch out, now. It’s hot.”

Bertha snapped to attention and lifted her feet so Magda could set the pan of water on the smooth stones of the hearth. But she barely got her toes wet before she jerked them back. “Too hot!” She held the sides of the stool to maintain her balance while her feet dangled precariously over the steaming water. “Did you do it on purpose?”

Magda slid the pan to the side so Bertha could lower her legs, sloshing at least a quart of the scalding water onto the floor. It ran along the mortared lines and deep cracks, spilling over into the flames with a snap and sizzle. “Don’t talk foolish. I’m not mad enough to disfigure you. Though I may have the right to be.”