Ghost Girl (13 page)

“How'd you get at the nuts, Daddy?” I asked, a little afraid of what his answer would be. “Did you have to cut the tree down?”

He shook his head. “Nope. It was way too big for the cross-saw. So we just stood there awhile, staring up at 'em, just hanging there . . . and then something happened.

“What?” Mama and I both asked at once.

Daddy smiled. “It rained.”

“We didn't get any rain up here,” Mama said.

“Well, it poured down at Free Union,” Daddy went on. “So hard it knocked every one of them burrs down. Fell down on our heads like buckshot.” He laughed his slow, deep laugh. “Good thing you packed me up that food in the flour sack, Alma. I got the most nuts, since I was the only one who had something to haul them home in.”

Mama laughed, too, enough to smooth away the crease in her forehead and turn her face pretty again. “We'll take these down to Taggart's tomorrow. See how much he's paying per pound.”

Daddy didn't say anything, and in the next breath, I found myself asking, “Can't we keep the chestnuts, Mama? And do like we used to?”

She looked from me to Daddy to the bag of nuts, then up at Daddy again. “But we need the money, Wes,” she said and sighed.

He shrugged. “Why not, Alma? It'd be like old times.”

“We can't be feeding everybody,” Mama said. “We barely got enough to feed ourselves.”

Daddy nodded. “We'll ask everybody to bring something to share.”

Finally, Mama gave in and Daddy scrubbed his hand back and forth through my hair. We were going to have a chestnut roast, just like we used to.

Even though a few rain showers had fallen here and there, the drought wasn't over. But maybe it was that long, dry summer that made folks so willing to hike all the way over to Doubletop and forget about their worries for a while—because before we knew it, there were fifteen people coming to our cabin. Aunt Birdy invited everybody she saw until Mama begged her to stop. The Woodards were coming and the Hudginses and old Virgil Dawes with no teeth from the next hollow. I wasn't too happy about any of them, but I almost cried the morning of the roast when Aunt Birdy told me she had asked the Jessups, too.

“The Jessups?” I howled. “Why'd you do that?”

“I couldn't help it,” Aunt Birdy said, dunking another drumstick in flour for the fried chicken we'd have that night. “I felt sorry for Preacher Jessup. He's been sitting in the back row at Sunday lessons ever since what happened when the Hoovers came to visit.”

“Where does Dewey sit?”

“Right there in the back with his daddy. They slip in after Miss Vest has already started. Ida and her mother still sit up front, though. You know Ruby Jessup has always prided herself on her singing voice. And now with that marine from down at the camp playing piano ever' Sunday, she's not about to sit way in the back where nobody can hear her.”

“What marine?”

“A tall, smiley fella. He's got a long, funny-sounding name, but I heard Miss Vest call him Wit. . . . I think he might be a little sweet on her.”

I stood there with my mouth hanging open. I knew she was talking about Lou Witcofski. So much had happened since I had left school. Wit sweet on Miss Vest and playing the piano every Sunday? I would have given anything to see his fingers flying over the keys again, pounding out hymns.

“It's all Dewey's fault,” I said.

“What do you mean?” Aunt Birdy asked me.

“If it wasn't for him starting the fight with Poke and them plowing into me and breaking my arm, I'd be there. I'd be there at school right now. I hate Dewey Jessup. He may be sitting in the back row, but at least he gets to be there to hear that piano every Sunday. . . . I hate him.”

Aunt Birdy pointed her floury finger at me. “Hate is a mighty powerful thing, Apry. If you're not careful, it'll eat you inside out.” She reached for another drumstick. “You're so busy hating Dewey, I guess you don't even want to hear who else I invited to the chestnut roast.”

“All right,” I said, trying to look sorry. “Who?”

Aunt Birdy glanced over her shoulder. Mama and Daddy were still outside setting planks across sawhorses for the tables. “Miss Vest,” she whispered.

“Miss Vest!” I felt my face breaking into a smile. “What did Mama say?”

Aunt Birdy flinched. “Shh. I haven't told her yet,” she said. “I'm waiting for the right time. Maybe after I get this chicken fried . . .”

With all the house cleaning
and biscuit cutting and gravy stirring, the right time for Aunt Birdy to confess what she had done never came. So it was a complete shock to Mama when Miss Vest appeared, riding up in the Jessups' wagon with an apple pie perched on her lap. I saw Mama's face go white, and she grabbed Aunt Birdy's elbow in a claw-hold. “What did you do?” she asked, gritting her teeth.

But Aunt Birdy was already off the porch, hurrying out to greet everyone, to make a fuss over Mrs. Jessup's big pot of turnip greens and Miss Vest's apple pie. I stood in the doorway, holding my breath, afraid of what Mama might do next. Somehow, though, she found a way to collect herself by the time Miss Vest came up on the porch to say hello. I stepped back in the shadows to listen.

“I wanted to thank you for inviting me today,” I heard Miss Vest say.

Mama was quiet. Then she said, “April's not coming back to school, Miss Vest, if that's what you're thinking.”

Miss Vest dropped her voice down low. “I know how you feel, Mrs. Sloane, and as much as I disagree with you, I want you to know I didn't come here today to try and talk you or your daughter into anything. Mainly, I just came to see how April's doing.”

At that point I should have stepped out of the doorway. And I wanted to. More than anything, I wanted to run to Miss Vest and hug her, but for some reason I couldn't. There was so much I needed to tell her—about the catalog and the spot by Riley's grave where I studied now and how much I loved my new boots. And I wanted to ask her about Kentucky and if all her daddy's tobacco plants had dried up over the summer and what the kids at school were working on now.

But it was just too much with Mama and all the other folks there. So I slipped back farther behind the door and waited until Miss Vest had moved away.

For the rest of the night, I stayed busy running back and forth to the kitchen to wash another stack of plates or heat up the food folks had brought. Miss Vest kept trying to catch my eye, but when it was time to eat, Ida and Luella raced for the spots on the bench next to her and talked her ear off all the way through supper. When I passed Miss Vest a plate of food, she couldn't do much more than look up at me and smile.

Then Daddy called me over to the corner of the yard to help get the chestnuts ready. While he carved
X
marks in the shells and stoked up the fire in a pit he had dug in the ground, I divvied up the nuts into tin pie plates. Then we both squatted down and held our pans over the flames with the tongs Mama had made out of heavy fencing wire.

Soon it was getting dark and chilly, and folks started drifting over, pulled by the sweet smell of the roasting nuts and the warmth of the fire. Ida came over with Little Elton on her hip. She set him down in the dirt so she and Luella could help themselves to some of the cooled nuts. I hadn't seen them since the springtime, but they didn't even bother saying “Hello” or “Thank you” or “Where you been?” as I held out the pan. They peeled open the chestnuts with their teeth and bit out the creamy insides, ignoring me and Little Elton, who was fussing to be picked up again. Finally, Ida yanked her brother off his wobbly feet and handed him to Dewey, who had just come wandering over.

“Here,” she said. “You take him.”

“Where's Ma?” Dewey asked.

“I don't know,” Ida snapped, “but it's your turn.” Then she and Luella flounced off.

I listened to Little Elton whining until I couldn't stand it anymore. I knew what to do. I ran inside the cabin for a jar of sorghum and some feathers from the pillow on Mama and Daddy's bed.

Then I marched back outside and grabbed Little Elton out of Dewey's arms. “Here,” I said, handing Dewey the jar of sorghum. “Open that.”

Dewey stared at me like I was crazy. “Why?” he asked.

“Just open it.”

Once Dewey had pried off the lid, I took the jar and dipped Little Elton's fingers into the thick syrup, then pushed some feathers into his chubby hands. In the next minute he stopped crying and fell into a daze with his little mouth frozen in a round
O
as he tried to pull the sticky feathers off his fingers. I sat down on a log near the fire with him on my lap. When he had finished pulling the feathers off one hand, he set to work on the other.

Dewey stood beside us, watching. “That's a pretty good trick,” he said. “Where'd you learn that?”

“Mama taught me,” I said. “When Riley was little.”

Dewey fell quiet for a minute, then he said, “Your arm's healed up. When you think you're coming back to school?”

I glanced up at him. “You sure are full of questions.”

Dewey shrugged. “So, when you coming back?”

“Never,” I told him.

His eyebrows pulled together. “Never? What do you mean ‘never'?”

I looked down at the glowing fire, trying to think of what to say, but before I could answer, Mama came bearing down on us. “April Sloane, what in creation are you doing?” she said. “Ruby Jessup doesn't want Little Elton covered in sorghum on their way home. Go on inside and fetch a wet washrag.”

“Yes, ma'am,” I said. I stood up and Dewey took Little Elton. He looked sorry for me, like he wanted to say something, but I hurried off before he had the chance. It was foolish of me to have thought the chestnut roast would be any fun. Seeing Dewey and the other folks talking and cracking chestnuts around the kerosene lamp at the table just made me feel more alone. At least Mama had decided to join them. As I walked by, I saw her slide onto the bench next to Daddy.

I pushed open the door of the cabin and was heading for the wash bucket around the corner in the kitchen when I ran smack into Miss Vest. She was holding a stack of dirty plates.

“April!” she cried, setting the dishes on the wooden sideboard with a clatter. “There you are!” She reached out and laid her hands on my shoulders. “I thought I'd never get to talk to you tonight. How have you been? How's your arm?”

I was so happy to be with her again I could barely come up with the words to answer. “Fine,” I said finally. “My arm's coming along.” I bent and straightened it a few times so she could see. Then I stood there grinning while she gazed around the front room. I had forgotten she had never been inside before, since Mama refused to open the door when she had knocked. All of a sudden, I felt ashamed of how plain and homely our cabin must have looked compared with the schoolhouse. The only thing worth admiring was the stack of oak-split baskets sitting by the fireplace.

“Mama made those,” I said, following Miss Vest's eye.

“They're beautiful. . . . Is that where you sleep?” she asked, nodding to the lumpy bed.

“Naw. That's Mama and Daddy's. I sleep upstairs in the loft.”

Miss Vest walked over to the far side of the room and peered up the thick wooden ladder that led through a dark hole in the ceiling. “Up there?”

I nodded. “Wanna see?”

Her face sparked up. “I'd love to.”

I grabbed the kerosene lamp off the table and the next thing I knew, Miss Vest was climbing up the creaky ladder behind me. At the top, I held out the lantern so she could see. Then I scrambled over and yanked the quilt straight on my straw tick, wishing my bed was resting on a frame instead of across the cold, splintery floorboards.

Once Miss Vest climbed through the opening, she had to stoop so her head wouldn't hit the rafters. “Whew,” she breathed, smoothing out her skirt. “I should have dressed better for climbing.”

“You can sit here,” I said shyly, patting the bed beside me. Miss Vest hunched her way over and plopped down on the mattress. I couldn't help laughing at the way she was huffing for breath, still trying to keep her skirt tucked over her knees.

Then Miss Vest broke up laughing, too. She threw herself back on my bed, letting her legs sprawl out and her arms go limp like she had just finished climbing Old Rag. I dropped back beside her, still giggling, and for a minute we both stared up, watching the light from the lamp flicker over the rafters.

Then Miss Vest pointed to a crack in the slanted roof above us, where you could just make out thin slivers of night sky through the boards. “April! Don't you just freeze up here in the winter with the wind whistling through?”

“It's not so bad,” I said. “When it gets real cold, I sleep downstairs. Daddy needs to patch the roof with tarpaper again. That makes it warmer.” I didn't tell her about when it snowed, how the flakes sifted down on my quilt like flour.