GodPretty in the Tobacco Field (17 page)

“W
hat's Cash Crockett doing here?” I said as Rose steered us inside the big doors.

“Don't fret none, honey,” Rose said, catching just that in my voice. “He ain't got no business with us.”

The Crocketts had made me and Gunnar their business. I worried if he was holding a grudge against me for what my uncle did to him. I hadn't heard or seen if he'd been home for his brother's burial. Still, he seemed awful friendly.

Rose wagged her hand. “Over here.” She directed me to a long table where a woman was seated, and four people about my age stood in line. “You did mail in your entry form?” Rose asked.

“Uh-huh, I posted it a long time ago.”

Two girls had quilts draped across their arms, and one boy carried a big melon, another a droopy tomato plant. The girls chatted with each other about fabric, while the boys talked about crops. Each one handed in a badge and the lady made marks in her book. Two of the kids held up red and blue ribbons to show the woman.

“Must've had their judging already,” Rose whispered over my shoulder.

“Name?” the woman said, looking down at a big book with pages.

Rose pushed me forward and I quickly forgot about Cash.

“RubyLyn Royal Bishop,” I said, feeling my arms grow sticky and my neck sweaty.

The woman looked up my name, glanced down at her wristwatch, and shook her head. “Where are you from?”

“Nameless,” I barely breathed.

“Hmm . . . on the eastern side?” She studied her map, shook her head again, and then wrote a checkmark and some words beside my name. Then the lady picked up a paper badge with a stickpin that had AG E
XHIBITOR
S
UN
1004 on it, and just as quick set it back down. She lifted another that had AG E
XHIBITOR
M
ON
1004 written on it. She tapped her pen on the table. “Wonder what your judges will say about your timing, young lady?”

I stared at her not knowing what they would say, or what I needed to say.

“Pin it on, miss,” she said, giving it to me, “the judging will be at three sharp.” She handed me another card with tape. “Place this on your container.” Then she pointed across the room, showing me where I could put my plant. “Hurry up! Next,” she called out to the people waiting in line behind me.

With trembling hands, I pinned the badge onto my chest.

Rose clapped my back lightly. “Exhibitor 1004! Now them's good words to wear, huh?”

“The best I've ever heard.”

We rolled the tobacco plant over to a far wall and placed it in between seven others, with me fretting and moving it twice.

“It's a fine exhibit, kid,” Rose declared.

Its leaves were plump and deep green, the plant perky compared to the other straggly ones around it.

“Let's go freshen up.” Rose pulled me away and showed me the ladies' restroom. I was shocked when I counted four inside toilets behind four wooden doors. All for females! Hanging from the wall were two sparkly white sinks.

We set our purses on a nearby folding chair. Turning on the water, I splashed it over my face, neck, savoring the coolness. Rose handed me soft paper from a box dispenser and I dried my face.

A girl about my age with bouncy golden curls swept up in silky ribbon came in. She wore a powder-blue eyelet dress with a full skirt, and soft pink lipstick and eye paint the color of blue sky. She flashed me a smile, and said, “Hey.”

“Hey,” I mumbled back a little shyly.

The girl went through one of the toilet doors and disappeared. Rose stepped up to the sinks.

After Rose freshened her face, she put on rouge and more lipstick.

I turned my back to Rose, reached inside my purse, and pulled out Mama's Rattle-My-Tattle. I swirled the lipstick up and compared the red to the strawberry print.

The girl came back out of the stall. Cheerfully, she leaned toward me. “That color sure is pretty.”

“Oh, this?” I lifted the tube. No one had ever seen me with lipstick. Here I was inside the State Fair's women's restroom getting ready to publicly paint my lips.

“Uh-huh, sure is and it'll be perfect with your pretty dress. Did your mama make it?” She glanced at Rose.

“Uh . . . No, I mean yes, she—” I nudged my chin to Rose.

“Pretty. Name's Ellen Smith,” she said, moving to the sink. “I'm showing my knitting.”

“RubyLyn . . . RubyLyn Royal Bishop,” I told her. “I brought up my tobacco.”

“Hope you win. I'm from Whitesburg. Long trip and we barely made it in. Late, but they let me squeeze in my knitting. Where you from?” she asked.

“Nameless. And I sure hope you win, too.”

A woman poked her head in. “Ellen, it's time to go.”

“Coming, Mama,” she answered. “See you around, RubyLyn.”

Ellen's mama walked over to her daughter, brushed a curl from her face, and prettied her bow.

“Sure is a beautiful dress you made your daughter, ma'am,” Ellen said to Rose, then lopped off another sunny smile and left with her mama.

Silence thickened for a second, then Rose peeked over my shoulder, and said, “She's right, honey. That red sure would brighten your face and go real nice with your new dress.”

I nodded, feeling my face heating while Rose waited. Quickly, I swept the lipstick across my lips and stuffed it back into my purse.

Rose took a tissue out of her pocketbook and dabbed lightly at my mouth. “There,” she said, “don't want it to bleed, honey. Here, let's fix this, too.” She turned me around, pulled back my long hair, and plaited two pretty cornrows.

It had been a decade since anyone touched my hair like that. She did it just like I imagined a mama would, and for a second it stole my breath and I could see my own standing in front of me.

Silently, we lugged the wagon all the way back to Rose's automobile. We ended up stacking six boxes onto it. They looked a bit wobbly, and I wondered if we should make two trips.

Rose opened one box and pulled out a set of her music spoons, their warm dark honey tones gleaming on the wood. She slapped the spoons onto the cup of her hand and then against a leg, back and forth, picking up a rhythm, playing a catchy tune.

“Hear that, kid?”

I laughed.

“That's the sound of a full belly, stacks of wood, and warm woolen clothes.”

“Oh”—I held up my finger, then rummaged through my purse—“almost forgot.”

“What's this?” she asked, setting down her spoons and shyly inspecting the folds on the fortune-teller I gave her. She ran a chipped nail over my sketches. “It's your best.”

“For you.”

She whistled. “Some of your
very
best work, kid . . . Ya sure are your uncle's kin.”

I looked at her quizzically.

“Same as Gunnar . . . Thought you knew he'd had the same art fancy as you.” She raised a puzzled brow. “A decent artist. But then he got called home from his schoolin' and got himself a job with the state. He never told ya?”

Shocked, I mumbled, “Not a word.”

“Can't believe he ain't never showed you his stuff?”

“No, he hates anything to do with art.”

“He don't hate art, honey, he hates
missing
his art. That man was a fine portrait artist. . . .” She peered closely at her likeness on the paper. “That was so long ago, I'd almost forgot that he used to ask me to get his art supplies. Gunnar always grinned like a schoolboy when I'd give 'em to him . . .” She screwed up her mouth. “When he retired from his state job, he stopped asking.”

It was puzzling and hard to believe he'd ever done art, him preaching for me to stop all the time. Still, it made me feel a little proud to know we both shared it in our bones.

Rose stuffed her fingers inside the paper pockets and opened and shut the fortune. Then she peeled back another corner and squealed. She plopped a loud kiss on the sketch of spoons with the money and smacked my forehead with a grateful smooch. “From your pen to His ear!”

“Wanted to wish you good luck selling, and make you a pretty picture.” I blushed.

She laughed and put her arm around me. “I'll be the luckiest pitchman at the fair.”

Happy, I leaned my head to hers, and said, “You're the
best
folk artist in Kentucky—maybe the whole world.”

“ 'Nuff of lollygagging.” She sniffled and shooed. “Let's go get our luck, kid! Gots me four hundred dollars to collect. Yup,
four hundred
smack-a-roos,” she crowed, then placed the fortune carefully into her purse, picked up the wooden spoons, and hummed “Black Jack Davey.”

Four hundred
. That was more money than I'd seen in my life, than most folks in Nameless would see in a year. When business in Nameless slowed during the dark months, and folks' money ran low and food was scarce, Rose depended on her spoons to see her through. Worked all year on them so she could sell to the fairgoers and make enough money to live during the winter. Other folks like widows and bench sitter Erbie depended on the spoons, too—Rose's charity. She would see that those folks stayed warm and had full bellies this winter.

I turned my thoughts to the two hundred dollar prize money. Two hundred dollars would mean an art studio and a new life closer to Rainey.

Rose broke through my thoughts, and chirped, “Sing along, RubyLyn . . . ‘
Black Jack Davey come a'running through the woods
. . .' ”

I joined in and sang the old ballad with her. “ ‘
How old are you, my pretty miss. How old are you, my honey. Answered him with a silly smile. I'll be sixteen next Sunday, be sixteen next Sunday . . .
' ”

I felt someone's breath on the back of my neck, humming along with me. Whirling around, I found Cash standing there, grinning and tapping his foot.

“Now that was a pretty song,” he said. “Can you play ‘Plant a Watermelon on My Grave and Let the Juice Soak Through' . . . ‘
Just plant a watermelon on my grave and let the juice seep through
.' ” He made a slurping sound.

“Got business to do, Mr. Crockett,” Rose puffed. “What are
you
doing here? Thought you'd be back home with your kin after what happened to your brother.
God rest his soul
.”

“God rest,” I said sincerely. “Sorry about your brother, Cash.”

Cash looked miserably down at the boxes, and said, “I had to slip in and out of Nameless real quick because of my job here.”

“Real sorry,” I said again. And then mumbled stupidly, “He helped me with a bad fall I had.”

Cash eyed me closely, then brushed off the condolence, and said, “Shame nobody was there for his.” His eyes flickered between anger and grief, then just as quick changed to something else. “Enough about Carter,” he said. “This is a fair, not a funeral, and I have work to do. Here, let me start with these.”

“Me and RubyLyn's got it just fine.” Rose anchored her hand on the stack of boxes.

“Now, Miz Law, I wouldn't want you to ruin your nice outfit.” He flashed a smile at me. “Or have RubyLyn's pretty dress getting all dirty with these dusty boxes. Might drop 'em and tear up your nice spoons, too. There'd go your money.” He bent over and pulled up two boxes, lifted them up into his muscular arms.

We had no choice but to follow him back through the lines of automobiles, across the lot, and into another building beside the exhibits. Him singing, fox-trotting “Ole Kaintuck” until he reached the doors.

We passed rows and rows of tables full of stuffed toys, signs, colorful pinwheels, candy, and quilts and more. People moved this way and that way, passing, coming. My thoughts picked up speed.

Cash seemed like an okay fella, different from the rest of his kin, and a few folks gave him a friendly wave and smile when passing. I stole another glance at him while we walked.

A pretty woman wearing a red satin ruffled blouse and pair of man's white britches painted onto mile-high legs tapped Cash's shoulder. “Hi, Cashy,” she breathed, “get a chance I could use some help over at my booth hanging up rope.” She batted her lashes and sashayed away. Cash nodded and kept pushing us through the pockets of people.

One man in a white suit reached right over his booth, tapped my arm, and gave me a shiny red sharpened pencil. He grinned and tipped the straw hat he was wearing. Another woman smiled, leaned over her table, and handed me a small rope of taffy candy. I stopped and tried to give it back, but she waved my hand away.

Cash turned around and must've seen because he dug into his pocket and pulled out a nickel and reached past me to give it to the woman. “Thank you, ma'am,” he said.

Rose shot out a protest, stopped in the aisle, blocking folks, then reached inside her pocketbook and pulled out a nickel. She stuffed it into Cash's shirt as he tried to wriggle away.

I heard her grumble to him, “My girl's not gonna be beholdin' to you or any man.”

Cash nodded politely and tucked his head down. Me too.

I wondered if Cash was different because he'd been living here in the city. Maybe the city made folks nicer. . . .

Still, when we got to Rose's booth, she pushed him back, grumbling, “He's a pest, and I don't trust a Crockett.”

When Cash gave me a lopsided grin, I couldn't help returning it with a small smile. Then a woman came by and linked her arm into his. “
Caashh,
” she sang out, “got time to help a gal arrange her booth?” She led him away.