Into the Free (22 page)

As we drive back to the arena, I decide to test the wiper blade. The driver’s side is operated by a vacuum pump, so when I let up on the gas, the wiper runs like crazy. But when I press on the gas to move up a grade, it barely moves at all. The best part is when we go downhill. The little blade slaps back and forth like an old lady’s funeral fan on a hot summer day. Camille shouts, “Again! Again!” So I circle through the square to head back downhill. Here we are, cruising the square, honking and hollering like a bunch of hillbillies, when who should we see? Diana! She’s with a few ladies, and I assume they’ve walked over for lunch at Tino’s.

She raises her hand to her mouth in shock and gives us a look that makes me crunch the brakes. Then she marches right over to the truck, trying to mask her anger, and whispers, with more of a hiss than a purr, “What on earth do you think you’re doing, Millie Reynolds? Camille, get out of there this instant.”

Camille sits between Bump and me and doesn’t move. She looks at her mama like a cat stuck high in a tree. Not knowing whether to climb up or down. “I said, now!” Diana orders, turning to offer a smile to the two suited ladies, who can’t peel their eyes away from us despite their best efforts.

For the first time since I’ve met her, Camille has nothing to say. Bump steps out of the truck and helps Camille climb down to her mother. “You, young lady, will have to speak to Bill Miller about this when he gets home.”

“And you,” Diana turns to me. “I’m just not sure how much more I can take of you.” She teeters off with Camille tethered to her side and quickly pretends not to know me. Too ashamed in front of her friends. Too afraid of losing everything she has. Too threatened by the fact that she’s only one step away from being just like Mama.

Maybe it’s because I’ve already lost just about everything and everyone I’ve ever cared about. Maybe it’s because, deep down, I have been expecting Diana to break at any moment. Maybe it’s because I knew all along that living with a family like theirs was too good to be true, that someone like me would never fit into their kind of world. For whatever reason, Diana’s response doesn’t faze me. As Camille and Diana walk away, I offer Bump a shrug of my shoulders and say, “Where to now?”

Bump and I spend the rest of the day driving and talking. I show him all my favorite places: my home, Sweetie, the old sycamore tree where Mama buried her box. I show him the river, out by East, where I used to fish and swim. I show him Hope Hill, and we get out to visit my brother’s grave for the very first time. I show him the gypsy graves. But I don’t mention River.

“How long would it take us to drive to your hometown?” I ask.

“Little less than three hours,” he answers. “You really want to go?”

“Absolutely!” I say. “I’d love to!”

“I’ve got to get back to the barn tonight,” he says, “but first chance I have to get away, we’re taking a road trip.”

“I’ve never been out of Iti Taloa,” I confess, excited to think I may actually get to leave town. Even if just for the day.

I think about Diana’s threatening words: “I’m not sure how much more I can take of you.” I don’t know if I can go back to her house tonight, but I don’t exactly have any other options.

I pull into her driveway, and she comes out to meet me. Bump is in the passenger side, and I step out to talk to Diana in private. It’s been six hours since the scene in the square, and she’s calmed down by now. “I’m sorry, Millie,” she whispers. “I don’t know what came over me. I guess you caught me off guard, is all. I just wasn’t expecting to see Camille racing through town with you behind the wheel of a—
pickup
.” She whispers the word
pickup
with extra clarity, trying to process what it really means for a girl to drive a truck. “I know I can’t expect much from you,” she continues. “I know it’s not fair. I just can’t give up on you, Millie. I know you have potential. You’re a good person. On the
inside
. These rough edges. Let’s just keep trying our best. Okay?”

I smile and nod, wishing instead that I could hear my mama sing.

Mabel watches from the kitchen, pretending not to overhear through the open window.

Diana clears her throat, says, “You’re welcome here, Millie. Stay as long as you need.” Then she goes back inside without saying a word to Bump.

“I better be heading back,” he says, stepping around the truck to take the wheel. I’ve asked him to keep the truck parked at the arena. “See you tomorrow?”

“Yes,” I say. “I’ll be there.” It’s not Bump’s fault my mood has changed, so I fake a smile and tell him good-bye and go back into the house where Diana will try to keep smoothing out my rough spots.

I barely make it through the door before Mabel motions for me. I meet her at the icebox. She wraps me in her arms, says, “You’re perfect the way you are, Millie. Not just on the inside, but all the way, through and through.”

Some people are blessed with the gift of knowing what needs to be said and when. Mabel is one of those people.

CHAPTER 33

Today is Saturday. I sneak out of the house early, trying to avoid Diana and Bill Miller. After yesterday’s incident in the square, Diana insisted that Camille could no longer go with me to the arena. I leave her in her room asleep, sad to be without her.

I go straight to the arena and find Bump already busy, packing his truck with crates of food and farm supplies, even cages of hens and rabbits. Apparently, he has been accumulating anything he could find over the last year that would help his family. “Give me a hand?” he asks, and I follow his lead, struggling to learn the knots and loops he ties so naturally.

“Sure hope the wind doesn’t blow,” I tease, worrying the truck is loaded down so full it could topple with just one gust. Bump is wearing his nicest western shirt and a clean pair of jeans. “Plan to tell me what’s going on?” I ask.

“You said you wanted to meet my family.” He offers that crooked, sweet smile. A charmer, for sure.

“I’ll have to check with Diana,” I say.

“Already done,” he answers. “Told her I’d have you back in time for supper.”

I can’t believe it. “She said I could go?”

“Yep. I think she might actually trust me. A little,” he smiles again, and I can’t help but understand why Diana has faith in this guy.

He pulls one last crate of cottonseed into the passenger side of the truck and says, “Let’s go.”

I climb in through his driver’s door and slide into the middle. He has carefully packed the entire passenger side. Clever.

The next thing I know, we are driving out of town. My first time away from Iti Taloa.

At first we curve through thick forests, heading west away from the morning sun and enjoying the damp, shady route. But within two hours, we enter the vast, hot nothingness they call the Delta. Where the land goes flat. Like you’ve reached the bottom of the world. Where puny patches of timber struggle to fight against the rising degrees of spring, and as far as the mind can take you, there’s not much more to see than fields of ditches and dirt. Row after row of rich Mississippi river soil stretch out like tanned arms, baked crisp by the sun. Across the fields, farmers struggle to get their planting in before the rain. Some have tractors, but not many, so we pass quite a few mule-driven plows with sweat-soaked sharecroppers wringing themselves dry in the dusty haze. We are just now easing ourselves out of winter, but with so few trees to be seen, the sun boils the air like water. Even now, steam sizzles from the men’s shiny skin and an iridescent haze cloaks the horizon.

“Hotter than normal for this time of year,” Bump says, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. “This time last year, we were hit by a freeze. Remember?”

I nod, knowing there’s nothing predictable about spring. Despite the heat, we roll up the windows to manage the dust. “You miss farming?” I ask.

“Sorta do, actually,” he laughs. “May not look like it, but it ain’t half bad. Lotta worse ways to spend a day, that’s for sure. Especially now with everybody heading off to war.”

I say nothing. I can’t imagine a guy as gentle as Bump killing a man. Fighting on the front lines in Europe surrounded by bitter winds and bullets. But then I think of the gypsies and others who have suffered at the hands of the Nazis. If anyone could right the wrong, it’s men like Bump. I just don’t want it to be him. Not Bump. Not now.

“Mama’s gonna love you,” Bump says. “My pop’s real quiet. Won’t say much, but he’ll like you too. And my brothers, well, they’ll be as jealous as ever.”

He reaches down, puts his hand on my knee. I let him keep it there, trying hard to figure this out. Trying hard not to think about River, and realizing I can’t quite remember the sound of his voice.

We are both hot and sweaty by the time we arrive to the Anderson home. They live in a ramshackle cabin, not so different from the one I grew up in, except it is shielded by a ring of trees. The shade is as welcoming as Bump’s entire family—most of them perched on the front porch waiting eagerly for our arrival. Before we make it into the yard, they are all waving and smiling, running out to meet us as Bump pulls the truck under a broad-topped oak. There are so many children, I can’t possibly keep track of their names. I immediately think of the Reggios, only the Andersons are cleaner and nicer and much, much happier. It is clear, though, that they have very little money. I climb down to meet them. Nervous and excited all at once.

Bump’s mother is the first to greet us. “You must be Millie,” she says. “Kenneth has told us all about you. You can call me Mama Evie. Everybody else does.”

It takes me a minute to realize she calls Bump by his given name, Kenneth—something that will take getting used to. Then she turns to the festive brood and starts dishing out introductions. “This is Wyatt, my oldest. And his wife, Opal. They’ve got four little blessings: Emily, Anna Claire, Carter, and Clarke.” The four children line up in a stair-step row, eager to shake my hand and show their best manners. “Over there is Adam,” she continues. “That’s my second son. His wife’s Lenora, and they’ve got three kids. One on the way.” She pats Lenora’s swollen belly and smiles as if she’ll never tire of greeting new babies. Then she points up high in a tree and says, “That’s Kathleen.” A barefoot girl with tangles hangs suspended from a poplar branch, and I figure Kathleen will be my favorite. “Jake and J. D. are over there climbing on the chicken coop. S’posed to be gatherin’ eggs.”

I am already getting confused when Bump shoots me a cute smile and says, “I warned you.”

His mother continues without missing a beat. “Come on over here, Ella. So I can introduce you proper.” Ella pulls herself from Bump and walks over grinning. Two children drag behind each of her legs calling, “Mama, Mama.” She struggles not to trip over them. “This is Ella, Kenneth’s twin. She’s just got two so far, but Lord if they don’t feel like twenty.” Everyone laughs and I lean down to shake hands with twin boys. Both are in that adorable stage where their walk is more like a waddle. The others tease them relentlessly.

“This here’s Isabelle. My youngest daughter. She’s due with her first in the fall. Her husband Zeke’s headed to Germany—with the war. Ella’s husband, Mark. He just got back from fighting too. He’s out in the field.” She points to the empty rows of dirt, baking in the midday sun. I assume Mark is the one in the straw hat, waving and walking our way. “Am I going too fast?”

I smile and try to keep the names straight in my head. I can’t imagine how it would feel growing up with so many people to love. So many to love you back.

“I think that just leaves Marlon, my youngest.” She points to a teenager shadowing Bump. “He’s only fourteen, so no babies for him yet. And then there’s my husband, Elby. He’s quiet. Don’t let that scare you.”

“It might,” I tease, and the tension floats away in the wind.

The kids are all helping Bump unload the truck, eager to see what he has brought for them. Even Kathleen climbs down from her tree to examine the treats. The men have stopped seeding the field and are making their way over to us. Bump is grinning from ear to ear as he hands out gifts. In addition to the food and supplies, which his father is examining carefully, he has brought each person a personal present. “It’s Christmas and birthdays all rolled into one!” he says, laughing and watching the kids unwrap candy and toys, while the ladies unbox scarves, hats, and jewelry.

When the festive gift exchange teeters to an end, Bump announces he has one gift left. He calls his father up to the front porch, and everyone gathers around them. “Pop, we all know how hard you have worked to pull yourself up from a sharecropper to a tenant farmer. That’s not something most folks ever do. We’re all proud of you, Pop. Real proud.”

Bump chokes back tears as his mother wraps her arm around him, giving her son the strength to continue. “You’re the hardest-working farmer this side of the Mississippi. But I know you’ve been worried about some of the landowners gettin’ tractors. Knowin’ you’ll never be able to keep up at that pace. Worried you’ll lose it all.”

Bump’s father stares humbly and silently at his son. None of us knows what Bump is going to say—not even me. “Oh, heck. I’ll just spit it out. Your name has been added to the wait list for a Farmall H!”

The children cheer. The women wipe their eyes and hug. The men stand open mouthed and silent, not sure they’ve heard right.

“It’s true,” Bump continues. “The kind folks over at the Delta Implement Company in Greenville are gonna deliver the tractor straight to your door. Not today, on account of havin’ a big order from the military. But your name’s on the list, and as soon as they get to it they’ll bring you a shiny red tractor.”

The kids cheer louder. “Tractor! Tractor! Tractor!”

“With,” Bump goes on, smiling big as the sun. “With … attachable cultivator, planter, disc harrow, and plow!”

Evie hugs her son. Then her husband. “I can’t believe it, Kenneth. I just can’t believe it,” she says. “How on earth …”

Bump interrupts. “That’s not all,” he adds. “I’m also lookin’ into gettin’ a cotton picker, but that’s still in the works.”

The men shuffle their feet in nervous apprehension and Bump’s father, Elby, starts to question. Bump chimes in before the mood can turn sour. “Now, before you go protestin’, you should know I already worked out all the details, and I don’t want you worryin’ for a minute about how we’ll pay for it.” Bump fills in the facts. “The deal’s easy. Mr. Tucker bought all of this for you. On one condition.”

Mr. Anderson’s brow furrows. I assume he’s heard such phrases before, and these conditions usually don’t go in his favor. “I can’t give no more of my crop,” he says “Barely keep enough to live on now. Barely gettin’ by.”

“I know, Pop,” Bump says with full respect. “That’s why this is such a good opportunity for us. And it’s a surprise for you, too, Millie.” He turns to look at me. “Mr. Tucker wants me to manage his new horse ranch out in Colorado. Launch a breeding and training program west of the Divide. He’s offered me a huge up in pay, with a bonus—the tractor and accessories paid in full. Cotton picker promised by harvest. This is it, Pop! I’ll earn enough to send you more money each month, and with the equipment, you’ll be able to pay off the debts in no time flat. Start finding some land for sale, Pop. ’Cause you’re gonna be a landowner before we know it.”

The women clap and cry as the children jump up and down like coon dogs. Bump’s mother holds her son and her husband together as the men pat Bump on the back. I pull back behind the celebrating crowd. Speechless. The tractor paid in full is a tremendous gift, a huge surprise, but the news that Bump will be moving to Colorado takes air from my lungs.

I can tell I’m not the only one who wants to ask Bump for more information about the cross-country move, but his mother keeps the mood happy by announcing, “Everybody wash up. Perfect time for lunch.”

The Andersons splurge on a heavy meal for us. They’ve slaughtered two fat hens for a hefty pot of chicken and dumplings served with cornbread and beans. Plus they’ve used up most of their remaining jars of canned peaches for a delicious cobbler. I feel guilty, knowing it has taken more money than they could truly afford for them to host this feast.

I think of Diana’s family, sitting down for nightly supper, tossing food into the trash after every meal like it’s nothing.

Before a single scoop is served, Bump’s family circles the kitchen holding hands. The room is packed and hot, but no one complains as Bump’s father leads the family in prayer. They don’t mention the prayer list. They don’t name all the people in town and their private problems. But all the members of the Anderson family, young and old, grow silent and bow their heads. I am in awe of the deep respect this family has for each other, and for their faith. They are truly grateful for the meal, for their family, even for me. I stand between Bump and Mama Evie. They both squeeze my hands as Bump’s father speaks.

“Dear heavenly Father, thank You for our many blessings. Thank You for providing this nutritious food, and thank You for bringin’ our son Kenneth home to us today. Also bless Kenneth’s friend, Miss Reynolds, who has joined us. Please forgive us of our sins, and help us always to be mindful of Your grace. And may we never forget that no matter how much we sacrifice for You, You have sacrificed much more for us. In Jesus’ name we pray, amen.”

It’s been a long time since I’ve sensed genuine faith, the kind my mother tried to teach me. But standing here in this modest cabin, windows open, heat pouring in, hand in hand with Bump and his mother, I feel hypnotized by the presence of God. And it doesn’t end. As the day goes on, I can taste the existence of God in every bite of food, smell Him in every waft of Delta air, feel Him as Bump brushes against my arm and children tug at my dress with question after question about the rodeo, about Bump.

For years, I have searched and searched for this God. This feeling of complete love and acceptance. He was always out of reach. But here, where food is scarce, money is tight, heat is heavy, and tensions should run high, God is everywhere. Just as during the night around the gypsy fire, I am mesmerized by watching people who are truly happy. At peace. Kind. Grateful.