It's Not Like I Knew Her (31 page)

T
he morning Jodie picked to clean away years of accumulated filth, the radio announcer promised a temperature in the mid-nineties with humidity that could grow mildew on hens' teeth. Still, she stripped the beds and dragged lumpy cotton mattresses into the yard, laying them to sun on a makeshift scaffold fashioned from sawhorses and scrap lumber. She mopped heart of pine floors with Murphy's Oil Soap, polished every stick of furniture, and scrubbed green growth from the bathtub and sink until her knuckles bled. Starting up the wringer washing machine, she sorted and washed faded curtains, bed linen, tablecloths and throw rugs—every rag in the place that could stand up to a hard bleaching—and burned what couldn't.

When the bed linens had dried in the sun, she propped Red on fresh pillows covered in pillowslips bleached white, scented with lemon juice, and smooth-ironed. He listened to the play-by-play of a Dodgers game on the radio through her changing of the bed. She commented on the national pennant race to help cover the awkwardness that had stayed between them like a bad case of mumps.

After supper dishes, she slumped, exhausted, on the couch in front of the snowy television screen, put her head back, closed her eyes, and drifted into a light sleep, only to be startled awake by scuffing noises coming from Red's bedroom. She expected to see Buster letting himself out for his nightly prowl.

Red slumped against the doorframe, weaving on knocked-out legs, wheezing hard with his effort. His pajama pants rode low, his hip joints like wall pegs.

She went to him and slipped an arm around his waist, steadying him. He leaned hard against her shoulder, his frailness mocking the strapping man she'd known. She wanted the Red who'd walked onto the porch where she and Silas played checkers—the man who'd driven them to Gaskin's for strawberry cream, and the man who had put a stop to the beatings.

Yet she had nothing more honest than, “I hate they closed Gaskin's.”

He nodded, his bristled chin scratching the top of her head.

He motioned toward the front door, and together they shuffled across the clean floor. His movements were spastic, like those of a child's puppet with tangled strings.

Reaching the edge of the porch, he pulled away, and struggling to stand, he leaned against a porch post. His back to her, he peed off the edge of the porch, and when he was done, he lifted his chin and took a deep breath.

Together, they retraced his arduous steps, and he dropped onto the bed, wheezing so that she feared he'd die. With his good hand, he lifted the lifeless one to rest across his knees and began rubbing it, as if by sheer will he could make it work again. Dry skin flaked under the force of his hand, his arm raw and bleeding.

She sat down beside him and took his hand between hers. He strained against her strength, his cheeks draining of color with his futile exertion. He slumped, his head resting against her shoulder, and began to whimper. Buster licked Red's dangling hand and whined.

Putting an arm around his frail shoulders, she whispered, “You ready to get back down under the covers? Rest a little before heading off to a frolic?”

He lifted his face to hers and nodded. She took his scaly heels in her palms and lifted his legs onto the bed. She straightened her back, her hands pinching into her waist, relieving the pain in her lower back the way Crystal Ann had. Red was scarecrow thin, but still heavy. She turned off the overhead light, took a seat in the rocker at the foot of his bed, and waited for his breathing to return to its normal hoarseness.

It had taken a full week to make the old house once again livable, and Jodie was surprised that she still had energy enough to pull weeds from among the few surviving perennials that grew in the beds along the edges of the front porch. Miss Mary had prided herself in growing summer flowers—lavender-blue flax; white, pink and red sweet pea; golden buttons; scarlet sage; nasturtiums and dahlias—most blooming from early spring until first frost.

Jodie favored the scarlet peony with its double bloom and dark green leaves. Miss Mary had said the peony could bloom for decades with little care; its hardy traits carried over from its days as a simple wildflower, when the tiny flower had required only the help of birds and gentle winds to spread its beauty. Miss Mary's flowers had been the only things Jodie had known her to treat tenderly.

With the last of the weeds pulled and tossed into the chicken yard, Jodie sat in the porch swing enjoying a glass of iced tea, admiring the results of her labors. At the putt-putt clamor of a diesel engine, she squinted in the direction of the road.

Silas approached on his prized inheritance: a 1937 International Harvester. He had repeated his old man's claim that no tractor could be both good and cheap. Before the bank employee had arrived to repossess the tractor, his daddy had hidden it deep in the woods, swearing in court before an obliging judge that it was stolen. Silas had laughed and said, “You can bet your sweet ass it was stolen. My daddy never lied.”

Shutting down the engine, Silas removed his cap, wiped sweat from his face onto the sleeve of his shirt, and grinned at her in that special way he had of inviting fun.

“Afternoon, Miss Jodie. You notice Ole' Trucker, just now? Damned if he didn't crawl out of his tunnel to let me know I was trespassing.”

“Thought by now he would've followed some pretty lady gopher off.” They'd first spotted the giant gopher tortoise the summer she arrived and had thought of Trucker as their shared pet.

“Hell, woman, the ladies come to him.” He cocked his head to one side and smiled. “I'd say he's got all the luck there is.”

She warmed to his foolishness.

He looked at the freshly weeded beds, his mischievousness replaced by a more pensive expression.

“Thought you might consider a patch of ground turned. Start from scratch with something new.” He ran his hands up and down his thighs.

She wiped at the sweat rolling between her breasts, speculating that Silas hadn't bothered telling his wife about his renewed urge to farm.

“Got flowers aplenty, but you might fix a patch to sow a few turnip seeds.”

Ground prepared, seed sown, they stood admiring their work. Jodie offered, “Late start, but maybe they'll make before first frost.”

“Damn right. Who said you and me can't be out of step with
The Farmer's Almanac
?” He took off his cap and slapped her across her rear.

“Whoa now, you forgot who used to whip your skinny-boy ass?”

Grabbing the water bucket, he splashed her and ran with boyish devilment. She gave chase, but he was still the better sprinter. Rounding the corner of the house, he suddenly pulled up, taking her by surprise. He pivoted, pulling her to his chest. She drove a quick knee upward, stopping short of his crotch, and he backed off, his face flushed crimson.

“Aw, shit, gal. Tell me you didn't really intend sidelining God's gift to Catawba's lonely ladies?”

“Would that include your wife among the satisfied?” Although she knew his bravado was an awkward attempt at recovery, her belly anger, trigger-ready, had driven her response. His action had become every male's uninvited advance.

“Damn, Jodie. I believe you'd still rather stomp balls than screw.” He slumped down on the porch steps. It would seem Silas had his own reservoir of pain.

“Guess I get my firey temper from my half-squaw mama.”

He squinted at her, as if he needed a moment to spin her meaning into something he could accept.

“Yeah, well, you oughtn't to talk about your dead mama like that.” He took a pack of smokes from his pocket, lit two, passed one to her. “You do smoke, right?” His question had its own sharp edge.

“When I'm not in training.” She took the cigarette.

His broad forehead wrinkled. “Guess old Father Time's robbed you of any chance you had of catching on with that wild bunch of women.”

“Not true. Hear they're recruiting older gals. Only problem I'm likely to have is holding my own in the bars.” She wasn't sure why she didn't tell him of her plan. Maybe it was that she'd just arrived, and right now, after what just happened between them, she didn't want to argue.

“Wait, listen. There's a covey of quail right about there.” He pointed in the direction of a clump of sumac beyond the freshly plowed ground.

“They're not exactly a rarity. They're after those scattered seed.”

“There you go again. No imagination.” He sat back, a slow smile gathering.

“Hmm, that so?” She'd never cared which part was the truth and which part was his need to spin a good story.

“Read where some smart cracker boys are raising domesticated quail on big-ass plantations. They bring rich Yankees down on luxury trains to shoot them little confused birds.”

“That's sporting. Use Tommy guns, do they?” She spit on the ground.

“Now wait. I think we could get into the bird business. Put a little local twist on it. Bring fat cats into the port at Apalach'. From there we'd ride their soft asses up the river on a houseboat loaded with liquor and obliging ladies.”

“Well, now, that's a fine plan, with one exception.”

He squinted at her, a laugh behind his mock innocence.

“I hear prostitution's illegal, even here in Florida. And overall, I just don't have the stomach for buckshot wars with tiny, hand-fed birds.”

“Now did I say a word about prostitutes?” His tone carried a false dismay. “Friendly ladies, that's all.” He laughed, and maybe he did sometimes wish that his heart was in line with his ambition to become more than Catawba's best shade-tree mechanic.

They continued to sit, shoulders separated by a mere sliver of fading light, and talked about childhood feats of recklessness.

“Now days, I fret about things I never knew needed worrying over. A kid changes how a man looks at everything.”

There was a tinge of regret in his voice, and she thought it odd that he didn't speak of his wife, only his little girl.

“I'd like to meet your girl. Does she look like you?”

He rubbed grease-stained knuckles against his palm. “No, not exactly, but it's early yet.” A deeper stirring moved inside him, although there was little outward effect. Then, she knew him in ways he didn't know himself.

“Guess you won't stay for a piece of lemon pie. Baked it myself, fresh this morning.” It felt strange that another had first dibs on his time, her jealousy even stranger.

“Damn, I do believe I'm seeing a softer side of you. Figured you to come and go wearing the same jeans.”

“Don't look so surprised. I learned to like cooking better than doing without.”

He shrugged. “What the hell. She's blistered aplenty already. Nothing gained by foregoing pie.”

He leaned against the kitchen counter, his cheeks stuffed, and when he'd finished, he set the empty dish on the counter. He crossed his arms, his big hands tucked inside his armpits, and his eyes narrowed.

She felt his mood shift, his heat building, and the air in the tiny kitchen swirled with the inevitable, swollen like a festering boil.

“What about Roy Dale Pitts? Did you like cooking for him? Then, maybe he liked café eating, did he?”

“Thought we'd agreed never to talk about that again.”

“Right, screw it. I hate liars worse than fools.” His blue eyes seethed with anger at whatever he imagined.

“Jesus, Silas, I never stayed with him. I split the first chance I got.” She lit a cigarette from the pack he'd tossed onto the table. What was so hard about accepting that she and Roy Dale were two naïve kids who'd wished to cash in their shitty birth hand for a chance at something better?

His eyes brimmed in tears, and he lowered his head.

“Silas, you've got to know I was headed away from here the day I set foot in this house. He was a ride. It started that way and it ended the same.”

He raised his head, stared at her, his eyes searching hers. “Why didn't you at least tell me you were leaving?” He paused, seeming to gather himself. “Red expected me to know where you were. Shit, everyone did. I don't think he's ever believed me. And I've never lied to him.”

“Silas, there were no promises between us. If there had been, then explain your wife and baby.” She dropped the cigarette butt into the cooled coffee. “God, that's screwed. I didn't mean it the way it sounded.”

“That whole thing with her … it just happened. She got herself knocked up. And I couldn't be sure. The other guy already had a pregnant wife and two rug rats. And you'd taken off the way you did.”

“Oh, God. That's the best you've got?” An abrupt laugh escaped her tight lips like a churchhouse fart.

“Hell, I know it sounds lame. But nothing turned out the way I'd expected. Everything got flipped upside down.”

“Look, I get it. And for the last time, my leaving was all about what I needed. I loved you. I still do, but not in the way you wanted.” She feared he'd guess the truth about her.

“Damnit, Jodie, you sound like Maggie. But I never signed on to be your brother.” He walked through the door and off the porch.

She couldn't bear the thought of losing him, but before moving on, she'd tell him about the trucker and Buddy Highway, about her friends Teddy and Maxine, and about the woman she loves. Maybe he'd understand that she'd have died before surrendering to Roy Dale Pitts or any man, even him.

J
odie and Red had eaten breakfast in a comfortable silence, and she cleared the table while he fed Buster bits of table scraps. His movements were slow and clumsy, but he succeeded in moving bits of food from his plate to within the dog's reach.

“You figure to try that freeloader on peaches?” she sniped in jest, picking up the bowl and crossing to the fridge. Buster followed and sat at her feet, drooling.

“Cobbler,” Red held out a biscuit, his tongue pushed forward from the left side of his slack mouth, his hoarse laughter escaping his throat in spurts of saliva, and he motioned her toward Buster's dish.