It's Not Like I Knew Her (34 page)

Maggie gave her a groggy nod and spun the truck around in the road, driving back in the direction she'd come. Jodie settled onto the ragged wool blanket covering the ripped seat, her hands wedged under her bare thighs. For all the time she'd known Maggie, she'd referred to the blanket as her severance on behalf of an ungrateful nation. Even nosey Silas hadn't learned the story behind the blanket.

Maggie handed Jodie the battered thermos, a veteran of many nameless journeys. “Pour me another while you're at it. After all that mess last evening, I decided we'd need a little Irish to neutralize the red.” Maggie's eyes were puffy, evidence that she too hadn't slept.

Jodie poured expertly to the cup's circled stain; the mark Maggie had long called the rough road mark. The strong scent of chicory and bourbon filled the cab.

“Can you handle one of those biscuits with ham and Ruth's strawberry jam there in that sack?”

Jodie bit into the warm biscuit, jam oozing from its crispy brown edges, the sound of Arthur's big laughter echoing in her memory. Someday she would tell Maggie about him, his biscuits, and their shared pilfering.

At a familiar crossroads, Maggie turned the truck eastward into the blood-red birth of what felt oddly enough like a stronger day. The noisy clatter of the truck scattered a flutter of sparrows and the tiny birds rose like a dark wave above the wet, grassy shoulder of the road.

“Those birds put me in mind of what Ruth once said about quails scattering widely when threatened, in the hope that at least a few survive.” Maggie paused. “Then I've come to know surviving alone as a damn hard way to go.” Her tone was one of deep sadness, her memories filling the cab like a bittersweet vapor, and Jodie believed Maggie's heart looked backward. She now spoke of more good days behind her than ahead.

Maggie steered the truck onto Old Church Road, and as Jodie had suspected, she was here with Maggie to visit Miss Ruth's grave. Ahead less than two hundred yards, a simple, rectangular-shaped church stood on a slight rise in an otherwise flat terrain. The narrow steeple held no bell to summon its faithful, and its rough spire made of shaved pine saplings spoke to the impoverishment of its congregation.

“Why she was so set on coming here to this church remains a mystery.” Maggie drained the last of the coffee and stepped out of the truck.

Jodie had given little thought to Miss Ruth's faithfulness beyond its selfish meaning that Maggie had taken Sundays for her and Silas. Yet Miss Ruth had seemed better suited to a church Jodie had seen pictured in
Life Magazine
; a pretty vine-covered building constructed of huge gray stones with a steeple so tall it appeared a stairway to the pearly gates. Miss Ruth would have likely needed to travel as far as Mobile or New Orleans to find such a church.

Angie Otterman approached on arthritic knees along a worn path that ran between her family's failed farm and the church grounds. Her stomach and breasts sagged under the coarse cotton print dress sown from feed bags. Jodie remembered her daughter, Katie, a tiny, nearly mute schoolmate, had worn dresses sown from similar material. A pregnant Katie had dropped out of school in the eighth grade to harsh rumors. Jodie hadn't seen Katie after that, and believed she'd been sent away.

“Morning, Miss Maggie. Is it our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ who brings you to His Father's house?” Her smile included Jodie, and she tugged at her short cut-offs, looking to Maggie for an appropriate response. Miss Angie clutched a fist of freshly picked wildflowers, likely intended for the church altar.

“Not today, Angie. It would appear I'm good for a while longer on my own.”

Miss Angie's brow gathered, her focus now on the approach of a man Jodie took to be her husband. While not as much as looking at Maggie or her, he glared at his wife, his hard eyes burning with reprisal. Having done so, he walked on, entering through what Jodie imagined as the church's narrowest of doors.

“Forgive my husband. He doesn't require love. Only obedience.” Miss Angie stepped closer and spoke directly to Maggie. “I know our sweet Miss Ruth favored her roses.” Her voice seemed to gather strength. “Just the same, I think she'd like these pretties.” She handed Maggie the bouquet, turned and followed her husband.

Maggie took Jodie's hand in hers, and together they walked beneath a rusted metal archway with three rotund cherubs poised atop, grasping harps in their plump hands. Morning dew beaded on the teardrop-shaped leaves of the sweet-smelling vines entwining the arch, sunlight turning each droplet into a prism of rainbow colors.

“I like the idea of those chunky boys as backup to Ole Gabe should he mislay his trumpet. Reckon they know any Ruth Brown?” Maggie's wry smile fixed oddly on her otherwise sad face, and her hand in Jodie's was moist.

They walked among row after row of simple tombstones of porous lime rock, blackened with age; Catawba's pioneer families—Irish, Scottish, German, and English—human chains stretching back six generations, buried so close Jodie imagined their spirits whispering back and forth on the darkest nights. Among the poorer there were bread loaf-shaped indentations marked by simple, decaying wooden crosses. At one such grave, bearing the name of Katie Otterman, Jodie slowed.

“I was called too late to save her.” Maggie glared back along the path, vengeance burning in her eyes. “If there's justice in the hereafter, it's surely meant for the likes of Jacob Otterman.”

They walked on a ways, stopping at the foot of a newly erected double gravestone cut from solid granite, its silver-gray face polished to a smooth brilliance.

RUTH ANN O'RILEY
BELOVED COMPANION OF MARGARET E. FRANKLIN
BORN OCTOBER 5, 1910 — DIED JANUARY 9, 1961

Jodie pressed her trembling finger tips to her quivering lips, and she whispered, “God, Maggie, it's fine. Real fine.”

Maggie nodded. “Yes, it is. Isn't it?”

She knelt next to the grave, and in what Jodie believed was a defiant act of love, she traced with her fingertip the letters C-O-M-P-A-N-I-O-N chiseled deep into the stone. No longer a whisper between lovers, but a shout for all eternity. She placed the wildflowers on the grave and pushed to her feet with the aid of the stone.

When each was ready, they walked back along the path to where they'd left the truck. An off-key rendition of
Onward Christian Soldiers
rose from the congregation and echoed across the ridge.

Jodie turned to Maggie. “Do you think Miss Ruth's safe here?” She understood that she wished to be reassured that hatred and its violence stopped at the grave.

While Maggie's smile was gentle, her tone was pensive. “I can't know that, but I can tell you that men, women, and children openly wept at her funeral, yet not one spoke our names in the same breath.”

Jodie nodded, and in the absence of knowing, she'd choose to set aside the evil she'd seen in the eyes of Jacob Otterman and accept that a gift of simple wildflowers was a lasting act of compassion.

U
pon reaching the crossroads, Maggie pulled the truck to a full stop and looked in both directions, a hesitation Jodie believed had nothing to do with a sudden obedience to the rules of the road, but rather a momentary loss of the emotional compass Miss Ruth had been.

“Maggie, what would you say to our riding over to the beach? Checking out our old haunts?” Red would expect breakfast about now, but he'd soon need to get by on cereal. The practice of managing on his own would do him good.

Maggie looked at her, as though surprised by her presence, and she took a moment to recover.

“I'd like that.” Maggie smiled. “We'll stop off at Samuel's and pick us up a hobo picnic.”

“Mr. Samuel?” Jodie nearly choked on her deceit.

Maggie took a firmer grip on the steering wheel and stared straight ahead. “After that no-account Roy Dale Pitts robbed the store, Golden got the wrongheaded notion that if the mess ever got out, white customers would stop buying groceries from a Jew harboring a Negro thief. Hellfire, after twenty years, Samuel knew as much about the business as Golden. He opened his own store.”

Maggie appeared to wait for whatever she might say, but Jodie only nodded.

“Wholesalers refused to sell to him, until Samuel persuaded Golden to over-order and to sell the overage to him at a markup of two cents on the dollar. Greedy men looked the other way, happy enough with bigger orders, and Golden got a little extra.” Maggie grunted her irritation. “Money has a way of whistling Dixie where common decency fails.”

“Maggie, I was with Roy Dale Pitts when he robbed Golden and pistol-whipped Mr. Samuel.” Her words gushed from her mouth in a torrent. “But I wasn't in on any of his meanness.”

“Jodie, you knew damn well that boy didn't break into the store for that mess of candy and gum he took.”

“I was wrong the very moment Roy Dale took that tire iron to the door. But I didn't know Mr. Samuel was there, and I swear I didn't know about the gun and the beating until later. Still, I was a dirty coward not to come back and face up to my part.”

Maggie glanced at Jodie and nodded.

“How bad was it?”

“He took a nasty bruise all right, but he called me at home more worried he'd be blamed for the missing money.”

“Did you know right off that I was with Roy Dale?”

“Not at first, but I squeezed enough of the truth out of Clara Lee about your big fight. I knew for sure when one of my fishing buddies told me he'd seen you with Roy Dale at the boat landing.”

“It all happened so fast. All I could think about was getting away. I was headed to Dallas. But that didn't work out.”

“I accepted that you were desperate enough to leave the way you did. Roy Dale's meanness was his own doing. And I'd venture to say you've learned a hard lesson on the company you keep.”

Her web of wrong was more intricate than she'd first imagined, and Maggie had made it clear that her next move was hers alone.

M
aggie pulled the truck to a stop at Silas's station. Jodie retrieved the key from behind the kerosene tank and pumped a tank of gas. A surprised Silas came from a work bay to lean on the truck, wiping grease from his hands.

“Where do you two delinquents think you're off to on stolen gas?”

“Hell, today's the Sabbath. Quit whatever you're doing and come with us. We have food and drink enough for Cox's Army.”

“Oh, yeah, just what ya'll got in that sack?” Silas tilted his head to one side with interest.

“What's it matter, boy? Come on. It'll be like old times.” Maggie chuckled and Silas was hooked.

“You still got those old crab nets? We mean to catch us a mess of soft shells.” Jodie winked.

He broke into a boyish grin, the special one Jodie loved. “Nobody's used them since us. They're likely rotted.”

Maggie started up the truck. “Does that mean you're coming?”

“You bet. Wait while I lock up the place.” He went at a trot, yelling back at Jodie, “And put my damn key right back where you found it.”

Silas returned with nets and a bucket of chilled Pabst Blue Ribbon. He offered to drive, but Maggie waved him in next to Jodie. He opened three beers, passing two over.

By the time they reached the beach, they'd finished the beers and Silas had Maggie pull over at a closed Gulf station. He walked around behind the building as if he intended to use the restroom. In less than five minutes he returned, a brown bag under his arm.

“Since when did filling stations start selling beer on Sundays? That's not exactly keeping the Sabbath.”

“On the beach, sin's for sale any day of the week. Otherwise it
is
a blue Sunday.” Silas grinned at Maggie and opened three more cold ones.

Maggie parked the truck on the edge of an oyster shell road, careful to keep the passenger's side wheels out of a sand bog. Placing the remaining beers on ice, Silas carried the sack, crab nets, and bucket. Jodie lifted the food box onto her shoulder, leaving Maggie to bring the army blanket.

They trudged a quarter of a mile through palmetto clumps and twisted scrub oaks to a secluded strip of white sand lying between a high-tide lagoon and the blue-green waters of St. Joseph Bay. On the shore's edge, a flock of seagulls rose from the surf, flapping their noisy retreat. Ahead, toward St. Joe, billowing clouds of heavy white smoke poured from the pulp mill, spewing its chemical stench against an otherwise clear sky.

Silas pointed out a shortleaf pine, its growth stunted, branches gnarled by constant salt spray and gulf wind. An anhinga perched on a lower limb, spread its bluish-black wings to dry, and beyond, in the lagoon, the silver backs of mullet flashed in the sunlight. Jodie breathed in the salt air, embracing it as an old friend.

Silas squinted across the wide expanse of water and shook his head in amazement, leaving her and Maggie behind. Still, she winked at Maggie, the two silently agreeing to give Silas the audience he craved.

“Florida tilts, you know. Standing here, it's easy to imagine its wide continental shelf righting itself by some geological event, and land pushing up out of the Gulf. We'd be standing east of what would be the center of the state.”

It was as though he'd stepped out of heavy work boots and jeans into penny loafers and a corduroy jacket, making it easy to imagine him standing in front of a classroom. He'd read more books than the lifetime total of those whose old cars and trucks he kept running.

They slipped off their shoes, rolled up their jeans, and waded into the foaming surf. They each tossed a chicken neck, secured to a piece of twine, into the breakers, baiting crabs, the midday sun warming their backs. Silas pulled his shirt off and tied it around his waist.

“No fair you can do that and I can't.”

“Go ahead. I double-dog dare and eat the hair.” Splashing ahead, he turned back, repeating his boyish dare. It wasn't his challenge but a new voice that pushed to be heard. She pulled her shirt over her head, removed her bra, and tied both around her waist.