It's Not Like I Knew Her (7 page)

“Those two boys, there.” He pointed. “The towhead's Silas and the other's Little Samuel. Samuel's daddy works there at the A&P. And Silas,” he paused, “let's just say he's figuring on how to get along without one. They're good boys.” Red sounded the horn, and the two stopped long enough to wave.

“That so?” She had drawn the boy's piss-poor luck times two. And she was yet to know a boy she thought much of.

“There on the corner, that's the elementary school. What grade you in?”

“Seventh.”

“Then you'll go to the new junior-senior high. History teacher's a fine lady and a damn good teacher. You'll like her. Name's Miss Ruth O'Riley.”

Jodie hated history, and the teacher he was so sure she'd like sounded like an old maid. They made the worst teachers.

Several miles out of town on a county road, Red turned the Dodge onto a sandy lane, and at the top of a rise she got her first look at the clapboard house. An array of ramshackle outbuildings dotted the yard cluttered with junked farm equipment.

The late afternoon sun reflected off the tin roof, the house appearing to be ablaze. The house was even smaller than Aunt Pearl's, and only slightly bigger than those on sharecroppers' row. If the entire house and its outbuildings burned to the ground, Red wouldn't be out much. Nothing about what she saw made her want to stay.

He shut down the engine and turned to her.

“There's bound to be a bit of friction. But I'm counting on you being gritty like your mama.” He paused and glanced toward the house. “Things will work out. You'll see.” He showed her his best poker face, but the circles of sweat at his armpits told a different story.

She followed him through the sagging picket gate. The day's heat, trapped beneath the tin roof of the porch, shimmered like Christmas tinsel. He stepped onto the porch, his lanky frame casting its long shadow across the lye-scrubbed boards. Standing next to Red, Jodie clutched the brown cardboard suitcase, glad Aunt Pearl had insisted she wear her best school dress, although it was badly wrinkled, and splotched with yellow mustard from the hotdog she'd eaten on the road.

A stout, hard-eyed woman sat in a straight-back chair, cutting sweet corn from the cob. A shy, pudgy girl peered from behind her. Neither lifted a hand or spoke, the only sound that of Jack Bailey's booming question:
Do you want to be Queen for a Day?
The shrill voices of desperate women erupted, shamelessly pleading to tell their stories. Jodie hated the show, believing pity shouldn't be put to a contest.

Red nodded to the silent woman and ignored the girl. He jammed his big hands into the pockets of his trousers, rocked heel to toe, as if he meant to gather momentum, and cleared his throat. Overall, he struck an odd if not downright silly pose. Jodie ground her teeth and waited.

“This is Jodie Taylor. Like I said before, she's to live here. And there's nothing more to be said.” He placed a hand on her shoulder, nudging her forward. His manner reminded her of all those times she'd gone to Jewel, ready to take her punishment, but not seeking forgiveness.

“Jodie, this lady's Miss Mary, my wife. You're to call her Miss Mary. And you're to do as she says. The girl's Hazel. You can call her whatever you work out between you. And you two are to get along.”

He took a clean white handkerchief from his pocket and mopped at the sweat rolling down his temples. There was a rank odor about him that Jodie hadn't noticed earlier.

Miss Mary drew the skirt of her cotton print dress across her knees, binding her short thighs in a vise. Her stout fingers worked through the chalky-white kernels as if she meant to separate Red's words into truths and consequences. Her puffy, dough-like face was drawn and pale, and she glared at him from where she sat, her dark eyes wet, fired stones.

The girl, crouched next to her mama, stared, saliva trickling down her chin as her stubby fingers worked like tiny shovels inside her chapped cheek. Jodie believed her to be a year or so younger, and she looked as if she knew to fear what was to come.

Jodie gripped the suitcase more tightly. It held all she possessed: her link to her past—the busted seventy-eight, carefully packaged, and the Bible—along with two pairs of jeans, three shirts, a pleated green skirt, a white blouse, two school dresses, three changes of underwear, her Wonder Woman comics, and the three detective novels she'd stolen.

“Hazel, you're to make room. Now show Jodie inside.”

The girl looked to her mama, but she was too busy glaring at Red's back as he turned and walked off the porch. He stood in the yard, whistling for a dog he called Buster.

Jodie had no choice but to follow the mute girl into a tiny bedroom furnished with a double bed, home to a collection of stuffed animals, a scarred chifforobe, and a three-legged stool painted bright yellow.

“Now, this is what I call damn pitiful. Barely room enough to cuss a crippled cat. And that mess of kid toys piled there has got to go.” She gave Hazel her best Jewel stance.

Hazel moaned, a hand to her mouth, and she backed away, bumping into the near wall.

“What's the matter with you? You retarded or something?”

Hazel ran from the room, crying, and Jodie stared after her. Maybe she was a bit unfriendly, but now was the time to settle things between them. If she stayed, she'd have her hands plenty full with the old woman.

She didn't bother unpacking but shoved the suitcase under the bed. She lay on the bed, curled into a defensive ball, and in the moment she hated Red Dozier, her Aunt Pearl, and most of all Jewel.

At the sound of footsteps approaching, Jodie sat up on the side of the bed and squinted through her grogginess. She'd fallen asleep.

“My daddy says you're to come to supper.” Hazel turned and hurried back down the hallway.

“Wait. Is there a bathroom in this place?”

Jodie glanced at her reflection in the cracked mirror hanging above the bathroom sink and ran wet fingers through her snarled curls. When she entered the kitchen, Miss Mary slammed a dish of macaroni and cheese onto the table and stomped out.

“Go on, Jodie. Get to the table.” Red sat at the head, his face flushed, and he appeared to grind his teeth. He motioned for Hazel to sit. She glanced over her shoulder as if confused as to which parent she owed her allegiance.

Jodie took the chair nearest Red, her back pressed up hard against the chair spindles, so much so she was certain of grooves. Red sighed and called upon Hazel to pray.

“God is great. God is good. Let us thank Him for our food. Amen.” Hazel raised her head and smiled so sweetly pious, Jodie was sure sugar wouldn't melt in the girl's mouth, proving she wasn't dumb after all.

Jodie pushed the yellow, brick-like macaroni and cheese around on her plate, fearing she'd gag if she tried swallowing it. Meals in this house weren't going to be Aunt Pearl's; supper was skimpy and cold.

Red cursed, slammed his plate into the sink, and went to the pantry. He came back with a quart jar.

“You girls like peaches?” He winked at Jodie. He knew they were her favorite. “Grab those leftover biscuits out of the safe. We're about to eat our fill of Red's famous peach cobbler.”

They added milk to the crumbled biscuits and peaches, finishing off the entire jar.

Red leaned back, patted his belly, and said, “What'd ya'll say to a game of Chinese checkers? I'll play two colors. Double my chance of winning.” He stepped to the stove and poured a cup of coffee.

“Can I get a cup of that?” Aunt Pearl had forbidden coffee, something about coffee stunting her growth. Jewel had told her it would turn her black. Both were lies.

Red poured a second cup and set it on the table next to her. “You gonna want sissy mess in that?”

“Nope, drink my coffee black.”

He looked at her, and slowly nodded. “Figured as much.”

Jodie studied his face, his expression giving away nothing of what he felt.

Hazel had retrieved the game board and set it up on the kitchen table.

“All right, young ladies. You're about to get yourselves dry-gulched.”

Hazel giggled. “I'm playing red, Daddy.”

“Dang, girl. You know red is my color.” He poured a double shot of whiskey in his coffee and sat back at the table.

“No, you had red last time, remember?” She gathered the marbles and began filling the spaces on the board.

“All right, Jodie, I guess you get to pick next.” Black was her lucky color.

The three played as if the headwinds of an impending storm weren't swirling about in another part of the house. When Hazel began to nod, Red sent them off to bed.

Being with Red and Hazel had helped to settle her nerves, and sleep came easier than Jodie expected. She slept hard until startled awake by strange voices. At first, she was confused, believing she was back at Aunt Pearl's. A whimpering Hazel lay next to her, curled into a tight ball, her fists covering her ears. Jodie strained to hear what she now knew was Red's checked voice, coming from the other side of the house.

“Girl, shut your damn blubbering.” It wasn't her they fought about.

Jodie heard
whore's bastard
in Miss Mary's shrill voice.

“She won't have her back.”

“Then send her to a home. Anywhere. I want her gone from here.”

“No, she stays. That's final.” Red's anger ricocheted off the walls like the blasts of a scatter gun. Miss Mary wailed as if he'd shot her. His fury driving his heavy footsteps across the parlor, he slammed the front door back on its hinges.

Jodie jumped off the bed and hurried to the window. Across the ridge, the moon shone brightly, and she saw him as clearly as day. He kicked open the gate and crossed to his car. He got into the Dodge and sped away. No chance he'd seen her timid wave.

Jodie got back into bed, her eyes squeezed tight against what she knew was her fate. Jewel had once warned that if they were to make it in this world, they'd need to butt with their own heads. They were not the type to be rescued. Before Jewel had fallen under Troy's dark spell, she'd had a way of being right about hard things. Red came for her, but she was to be alone in this house.

J
odie pulled at the long strands of cobweb tangled in her hair and scrunched next to a foundation post. Buster rose from the pit he'd dug next to the fireplace footing and crept closer. She wrapped an arm around the dog's thick shoulders, and he licked her sweaty face. Both hid beneath the house from Hazel, her mother's dutiful spy.

A pair of dirty feet appeared at the outer edge of the porch, and Jodie scooted further toward the center of the house. Hazel squatted, peered beneath the house, and grimaced. Jodie counted on the girl's fear of all things that crawled, and the glare of the mid-morning sun, to shield her.

“Jodie, I know you're under there. Mama don't like the way you hung the wash.” Her sing-song cadence put Jodie's teeth on edge.

It was on the line, and just how many ways were there to hang a wash?

“If you know what's good for you, you'll get out from under there.”

“Best stay put, dog.” Miss Mary had a way of catching Buster in her circle of rage. She crawled from beneath the house and went to stand on the back steps, Buster slinking at her heels. “Damn dog, told you to get.”

Miss Mary came onto the porch from the kitchen and glared at Jodie. “I see that whore mama of yours never bothered teaching you to hang a proper wash.”

At the sound of the hated word
whore
, Jodie's scalp tightened as if it had shrunk too small for her skull, her fury trumping smart. “My mama wasn't like that. And she taught me plenty.”

Red had said she was right to take up for her mama, but he wasn't here, and she was helpless against Miss Mary's cunning trap. Behind her, Hazel gasped, backing away, afraid of standing too close to their heat.

“Get your sassy butt back out there. Take that wash down. And I want to see towels with towels, sheets with sheets, all down the line. Dinner's on the table and it looks like you won't be done in time.”

The hot sun hung midday and Jodie looked down the long line, gritted her teeth, and started anew, her stomach growling.

R
ed continued to stay away, convincing Jodie that Jewel had been replaced. Only the discovery of a small creek offered her refuge from Miss Mary. She whistled to Buster and the dog trotted along, wagging his chopped tail in what she took as dog gratitude.

They walked along an animal trail that led through an overgrown field to where the ridge fell gently toward a narrow strip of old stand longleaf pines. Beyond stood large tupelo gum and bay magnolia. A bald cypress grew at the edge of the meandering creek that was fed by natural springs bubbling up through limestone beds. She imagined herself Tarzan, running wild and free, living in harmony among herds of white-tail deer, flocks of wild turkey, feral hogs, and a friendly black bear that ate berries from her hand.

She sat with her back propped against a willow and watched a tag match between two squirrels chasing along the branches of a water oak. She didn't hear the boy's approach until he'd flopped onto the ground next to her as if invited.

She jumped to her feet and cried, “Where'd you come from? What if I'd been swimming naked?” She sputtered, her hands punching the air.

The knotty-kneed boy didn't speak but thrust a fistful of ironweed at her.

“What am I supposed to do with these weeds?”

He shrugged.

“You got a tongue, boy?”

“Yep, I'm Silas. Live the next place over, where the creek takes a sharp turn west.” He pointed to the creek, as if she didn't know it existed, and it clearly in sight.

“That right? And what brings you over on Red's place?” She believed this Silas was one of the boys Red had pointed out the day of her arrival.