Texas Born (13 page)

'Oooooo, Auntie! Auntie!
Help them,
Auntie!
'

Elender fell to her knees and held
Elizabeth-Anne tightly. The girl was speaking! Actually speaking!
She had found her voice! It didn't matter how or why. Nothing
mattered anymore but that she could speak.

It was a miracle!

And as she held the girl, swaying back and
forth with her, Elender began to shout with joy as the tears
streamed from her own eyes.

From that moment on, Elizabeth-Anne was her
own child, her own child more than Jenny or anyone else ever could
be.

Three memorable events in United States
history occurred in 1890: the Battle of Wounded Knee, in South
Dakota, the publication of
How the Other Half Lives
by Jacob
Riis, and the first-ever execution of a criminal by electrocution.
Not so memorable was the birth of Zaccheus Howe on a struggling
farm near Muddy Lake, ninety miles southwest of St. Louis,
Missouri.

It was an early September morning when Sue
Ellen Howe, who had never heard of Jacob Riis, Wounded Knee, or
electrocution, leaned on her scythe and looked out across the
field. It was a breezy day, and the alfalfa undulated like the
waves of the ocean. In the distance she could see her husband,
Nathaniel, and her daughter, Letitia, expertly scything the west
field with economical fluid arcs, their blades reflecting the
sunlight with flashes of silver. The air was redolent with the
smell of fresh-mown hay.

Sue Ellen was heavy, swollen with child. For
the past nine months this had not deterred her from her
dawn-to-dusk chores. But suddenly she knew she had to stop. She
wiped the sweat off her brow with the back of a hand and called out
to her eleven-year-old daughter, 'Letitia!'

Letitia stopped scything and hurried over.
She was a sturdy flaxen-haired girl with strong teeth, muscular
arms, and a long freckled face. She looked at her mother
questioningly. 'Mama?'

'My time's come,' Sue Ellen said concisely.
'Let's git to the house. I need yer help.'

Nathaniel did not turn around as the two
women strode purposefully toward the small farmhouse. The alfalfa
had to be cut; without it, the horse and the cows would starve
during winter. And before it could be stored in the barn, it had to
be completely dried. He was a farmer, as his father and grandfather
before him, and there were certain things farmers knew that had
been handed down through the generations.

Nathaniel squinted up at the sky. It was
clear and powder blue; the birds danced weightlessly in the air and
the sun was strong. Hopefully the weather would hold for a week or
two. After the alfalfa was brought in, then the rain would be
welcome. Meanwhile, he hawked and spat and continued scything while
his wife, assisted by his young daughter, gave birth to a healthy
boy. By sunset Sue Ellen had nursed the child and cooked a hot
supper in the big black iron pot in the hearth. Nathaniel glanced
impassively at the boy, named him Zaccheus, then ate his meal and
went straight to bed. The next day Sue Ellen hopscotched between
the house and the field, breast-feeding her baby while continuing
to scythe.

Sue Ellen Howe was twenty-five years old that
autumn. She had married Nathaniel when she was fourteen, a lovely,
pale-complexioned girl who promised to grow into a real beauty. It
never happened. She looked forty, her face browned and burned by
the sun, her back stooped by the heavy farmwork, her hands callused
and rough. If she was no longer lovely and her pale complexion was
forever gone, a certain pioneer hardiness and inner strength
replaced them. She could neither read nor write, but she knew how
to plant and harvest crops, mend and sew, salt pork, raise
chickens, and can vegetables. Her eyes were hard and unyielding,
her lips dry and cracked and purposefully sealed. She accepted her
life unquestioningly and was never heard to utter a complaint. She
did not love Nathaniel, but it never occurred to her that she
should. She was content with him. He worked hard, never hit her,
took her to bed with a kind of animal purposefulness, drank little,
and spoke even less.

Nathaniel was only ten years her senior but
looked like her father. He was a taciturn man, not given to
displays of affection. His family had once owned a large,
flourishing farm and several slaves, but the War Between the States
had ravaged the farm, decimated the family, and freed the slaves.
Nathaniel and the twenty-odd acres of soil from which he, his wife,
and his daughter eked out a meager living were all that remained of
any glory the Howe family had ever aspired to. Now the arrival of
Zaccheus meant an extra mouth to feed, but Nathaniel consoled
himself with the fact that, before the boy turned eight, he would
be able to put in a full day's work.

Zaccheus was six when he first learned how
poor he was. The specter of hunger always hovered nearby, as there
was seldom enough food to go around, and he learned to accept the
gnawing emptiness in his stomach. Accept it, but not like it. Once
when the crops failed to yield even what it took for survival, his
father loaded his shotgun with buckshot and headed across the
fields to shoot blackbirds. They were tough and stringy and
virtually meatless, but sucking on the crunchy, brittle bones
seemed to make the hunger go away for a while.

He was seven when he received his first
present. His parents had taken him to the county fair, and he'd
found a big black man selling baby chickens for a dime each.
Zaccheus gazed into the cardboard boxes and immediately fell in
love with a fuzzy yellow chick. It seemed to single him out,
staring up at him, begging him to take it home.

He pointed at it. 'His name's Zack too,' he
told his father.

'It ain't a he, Zack. It's a hen, so it's a
her,' his father said tersely.

'Can I buy her, Pa? Fer my very own?'

His father thought about it. 'We'll see,' he
said vaguely, wondering what on earth a child would want with a
chicken. They were filthy and served no purpose as pets.

'Please, Pa?' Zaccheus begged desperately,
awarding his father with a toothy grin.

Sue Ellen smiled at her husband. 'C'mon,
N'thaniel. Havin' one chick of his own ain't gonna hurt. 'Sides,
it's only a dime.'

Nathaniel frowned. 'Reckon it won't,' he said
at last. He dug into his pocket and produced a much- coveted dime.
He held it up. 'All right, son, go buy yer chick. It's yers. But
you gotta feed it and take care of it.'

'Sure, Pa! Thanks!' Zaccheus raced up to the
black man and puffed out his chest proudly. His heart hammered
inside his rib cage. 'I want to buy a chick!' he squeaked.

The dime changed hands quickly, and Zaccheus
reached into the box and lifted out his chick. It chirped
protestingly, but when he held it close, it quieted down. It felt
soft and warm and cuddly, and he didn't even mind the needlelike
pecks of its beak.

'Petey,' he said softly, pressing his chick
against his cheek. 'That's yer name, li'l chick. Petey.'

Nathaniel found a cardboard box and punched
some holes in it. He handed it to Zaccheus. 'Put the chick in here
so you won't lose it, son.'

Zaccheus shook his head. 'I wanna hold her,'
he said. 'Ain't no way she's gonna git away from me.'

Nathaniel shrugged and tossed the box
away.

It was dusk by the time the Howes headed
home. In the back of the mule-drawn wagon, Zaccheus held the chick
tightly. He cooed softly and petted it, then yawned noisily. A
beatific smile was on his face as his lashes slowly fell down
against his cheeks.

Sleep came easily, despite the shaking and
rattling of the wagon, and his fingers slowly went slack.

The chick squirmed and slid out of his
loosening grip, hopped lightly across his chest, and explored the
wagon. It hopped onto the tailboard and perched there, looking back
at the receding moonlit road.

A deep rut came up and the wagon wheels
crashed down into it. The sudden jolt didn't awaken Zaccheus, but
the chick was thrown off the wagon and into the night.

Half an hour later, Nathaniel unhitched the
mule and led it into the barn while Sue Ellen climbed up into the
back of the wagon. She shook Zaccheus gently. 'C'mon, son,' she
said softly. 'We're home.'

Zaccheus sat up blearily, rubbing his eyes.
Then he looked around groggily and drew a deep breath. 'Petey!' he
cried, realizing he wasn't holding his chick any longer. He
scampered desperately around the back of the wagon, looked under a
pile of blankets, and moved some crates, but Petey was nowhere to
be seen. Shattered, he retreated into a corner, pulled up his legs,
and wrapped his arms around them, his chin resting on his knees.
'Petey's gone!'

'C'mon in the house, Zack,' Sue Ellen said
calmly. 'We'll find yer chick in the mornin'.'

He shook his head defiantly and stared up at
her. 'No. I gotta find her now. She's my pet, Ma. She's probably
cold 'n scared 'n hungry.'

Sue Ellen grasped his wrists firmly and
pulled him toward her. 'It's way past yer bedtime, young man. I
said we'll look fer it tomorrow.' There was no mistaking the
authority in her voice.

'But she might be gone by then!' he
cried.

'Don't cry, son,' Sue Ellen said firmly. 'You
know yer pappy don't like a boy who cries.'

Zaccheus shook his head adamantly. 'I ain't
cryin'!' he said forcefully as a single huge tear, highlighted by
the moonlight, glistened and slid slowly down one cheek.

'Ain't no use to look fer it till daylight
anyways,' She Ellen said. 'You 'n me, we'll set out after
breakfast.'

He looked at her hopefully. 'Promise,
Ma?'

'I promise, son.'

The next day, despite Nathaniel's grumbling,
Sue Ellen and Zaccheus went back the way they had come the night
before, until they reached the field where the county fair had been
held. Then they turned around and went slowly home, all the while
on the lookout for the chick. They never came across it.

That night, after they returned, Sue Ellen
whispered something to Nathaniel. For a moment he stared at his
wife. Finally he nodded and cleared his throat. 'All right,' he
said, raising his voice so that Zaccheus would be sure to hear.
'Since you 'n him couldn't find it, I'll see what I can do. If
anybody can find that chick, it'll be me.'

The following morning, Nathaniel set out to
find the chick. Zaccheus waited at home with bated breath. His
father was gone all day, but in the evening, when he returned, sure
enough, he had a yellow chick in a perforated box.

'You found her!' Zaccheus whooped
delightedly. 'You found Petey, Pa! Jest like you said you
would!'

Nathaniel exchanged glances with his wife.
Then Sue Ellen smiled tenderly and squeezed her husband's hand
affectionately.

In later years, Zaccheus would wonder whether
Nathaniel had really found Petey, or if he had set out to buy
another chick. It was a mystery he would never solve.

Hunger won out.

For a week Zaccheus followed his chick around
and played with it between chores. Eight days later, when the
family didn't have much to eat, he approached his mother. 'Can't we
eat Petey?' he asked.

Sue Ellen eyed him sadly. 'No, son,' she said
slowly, 'she ain't near big enough yet.'

As month after month went by, Zaccheus began
to eye his pet hungrily. Petey was getting bigger and plumper all
the time. He could just imagine how juicy she would be cooked.
Every time he looked at her, he couldn't help smacking his
lips.

Finally Petey had grown enough and Sue Ellen
nodded her head. 'We'll have yer hen for supper tonight, Zack,' she
announced. And that afternoon she went after the nearly grown hen
and wrung its neck. Like all the chickens killed on the Howe farm,
this one, too, managed to flip-flop its way under the thorny rose
hedge to die. Zaccheus crawled in after it and pulled it out. He
brought it to Nathaniel and watched his father behead it. He felt
swollen with pride. Because of him and his pet hen, the family
would eat well.

When Sue Ellen brought the succulent roast
chicken to the table, Zaccheus ate ravenously without
compunction.

Pet or no, it never occurred to him that the
hen was anything other than something to eat.

It was the threshold of the twentieth
century, and like many fathers, Nathaniel planned for Zaccheus to
someday take over the farm. But Zaccheus was destined to leave the
farm and the nineteenth century behind him. He was a dreamer, and
possessed a quick, lively intelligence and a natural
inquisitiveness. He was a very handsome boy, tall, fair-haired, and
blue-eyed. Despite the starchy foods which were the Howes' dietary
staple, he was as lean as his mother and father. The farmwork was
exhausting and burned off every ounce of excess fat.

When Zaccheus turned nine his life took on an
unexpected turn.

Reverend Flatts of the Muddy Lake Methodist
Church paid the Howes a visit.

Visitors to the Howe farm were rare. When
Zaccheus cried out that a horse and buggy were headed their way,
the entire family put down their work and gathered on the roadside,
watching the approaching visitor with curiosity. As the buggy drew
closer and Nathaniel recognized the reverend, he scowled. He
harbored an inbred suspicion of politicians, churches, and anyone
who did not work the soil with his hands. So it was with less than
a modicum of friendliness that he watched the short, rubicund man
with the huge paunch struggle down from the buggy.

The reverend mopped his forehead with a
handkerchief. 'Morning, Mr. Howe,' he wheezed formally.