Texas Born (15 page)

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate;

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer's lease hath all too short a date.

Those words, and those alone, he thought, did
Miz Phoebe Flatts justice.

Now, as he stood with Letitia on the bank of
the creek, a romantic vision flashed in front of Zaccheus' eyes. Up
until now Miz Phoebe had been a dreamlike apparition that had
filled him with yearning. He knew how he felt toward her, and how
to put it into words. But he suddenly realized that that was not
enough.

He would marry her.

He swung his legs out of his bunk; the wooden
planks on the floor creaked and groaned under his weight. He
shivered from the cold air that blasted in through the leaks in the
calking. It was still hours before dawn.

He reached behind him and rubbed the small of
his back with his fingertips. His muscles were stiff and knotted
from sleeping in a half-curled position. The slats of his bunk,
which was hammered in a kind of framework against the east wall of
the cabin, were already too short to accommodate his body
full-length.

He stopped moving about and listened
carefully. From behind the curtain that divided the cabin in half,
Nathaniel's snores and Sue Ellen's even breathing continued without
interruption.

He nodded to himself, tiptoeing cautiously
around the dark cabin with the familiarity that comes from living
in the same place for many years. He knew each loose floorboard,
the location of each piece of hand- hewn furniture. And he knew
only too well how sounds travel. Last night, after they'd all eaten
and gone to bed, his father and mother had made love. Their grunts
and groans, and the creaks of their iron bed, had been barely
muffled by the wall of curtain.

Not that Zaccheus was mystified by the
noises. Raised on a farm, he had learned about copulation at an
early age. It was just that recently he had become aware of needs
of his own; therefore, there was something perverse to him about
the proximity of the act, especially since it was his mother and
father.

By touch and feel, he gathered up his
clothes, pulled them on quickly, slipped into his worn boots, and
laced them high. He reached for the loaf of bread Sue Ellen kept on
a shelf above the stove and tore off a large hunk. He chewed the
tasty, floury crust on his way outside, moving carefully across the
loose floorboards lest they creak too loudly and awaken
someone.

When he closed the door of the cabin quietly
behind him, he took several long, deep lungfuls of fresh air. He
glanced around. The purple night was velvety, highlighted by pale
white moonlight on the endless fields.

At the well, he drew a bucket of water,
dipped the tin ladle into it, and drank thirstily. The water was
cold and delicious.

He splashed the rest of the bucket's contents
on his face. It had an instant wakening effect.

From the lean-to at the side of the cabin he
took out the gardening tools. Then, whistling softly to himself, he
set out in the pale moonlight to work on Sue Ellen's vegetable
garden. Mondays through Saturdays were spent out in the fields;
Sunday mornings were reserved for toiling in the kitchen garden,
repairing tools, and doing the wash; Sunday afternoons offered the
family their much-deserved, bone-weary rest. Today was Sunday.

He swung his hoe swiftly into the moist
ground, throwing clumps of earth up all around him. He was driven
by a superhuman purpose and energy. He had to get the garden hoed
and raked by nine o'clock. That way, he would have enough time to
wash up, get dressed, and head to town for the eleven-o'clock
church service at the Muddy Lake Methodist Church.

He had never set foot in a church before,
even though Reverend Flatts and his wife had tried their best to
persuade him. But today . . . yes, today he would go! Not because
he was filled with religious fervor, but because Miz Phoebe would
be there.

The gardening chores took longer than he'd
planned, and he finished half an hour later than expected. His body
glistened with sweat. He had long since taken off his jacket and
shirt. His back, chest, and face were burned red, and his wiry
muscles stood out clearly.

He picked up his shirt and jacket where he'd
left them, tucked them in his belt, gathered up the tools, and
hurried back to the cabin.

Sue Ellen was crossing the yard, a basket of
laundry wedged between her hips and her hand. She paused and
watched her son curiously as he cleaned the tools. She had never
seen him work so feverishly before. Only after he finished and had
put them away did she speak. 'You was up early, son.'

He turned to face her. 'I know, Ma. I wanted
to finish off so I could go into town.'

'Inta town? You're in town most ever' day.
Why you goin' today too?' She followed him to the well and watched
as he drew a bucket of water and reached for the bar of lye
soap.

'I'm going to church,' he announced
quietly.

'Church! Since when's a Howe set foot in a
church?' Zaccheus heard Nathaniel sneer.

He spun around. He hadn't heard his father
approach. 'Morning, Pa. I got up early so I could get the gardening
finished before I left.''

Nathaniel squinted closely at him. 'First
it's school, now it's church. Where you gonna go next?'

'Going to church won't do me no harm,'
Zaccheus said softly.

'Since when did you git religion?'

'It isn't because of religion,' Zaccheus said
defiantly. His blue eyes were challenging.

'What, then?'

Sue Ellen's eyes were wise and knowing. She
reached out and touched her husband gently on the arm. 'Leave 'im
be, Nathaniel,' she said quietly.

Nathaniel shrugged and spat into the
weeds.

Sue Ellen nodded to Zaccheus. 'I'll git you a
clean shirt out.'

Zaccheus hurried and washed.

The service was half over by the time he got
to the church. The double doors were open, and the 'sounds of a
hymn spilled out into the quiet, dusty street:

Onward, Christian soldiers,

marching as to war.

With the cross of Jesus

going on before. . . .

He hesitated and glanced up at the white
clapboard building. It was little more than a small rectangular
house with a porch facing the street and a small steeple housing a
bell. Yet, despite its Spartan simplicity, it seemed somehow
imposing.

And intimidating.

Suddenly he felt unsure of himself. He had
never been in a church, let alone one in which a service was taking
place. Maybe he was making a fool of himself. Maybe his motive for
coming was so transparent that everyone would know the reason.
Maybe . . .

He swallowed nervously and turned away. Then
he stopped and chastised himself.
What a fool you are. Why would
anyone think you came to church just to see someone you lust
after?
He glanced over at the Flattses' house, right next
door.

Hadn't Reverend Flatts and Miz Arabella
constantly invited him to attend services?

He frowned to himself. Yes, they had. Then,
before he could change his mind, he summoned up all his courage,
turned to face the church again, and willed himself to climb the
wooden steps to the porch.

He tightened his lips and looked past the
open doors, into the sanctuary. It was dim, and speckled with a
kaleidoscope of colors from the single stained-glass window above
the altar. The congregation was standing, hymnbooks in hand, their
voices raised in chorus. From the balcony just inside came the
deep, majestic chords of the organ. That would be Mrs. Flatts, he
thought.

Zaccheus removed his hat and took a deep
breath. Then he slipped quietly inside. He stayed at the back. He
knew he didn't belong; yet for some strange reason, he couldn't
leave. He felt compelled to stay and accomplish what he had set out
to do.

When the hymn ended and everyone sat down
again, he remained standing, hat in hand. Trying his best to look
unobtrusive, he stepped sideways into a corner so he wouldn't be
silhouetted against the brightness of the open doors. But when
Reverend Flatts stepped up into the pulpit and surveyed his
congregation kindly, he noticed Zaccheus and held out his plump red
hands in greeting and smiled. With his fingertips he motioned for
the young man to step forward. 'We have a visitor today,' the
reverend announced in a friendly voice. 'Welcome, Zaccheus Howe.
Come forward, into a pew.'

Heads turned. Zaccheus saw people eyeing him
curiously, but without malice.

Self-consciously he slipped into the back
pew. A dour-faced woman smiled tightly and moved over to make room
for him. Smiling his thanks, he sat down and craned his neck,
trying to catch sight of Phoebe, but in front of him was a sea of
bare heads and dark bonnets. And all the bonnets looked
distressingly alike from behind.

Reverend Flatts launched into a long sermon
about honoring thy father and thy mother. Zaccheus squirmed in his
seat. He was bored and impatient—bored by the interminable slowness
of the service, and impatient to catch sight of Miz Phoebe.

Finally the sermon was over and everyone rose
to his feet again. Zaccheus followed suit. The woman beside him
pointed down at her hymnbook, the organ started up again, and
everyone began to sing:

On a hill far away

stood an old rugged cross,

an emblem of suffering and shame . . .

He stood on tiptoe and craned his neck
restlessly. When the hymn ended, the organ music changed to a
quicker-paced, higher-pitched spiritual march. He instantly sensed
that the service was over.

People began to step out from the pews and
shuffle toward the doors. Zaccheus made room for the woman to
squeeze past him, but he remained in his pew, waiting for Miz
Phoebe to come past. Suddenly he was afraid that he might already
have missed her, or that perhaps she hadn't come to church, that
she could have taken ill, or be off visiting someone . . .

No, there she was, standing in the front pew,
her body in profile, the hymnbook clasped in front of her. His
heart surged. She was waiting patiently for the people in the back
to file out.

The moment she walked past, she glanced
sideways at him, and her heart-shaped lips parted, showing tiny,
even white teeth. Then she flushed and lowered her dark, liquid
eyes.

Zaccheus' breath caught in his throat. Phoebe
was so stunning that even the severity of her black bonnet could
not detract from her beauty. Strange, how he'd never really noticed
the little things about her—her delicate tininess, for one, and the
narrowness of her minuscule, cinched hourglass waist, for
another.

He slipped into step behind her, breathing
appreciatively. She smelled faintly of violets.

Outside the church everyone milled about,
greeting Reverend Flatts and socializing with one another. Zaccheus
was dying to stay, but he felt a gulf between himself and these
people. They had their denomination in common. They knew each
other. They had better clothes than he.

Oh, but how he wished he could wait around
just to be near his beloved Phoebe a little longer, but he felt too
out-of-place.

He slipped away quietly, but for the next
several weeks he regularly attended church services. A few weeks
later he was invited to share Sunday afternoon lunch with the
Flattses. Soon it became a standing invitation.

Attending services had paid off. Sundays with
the Flattses became a weekly tradition.

Zaccheus was Arabella Flatts's pride and joy,
sure proof that her teaching was paying off handsomely. No matter
his social station, Zaccheus did far better than the brightest
wealthier students because he applied himself so diligently. And
Reverend Flatts liked him because he was hardworking and attended
church services regularly, something none of the Howes had ever
done.

The Sundays Zaccheus spent at the church
services and at the Flattses' afterwards fled by all too quickly.
They were the only times he could be near his precious Phoebe. He
suffered the interminably long sermons gladly, and no longer sat in
the back pew. Reverend Flatts had invited him to sit in the front
row beside his niece.

Each Sunday, Zaccheus' pulse raced as he
sneaked little sideways glances at her. He never heard the sermons,
only Phoebe's crystal-clear voice as she sang the hymns. His
greatest excitement was when she shared her hymnbook with him, so
that he could hold one side of the heavy book while she held the
other, their fingers occasionally brushing against each other as
they turned the pages. When that happened, he felt a crackling rush
of electricity surge through him.

He was greatly disappointed when Reverend
Flatts gave him a hymnbook as a gift, and he could no longer share
Phoebe's.

Arabella Flatts pressed her fingers down on
the organ keys and let the last rich chord of the hymn linger
forcefully. Then she lifted her hands, twisted soundlessly sideways
on the bench, and gazed down from the church balcony. Her sharp
topaz eyes surveyed the sea of heads.

Suddenly she frowned.

She could see Phoebe in the front row,
sitting up straight beside Zaccheus, her bonneted head tilted back.
As Arabella watched, Zaccheus slowly turned his head sideways. Not
all the way, and probably nobody noticed it since he had to look
sideways and up to face the pulpit. But from the organ balcony
Arabella could see that he wasn't facing up. He was studying
Phoebe.

Arabella looked thoughtful, her concentration
momentarily broken.

So that's it,
she thought
. He's in
love with her. That's why he's coming to church. She frowned to
herself. Does that make it an ulterior motive? Or . . . could the
Lord be moving in one of his mysterious ways? Was that why He had
seen fit to visit tragedy upon Phoebe's parents? So that Phoebe
would come here and gain another member for the
congregation?