When the Tide Ebbs: An epic 1930's love story (A Grave Encounter) (11 page)

It was the most beautiful cedar box I’d ever seen. A picture of a shallow stream lined with weeping willows was painted on the lid. The scene reminded me of the creek in Pivan Falls. I hoped Zann would think so, too.

The druggist smiled. “Son, what’s her last name? The stationary is monogrammed, and I think I have every letter in stock except
M
and
Q
.

I hesitated.

He reached under the counter. “Her last name?”

I didn’t want to say ‘Pruitt,’ since he’d know for sure it was for the parson’s daughter. Everyone for miles around was acquainted with Pastor Pruitt, so I said, “Her last name starts with a
P
.”

My pulse raced when he fumbled around, shoving boxes aside. It appeared he couldn’t find the right monogram. I had my heart set on the cedar chest, so I sensed relief when he rose from behind the counter, holding up a small packet of stationary.

“This gonna be all for you, Sonny?”

“I think so,” I said, reaching in my pocket for the four dollars and fifty cents.

He handed me the stationary to inspect. It was neatly tied together with a thin, pink satin ribbon. I held the packet to my nose and sniffed. The paper was scented and had the initial “P” embossed in gold script in the right hand corner. The outer edge of the linen paper had a gold border, which the druggist informed me was 24K gold. He pointed out the tiny brass lock on the lid and showed me the key taped to the underside.

He gave a chuckle and said, “Your little lady can lock up all those sweet nothings you write to her and her Pappy won’t be able to read ’em.”

I’m sure I blushed.

“She must be special to rate such a fine gift,” he said.

“Yessir…yessir, she’s sure special all right.”

After he wrapped it in green paper and tied a big red ribbon on top, I unhitched Dolly and started home. About three miles out of town, I turned around and headed back to Pascagoula.

I tied Dolly up at the end of the street, walked in the dime store and told the clerk I wanted another bottle of Evening in Paris. I had it wrapped also, but before I left the store I was questioning whether I’d done the right thing.

I looked across the street at the marquee above the theatre. I knew I needed to get home, but the temptation to stay was too great. Johnny Mack Brown was starring in
Billy the Kid
. I’d never been to a picture show in my whole life and it only cost a dime to get in. Mama had entertained me for hours with wonderful stories about the famous cowboy. According to Mama—and I believed every word she said—Johnny Mack was sweet on her when they were fifteen. That was the summer she went to Dothan, Alabama to pick cotton on her Grandpa’s farm and the Brown’s lived down the road a piece.

But the courtship ended when she went back to Oklahoma. Johnny, as she called him, later moved to Tuscaloosa and played football for the University of Alabama, before becoming a famous movie star.

I paid for my ticket and followed some fellow through the big double doors, when a man wearing a red jacket and a funny little cap shined the light in my face.

“Hey you! Where you think you’re going?”

He got my dander up the way he smarted off, but I held my temper for fear he had the authority to throw me out if I caused trouble. “Just want to find a seat.”

“You colored?”

“Colored? Me?” My complexion was dark from working in the sun all summer at the Stock Yards, but no one had ever mistook me for colored before.

He motioned to my left. “Colored folks sit upstairs.”

I shrugged. “Fine.” I figured the view was better from up there, anyway. The picture show had already started, when I took my seat.

The fellow next to me leaned over and whispered, “Hey, you ain’t s’pose to be up here. Peckerwoods sit downstairs.”

The story of my life. I didn’t fit in anywhere. I watched Johnny Mack riding tall in the saddle, and wondered what it would’ve been like if Mama had married him, instead of getting herself messed up with Will Lancaster. I’ll bet Johnny Mack would’ve done the right thing, and married her. I fantasized the kind of life I might have had, if my name was Johnny Mack, Junior.

When I walked out of the theatre, it was dusk and the Christmas lights lining the street were turned on. I wanted to stay longer and enjoy the sounds and sights, but knowing how Mama worried, I left.

On the way home, I stopped at a meat rendering plant and bought a ham. With only twenty-three cents left in my pocket I headed for Rooster Run, but I’d had a wonderful day, bought everything on my list . . . and a very special gift, which wasn’t on the list.

Heavy clouds hung in the sky. I hoped I could get home before the bottom fell out. Mama was standing in the doorway when I pulled up to unload the wagon.

“Where in the world have you been, Kiah Grave? I’ve been out of my mind with worry. I expected you back hours ago.”

“Sorry, Mama. Didn’t mean to worry you, but I had some business to tend to.”

She watched curiously as I carried the bags into the house.

“Whatcha got, shug? What’s in them sacks?”

I laughed and gave her a hug. “Don’t you know you shouldn’t ask questions at Christmas, Mama?”

She gave a childlike snicker. “Well, I’m just tickled you showed up ahead o’ the rain. I was afraid it was gonna come a gully-washer before you had a chance to get home.”

I placed the groceries on the kitchen table. Mama’s eyes filled with tears when she unwrapped the packing from around the ham. “My, my. A smoked ham? This must’ve cost a pretty penny.”

“It’s paid for, Mama. You don’t worry about the cost.”

“I do declare it’s been coon ages since I’ve tasted ham. Thank you, sweet Jesus,” she said, lifting a hand in the air. “I can’t think of anything I’d rather have. Kiah. This is setting out to be the best Christmas you and I have ever had. Ain’t God good, sugar?” She threw her arm around my shoulder. “I said, Ain’t He good?”

I could believe this might be our best Christmas, but why was she giving Jesus the credit? Wasn’t I the one who brought home the ham? Why should I care? If she was happy, did it matter who got the praise? She got what she wanted. All I wanted was to see my girl and know she was all right.

I placed the sacks containing the Christmas presents on my bed and pulled the curtain. I hid two gifts under the bed. Mama followed me with her eyes, when I pulled down a pine bough on the tree and tied her present near the top. I’d never been able to buy her anything really nice, and I wasn’t sure I could wait one more day for her to open it.

Though it looked as if it might storm at any minute, I went into the woods back of the house in search of a mock orange tree. Pulling out my pocket knife, I cut off a branch and took it home. I remembered a Christmas long ago when I was a youngster and we lived on the Poor Farm. An elderly lady invited all the kids into her cabin. She had a small mock orange branch, with brightly colored gum drops stuck on every thorn. She recited a poem about little children having visions of sugar plums dancing in their heads, and she called the gum drops ‘sugar plums,’ and told us all to pick three. It was such a treat. I still remember the colors I chose—a red, a yellow and a blue one. I never forgot the gumdrop tree and this year, we were going to have our own.

When I returned to the cabin, Mama had the corn popped. I mixed up a batch of flour, water and salt to make a base for the sugar plum tree. I’d wait for it to dry, then sink the mock orange branch into the dough.

After putting the groceries in the cupboard, Mama poured the popped corn into a large bowl, and brought two needles and a spool of thread to the table. “Kiah, you gonna help me string the corn like we did last Christmas?” Her brow furrowed. “Or was it the year before, sugar? I can’t recollect.”

“Sure, Mama. We’ll do it together.” I didn’t want to remind her that it couldn’t have been last Christmas. Surely, she remembered how I balked at the mention of a tree, because I didn’t want anything to remind me it was a season to be joyful when I had nothing to be joyful about. It was selfish of me to deny her such a simple pleasure. But when one is so self-absorbed in his own wants, nothing or no one else seems to matter. This year, I’d try to make it up to her.

Mama and I sat at the table and strung the corn. When we finished, I pulled out the colored balls. She squealed with delight.

“Land sakes, I haven’t had a Christmas tree this pretty since the year I worked at the bank in Goat Hill and—” She stopped abruptly, and appeared to be shocked by her own voice. “I’m just saying it’s been a mighty long time since I had a tree with real ornaments.”

I knew she was thinking of the Christmas when that no-good yahoo she called my daddy walked out on her and got himself engaged to another woman. To my delight, though, she didn’t commence with the trip down memory lane. I’d spent a lot of money to make this a special Christmas, and I didn’t want it ruined.

Chapter 8

Tuesday morning, Mama trimmed the ham and stuck it in the oven. “I’ll bake the sweet potatoes and the pecan pies tomorrow,” she said proudly.

I checked the base of the gumdrop tree with my finger. The dough was dry and hard as the shell on a mud turtle. The branch leaned to the left a tad, but one would hardly notice once I loaded it down with all the candy. After lunch, I heard the children playing in the yard. I carefully picked up the candy tree, walked outside and before I could place it on the old oak stump, dozens of curious little eyes were surrounding me and my tree.

Dabney Foxworthy must have been watching from her window, because she came tripping outside. “What’s that for?” She asked.

I told her the story behind the gumdrop tree. “I wish I could recite the poem,” I said. “But all I remember is the line about the sugar plums, and the ending, which went “Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.”

She giggled. “Oh, you’re talking about
’Twas the Night before Christmas.’
I know that one.”

By now, every kid in Rooster Run had gathered around us. Dabney recited the childish poem while I counted the kids. There were enough gumdrops for every child to have three. Why it would make a grown man want to cry, I couldn’t say. All I know is that I struggled to keep my composure.

The kids were awed by the poem, just as I’d been. I suppose like me, they chose to dream of a jolly old man who delighted in making dreams come true. Before going in, I managed to mumble a quick “thank you” to Dabney for such a great performance. I’m not sure who was most embarrassed. Her face glowed. She murmured something and though I didn’t understand, I didn’t ask her to repeat it.

After supper, I walked outside. The moon was full and the thermometer was dropping. There was no chance in a white Christmas, but I was glad it was getting a little cooler. There was something not right about warm weather at Christmas time.

Though it was late, I put a saddle on Dolly and rode over to the pecan orchard. I tied the mule to a tree and ran across the road to the parsonage, carrying a pretty green package tied up with a big red ribbon. The card simply said, “Merry Christmas, Zann.” Though I didn’t sign my name, I hoped she wouldn’t have to guess where it came from.

With my pulse racing, I made a mad dash for the porch, where I quickly deposited the package next to the front door. I knocked and then took off like a scared rabbit, hoping I could hide before someone answered the door. I squatted down behind an oleander bush and waited. If Zann came to the door, I’d sneak from behind the shrubbery. But if her father opened it, I’d wait until he went back into the house, and then I’d dart across the road and jump on Dolly before the preacher would have a chance to see me.

I bit my lip when the porch light came on. Parson Pruitt moseyed out and glanced around. With a stoic expression, he strolled over to one end of the porch and then walked to the other side, scratching his head. For a second it appeared he wasn’t going to see it, but as he turned to go back into the house, he stumbled on the gift. I almost let out a yelp when it appeared he kicked the box. What if he broke the mirror?  He reached down and picked it up the package. I watched as he opened the card. There wasn’t much to read, so I couldn’t imagine why he stared at it long and hard.

“Who’s out there?” He yelled in a gruff voice, sounding more like a warden stalking an escaped convict than a parson retrieving a Christmas present addressed to his daughter. Why was he so all-fired upset? He stomped back inside the house and I waited for over fifteen minutes before I came out of hiding, for fear he might be peering out the window. When the lights went out, I took off, jumped on Dolly and lit out for Rooster Run as fast as that ol’ mule could trot.

I was disappointed I didn’t get to see Zann, but glad the parson didn’t catch me. I’d always considered preachers to be somewhat soft and mealy-minded. However, I decided I’d sooner wrestle with a crocodile than to face off with the parson, in his frame of mind. The man looked mad enough to chew roofing nails in half.

Christmas eve I went to bed with the smell of baked ham and sweet potatoes filling the air. I lay wishing everyone in the world could anticipate waking up on Christmas morning to such a grand feast.

It felt swell to know I’d been able to do something to brighten Mama’s life. I could hardly wait until morning. I smiled, imagining her surprise when she’d awaken and open her gift. She’d have something wrapped for me. Perhaps a crocheted bookmark or . . . I cringed. Hopefully, she hadn’t stitched up another handmade muslin shirt. I suddenly chuckled at the possibility of having to feign delight if such a gift should appear under the tree. But for Mama’s sake, I could. And I would.

I closed my eyes tightly, but sleep wouldn’t come. There were so many questions and so few answers. Why had Mrs. Pruitt slammed the door in my face? I had the strange feeling Dabney was keeping something from me. But what? If only I could see Zann, even for a few minutes, all would be well in my world. The girl loved me. She said so. She was on my mind every waking moment, and returned in my dreams when I slept.

For years, I’d held to a false notion of what it meant to love and to be loved. I presumed love to be nothing more than the body’s response to a physical attraction and I convinced myself if I could keep my eyes from looking twice at a good-looking dame, then the possibility of falling in love would be nil. Since getting to know Zann, I’d discovered love was much more than the eye could see.

I lay in bed, remembering the first day Zann Pruitt came to school. She had a yellow ribbon in her hair. I smiled, recalling how my pulse raced at the sight of her. Her irresistible beauty frightened the daylights out of me. Determined not to follow the path of my father, I viewed her as the enemy. I pulled out all the artillery when she showed an interest in me. Yet my rudeness failed to deter her.

Ah, but she wasn’t my enemy. She was my other half. The missing part of me. She brought a joy to my life, which I’d never known. She taught me how to laugh . . . to live . . . and yes, thanks to her, I’d learned how to love. Really love.

If there’d been nothing more to Zann Pruitt than a pretty face and a fine figure, I could’ve walked away and never looked back. But as lovely as she was to gaze upon, her outer layer wasn’t the magnet that drew my heart, or the strong vice that held it there.

I was in love, but I was in love with the inner Zann. The Zann who refused to reject me, even when I rejected her. The one who lifted me up, thought I put her down. The Zann who treated me with kindness and made me laugh when there was nothing to laugh about. The Zann who made my heart sing. The Zann I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.

If any girl had reason to be proud and full of herself, it would’ve been her, but I’d never met anyone who demonstrated such sincere humility. Such warmth. Not only was she the most beautiful girl in Pivan Falls, she could sing like a bird, play the piano like a concert pianist and she received the highest marks in school—well, in every subject except math, of course. Yet she wasn’t puffed up. She was a lady in every sense of the word. She never had to fret over birds making a nest in
her
hair. No sirree. The fowl of the air, which circled over my noggin on a daily basis, dared not fly over her sweet, innocent head. Full of compassion, she hurt when others hurt and was an advocate for the down-and-out. This was the real Zann. I was in love and my world would never be the same again. I pulled the quilt over my head, turned over and fell asleep.

I awoke Christmas morning to the sound of rain pounding on the tin roof. Mama was sifting flour from the bin and singing
Away in a Manger
.” Though she couldn’t carry a tune in a flour sack, the off-key melody hit a chord with me. I’d heard the familiar carol all my life and had even sung it myself; yet, until now, I’d never paid much attention to the lyrics.

The words swirled in my head. ‘No crib for a bed?’ I tried to imagine Jesus Christ being born in such an humble setting as a stable, and his mama laying her sweet, newborn infant in a cow trough.

I chewed my lip and mulled over the account of my own birth, which Mama had related to me on many occasions. Said I was born under a chinaberry tree . . . which meant I didn’t have a crib, either. A lump formed in my throat. All my life, I resented being poor, fueled by the knowledge that my wealthy father owned a mansion and lacked for nothing. I viewed life as grossly unfair and through the years, the anger inside me burned like a hot fever, affecting every cell of my body. Every facet of my life.

Did Jesus hate being poor, while his father owned the cattle on a thousand hills? Did He have to deal with ignorant gossips while growing up in Nazareth? Did the neighbors do the math and whisper behind Mary’s back? I wasn’t comparing my mama with the mother of Jesus, nor did I dare compare myself to the Son of God, yet I couldn’t help wondering.

After breakfast, I washed the dishes and tended to the beans cooking on the stove, while Mama rolled out the dough for the pie crusts.

I dried my hands against my overalls, and while the beans simmered, I pulled the curtain that separated our quarters. I slipped a small wrapped package from beneath the bed and stuck it under my coat and tried to sneak out the door without being seen.

“What you fixin’ to do, Kiah?” Mama asked as I eased open the door.

“Just need to run outside. I’ll be back before the pies come out of the oven.”

“Is it still raining?”

“Just barely drizzling. I’ll be back in a jiff. You watch the pies, Mama. Don’t let ‘em burn.”

She didn’t question me further. I suppose she figured I was headed to the outhouse.

I hurried over to #3, placed the gift behind the screen door and ran back home as fast as I could run.

The meal was prepared, and the delightful smell of hot, buttery syrup and parched pecans sifting from the oven filled the cramped little cabin. “Merry Christmas, Mama,” I said. “Your gift is hanging on the tree. Go get it.”

“We’ll open them at the same time, sugar.” She reached in the bottom of the Hoosier cabinet and pulled out a present, neatly wrapped in funny papers. I wondered where she found the Sunday funnies, since we didn’t subscribe to a newspaper. She handed me my present, and I ran my fingers over the outer edge, probing, in an attempt to guess. But I was stumped.

“Merry Christmas, son. I hope you like it.”

I liked it already, though I had no idea what it was . . . I only knew it didn’t feel like a shirt.

“I think I know what it is.” I teased.

Mama laughed. “I declare, Kiah, you act like a little young’un.” I loved making her laugh. She said, “Go ahead and shake it, if you want to. You won’t ever guess what’s in there.”

Mama seemed delighted at my excitement but the real joy in my heart was brought on by the anticipation of seeing her open her gift.

With my fingers still probing the wrapped gift, I feigned a frown. “Hmm . . . it feels like a cracked mirror with acorns glued on top. Did you make it yourself?”

She threw her head back and cackled. “I declare, Kiah Grave, if you ain’t a sight. A cracked mirror with acorns? I told you you’d never guess. Go ahead, shug. Open it.”

I carefully pulled away the tape, not wanting to tear the paper. I had an idea the funnies would be as fine a gift as anything that might lie inside.

Mama tore into her little package and oohed and ahhed over the perfume. She dabbed a few drops on her neck and the inside of her arm.

Thrilled when I pulled back the paper on my gift and found seven large blocks of Peanut Brittle, I jumped up and gave mama a big hug. “Oh, Mama, you couldn’t have given me anything I’d rather have. But where did you get the peanuts?”

She beamed. “With all the pecans you picked up, I had more’n enough, so I swapped Myrtle a quart of pecans for a quart of peanuts. I thought you’d like the brittle.”

In jest, I made what I considered a casual comment. “Have I died and gone to Heaven? Pecan pies and peanut brittle all in the same day?”

Mama’s expression changed. Something in her eyes told me I’d said the wrong thing, though I couldn’t figure why she’d appear to be troubled. “What’s wrong, Mama?”

“Nothing’s wrong. Just thinking about what you said, sugar. You been having thoughts about Heaven, lately, have you? Maybe the little Pruitt girl been talking to you about the Lord?”

I rolled my eyes and grunted. “For cryin’ out loud, Mama, I was only funning.”

Maybe she wasn’t upset to begin with, but my last comment lit her fuse.

Mama shook her finger in my face. “Well, it don’t seem right to fun about such matters. I ain’t sayin’ God don’t have a sense of humor. Maybe He does, maybe He don’t. I’m just sayin’ it don’t set right with me for you to make light of such things.”

Sometimes Mama’s mixed-up theology made me want to sneak her Bible and search the scriptures, if for no other reason than to prove her wrong. But now was not the time to argue. Not today, of all days.

With my arm resting on her shoulder, I gave her a hug. “Mama, I’m sorry if I offended you, but if God loves us the way you say He does, then I’m sure He didn’t mind me being thankful for the pie and candy. And that’s all I was saying.”