At the moment, that was their problem and I had plenty of my own.
Caleb knew I was there. There weren’t no point in pretending I was a bird. From the bandanna around my face to the laces on my shoes, it was evident that I wasn’t nesting. Gruffing up my voice, I raised my hat in a friendly hello.
“You kiss your mama with that mouth?” I asked.
Caleb cussed again and started up the tree. Now, the fact was, it wasn’t much of a tree to begin with. From the cracking, he should have been able to tell that it was barely holding my weight, let alone his. But lack of sense and righteous indignation sent him shinnying up after me. That fool tried to pull out his gun as he climbed.
“You’re under arrest,” he informed me.
With a grin he couldn’t see, I said, “No, I ain’t.”
The tree groaned once, then snapped. I crashed to the ground. A hail of pecans pelted me, leaves and bark and God knows what else raining down at the same time. I gaped like a goldfish out of a bowl, trying to catch my wind. But since I was down, and Caleb was tangled in the branches, this was my chance.
Scrambling to my feet, I stopped long enough to laugh at him. Then I hitched up the hem of my pants and bolted. Everybody always said I had long legs like a colt. Most of the time, they said it when they could admire them under my skirt. It was a shame none of ’em saw me run. I was just exactly like a foal, wild and free. Jumping everything. Barely looking back.
A shot echoed through the woods.
That cake-eating dog was shooting at me!
This posed a problem, what with him having a real gun and me without. Out of principle, I didn’t carry one. If I ever got caught, I figured the judge would go easier on me if he realized I was never armed. If I wanted to hurt a bank teller, I guess I woulda had to take off a shoe and hit him with it.
Caleb fired again. I skidded down a hill. Brambles bit my hands. Thorns caught my clothes, and I was gonna have a hell of a time explaining this to my mama when I got home. Another shot hit the tree right next to me. Splinters flew, and my heart stopped. I didn’t like to be pessimistic, but I was afraid I wasn’t gonna make it home alive for Mama to take a strip off of me.
Nope, not acceptable. I knew the Wabash River wasn’t too far. If I made it there, I could lose Caleb. Ducking another shot, I tried to count real quick. Was that three bullets or four? Did he have three left or two?
I decided it was two, because that was better odds for me. Grabbing a rock off the ground, I heaved it into the distance. As soon as Caleb shot in that direction, I took off running. I know I’m supposed to be a good girl. I know I’m supposed to be happy doing needlework samplers and baking potatoes in coals and whatnot.
But Lord, I love running from the law.
Now, I reckon some would say it ain’t moral to rob a bank. I’d say I didn’t have a choice.
Things had been going pretty good for my little family. Daddy was a supervisor over at the mill, and Mama made pin money selling eggs out our back door. Our pantry was full enough, our bellies round enough, our sleep sweet enough.
We were a lucky-sad family on account of my being an only child. Mama and Daddy always meant to have a houseful. It just never came to be.
I suppose, come fall of 1929, that was a good thing. One October Wednesday, Daddy come home from the mill with a gray face and lines on his brow. A bunch of fellas up in New York City lost fourteen billion dollars. I didn’t see how you could misplace a number with that many zeroes, but Daddy said it blew no good wind.
Dinner was fried chicken, collard greens, and silence. Once that news was lying on the table, it took up all the air in our little house.
I was only ten then, so I didn’t understand. By 1931, I understood.
Nobody but banks had any money left. People had to scrabble. They couldn’t buy lumber for houses or fences or chicken coops, and the mill closed down. Mama still had her pin money, because chickens eat what they find. But it wasn’t nothing close to Daddy’s salary.
Swan’s Holler wasn’t a big town, so Daddy started hitching rides to the next town over, and then the next. He looked and looked for a job that nobody could offer him.
Mama let out my Sunday dress. Then she sewed a stripe out of the rag bag along the hem to get it back to my knees. I wasn’t the only patchwork girl in town, neither. Things were rough all over, and only got worse when the new banker came.
The old one, Mr. Pickery, was big on grace. He understood didn’t nobody have any money. Everybody wanted to pay their loan receipts, but they couldn’t. He said, all right, maybe next month. And Mama would say, I just fried a chicken: you take some home to Eugenie. It went on that way for months, Mama sending Mr. Pickery away with eggs or chicken or soda bread instead of money.