Back home she confiscated his extra pair of overalls, cut the hem so they didn’t drag the ground. Next, she set aside a couple of his shirts. She was grateful he’d not been much bigger than her, a couple inches taller with more muscle. What she did next hurt, but only because of vanity. She moved with purpose onto the front porch, scissors in one hand as she pulled the pins out of her hair with the other. Grasping handfuls at a time, she began cutting section by section, then went back around again, and again, until it reached midway to her ears. She did the best she could and when she felt it was short enough, she stood in front of the mirror where Warren used to shave every morning. She had to stand on tiptoe to give herself a decent view of her face. It would have to do. With shorter hair, she could feel a draft against her neck and it was as if someone breathed on her. She thought of Warren sleeping beside her at night, his breath soft and steady against her skin.
She gathered the shorn hair where it lay around her feet, like some sort of boneless, skinless animal, and took it to the fresh mound near the line of old catfaced trees. She tossed it softly across the fresh dirt of his grave, as if scattering seed, leaving him this one last thing, a small token of her love. She stayed another minute, ruminating on the direction her life was about to take. She tried not to think too much on Warren, how she’d last seen him. It was not easy. Images came anyway, and in nightmarish color. She left the graveside and went back into the house. She’d already packed the truck with a few necessities. Her skillet, coffeepot, sheets she’d embroidered, the extra shirt of Warren’s, some food for the trip, and some of the dry goods. What was left of the cash was in the bib section of the overalls she would wear in the morning when she left. She spent one last, tense night on the couch, holding on to the pistol. Come dawn she was up, and out the door for the last time.
Butch would come today, she was certain of it. By the time he figured it out, she’d be well on her way. She went across the yard toward the chicken coop, a scrap of paper in hand, a cryptic note scribbled in pencil: The chickens and mule are all you get from me. She tacked it in plain sight, near the coop. She didn’t want anything to influence her, make her change her mind, like worrying about her laying hens. She scattered corn, made sure they had water, and let the mule out into the pasture. Finally, she got in the truck, once again grateful to Warren for having shown her how to crank it and how to drive. She took his hat off the dash and slapped it on her head. She refused to linger or to look back.
She put the truck in gear, and drove away from the only home she’d ever known, grateful for him rescuing her from the likelihood of a life as bland as a bowl of plain grits had she gone the route the Magnolia House encouraged. She silently thanked him once more, for not only giving her love and a home, but for also teaching her new skills. The tobacco barn came into view and she stared at the structure, knowing the gap in her soul that belonged to Warren was there, caught up inside, and it would remain there, as well as in the little house under the fragrant pines. She lifted her arm and sniffed the sleeve of his shirt, caught a hint of him and their world in it. With tear-filled eyes, she came to the main road and headed south. She wouldn’t stop until she reached Valdosta, Georgia, and the Swallow Hill turpentine camp Butch told them about, praying she could pull off her new identity as Ray Cobb, at least until she felt safe.
Chapter 9
Del
The box was like a vault, its interior murky except for slivers of sunlight leaking through the cracks and the air holes drilled near the top of his head. It reeked, a combination of human waste and death, traces from those before, of the hell they’d endured. Flies, persistent and droning, were all he could hear at the moment. Del lay seething, knowing this idiotic maneuver had nothing to do with missed trees. He was sure of it. It had to do with Crow trying to make a point. He didn’t like the idea of Del working with the coloreds. He began to assess the cramped interior. He tested the width by touching the sides, and the length by pointing his feet so the tips of his boots reached the end. Realizing just how small the enclosure was, he went straight back to the grain bin and the suffocating experience of the corn collapsing around him. That had been the most horrific moment of his life until now. It wasn’t only fresh air he was craving, it was moving without restriction.
Eyes clenched, he willed himself to stay calm, but his mind kept measuring the box, comparing his situation to the corn, until fear gathered in the center of his chest and made his heart pump wildly. Out came animal-like grunts of alarm. He couldn’t stop thinking of the moment the grain covered him, of when he could no longer breathe. Abruptly, he hit his fist against the side, once, twice, and then his control disappeared, and his fear became fire on dry timber. He began pounding against the top, kicking the sides. He no longer cared who heard, if anyone. He paused, gasping, a hoarse, ragged wheezing unrecognizable to his ears filled the small space.
He said to himself, “It ain’t the bin, you ain’t in the bin.”
He regained control and tried something else. He thought of Mercy, Juniper’s wife, but not for the usual reason. One of the things he’d liked about her was her calm demeanor. He recollected her sitting among the crepe myrtles, the colorful flowers surrounding her like a picture frame, and her in a pale-green dress sprinkled with similar pink flowers, slow rocking and shelling peas. He thought of the tip of her nose, the curve of her shoulder, her soft humming as she worked. He stayed there, in his mind, with her, and he relaxed. What he’d been doing wouldn’t do any good, and if Crow heard him, he could keep him there longer out of spite. Later he tuned in to the sounds of the camp, the thud of someone chopping wood, voices calling out, and snatches of birdsong. He listened to see if anyone came close. Eventually, he drifted in and out of sleep.
Hours passed, and as the sun rose higher, heat built inside the little box too. He needed to relieve himself and as he rubbed sweat from his face, he vowed, somehow Crow would pay. His head pounded in rhythm with his heart as he watched the streaks of sunlight coming through the cracks, slanting across him as time passed. He closed his eyes again, imagined pine branches waving in the evening’s hot breeze, the horizon smeared with a melting orange sun. After a while, he roused and became aware of someone laughing directly above him, and thought he might be dreaming. He frowned, listening intently. The laugh came again and he recognized it. He didn’t react, refusing to give Crow the satisfaction of begging to be let out. Something told him if he did, he’d never let him forget.
The snickering stopped abruptly and next came a loud knock, near his right ear. He looked through the narrow gap in the wood, remembering how the other man who laid here before him, who’d likely died in this very spot, had stared up at him, desperate and scared. He saw nothing. A heavier, steady thumping started on the lid, like someone dancing a jig, and dust from the top fell, and he had to shut his eyes.
Then, the voice he was beginning to despise said, “Yoo-hoo, anybody home?” Crow stamped his feet some more. “Hello?”
Crow hammered his fists against the wood. “Golly, I sure do smell something worser’n a skunk! What y’all reckon that is? I know. It’s the smell of chicken shit!”
Ballard’s oddly pitched voice came through, above the din of Crow cavorting about, enjoying himself.
He said, “Peewee told me directly we can’t be losing no more men, got too much work to do.”
Del heard the annoyance in Crow’s voice as he replied to the other woods rider.
“I’m only showing this one he can’t be skipping work, and if he does, he ain’t getting off no different than nobody else.”
“Yeah, well, since when have loblollys been part of a crop? Besides, we got business to discuss, so when you’re done entertaining yourself, Peewee needs you in his office.”
There was some mumbling, a click, and the squeal of rusty hinges. Del lay straight-legged, arms at his sides, squinting up at the man standing over him. Crow chortled at him, then pressed a hand over his heart and began play-acting.
“Dearly beloved, who are gathered here today . . .”
He thought this hilarious and laughed hard enough to start wheezing. Overcome, he squatted, while Ballard, stoic and serious, stood nearby. The other work hands rubbed their jaws in nervousness, and some allowed a few random chuckles here and there, wary and forced. Crow wiped his eyes, leaned toward the box, and peeked in at Del, who’d not moved.