The summer I turned twelve, me and Mama and Daddy moved down the road on Bentwood Mountain to our own place where Walter won’t in my mind the way he was those years we was in the shed in the back of his house. When we lived there, I looked round every corner for his oily self being sneaky. Here in our own place I got other things to worry bout, like Daddy taken to bed and Mama grieving like he was already dead. It won’t a sunny time for the Joneses. If food was gonna get cooked or a dish washed or wood chopped, I gotta be the one to do it.
I took two buckets to the spring that day to fill. I come back up the hill and the bucket straps cut into my palms. I set down the buckets to give my hands a rest when Walter stepped from behind a tree and blocked my way.
“Move outta my way, Walter Hicks. You got no business with me.”
“Marris Jones, why ain’t you friendly to me? What’d I do to you cept let you live at my place? This how you thank me?”
“Your place? Let your daddy hear you say that and he’ll take a belt to you.” I lifted my chin a bit and stared at him like I knew what I was doing.
He unbuttoned his fly and pulled out his limp dingdong, grinning. Nothing was between him and me but two buckets of water and whatever courage I could find. Mother Jones come to mind when I needed her. Maybe her soul found me in a sad pickle cause I said, “You step aside! I’m gonna pass, Walter Hicks.”
I must have surprised Walter cause his jittery eyes settled for a second.
“What you say?”
“You ain’t gonna hurt me today or any day.”
“And who’s gonna stop me?” Walter looked round and slid his belt outta the loops. “It’s just you and me out here in the woods—girlie. Your crappy daddy’s bout dead, and your mama ain’t far from it.”
I picked up the water buckets, squared my shoulders, stared him in the eye, and said, “Get outta my way.”
“And if I don’t?” His voice lost steam when his britches scooted down round his knees. He held on to a sapling to keep from tumbling backward.
“You don’t want to know,” I hissed and walked past him, determined to march on till I was safe at the cabin, even if the weight of them bucket straps dug clean through to bone.
When I got home and got over my shakes, I wondered what I meant when I said You don’t want to know, cause I got no idea.
Walter never bothered me again. It was round that time Gladys come along.
? ? ?
I drive my truck slow, thinking on Walter Hicks, when I pass the Dillard place with a yard full of young’uns digging in the dirt. I yell out the window to four-year-old Eddie, “Tell your ma I’ll bring supper for y’all later.”
He runs in to do the deed and comes back on the porch and shouts, “Ma says you a angel.”
I don’t turn my back on friends in need. The Dillards is one and Sadie’s the other, and she comes first cause she’s family. I pull in Sadie’s yard and don’t see Roy’s truck, so I leave the watermelon-rind pickles on the seat cause Sadie won’t partial to pickles. I knock on the door and step back so it can swing open, and when it does, I see Sadie smile big like I’ve come for a party.
“Come on in, Aunt Marris.” Her voice is brittle and hollow.
I step over the threshold, puzzled. “I brung you some pie and bread. You know I don’t come empty-handed.”
She leans over and sniffs too loud and too long. “It looks good. Real good.”
I look close at Sadie and see her eyes is off. The dark parts are big as black dimes, and her hands shake when I give her the pie. I hold on to it so she don’t drop it, and we put it on the table. I take both her hands and they’re cold as winter creek water. We sit at the table.
“Sadie honey, what’s got into you?”
The girl acts weird, and I can only guess why—and none of it’s a easy fix. I look round for a jar of shine or some of that dandelion wine I give her awhile back but all I see is sweet tea.
“Everything’s fine, fine, fine.” She rocks on the edge of the chair and twists a strand of her hair. She’s gone round the bend is what’s happened. Ugly gossip and Roy is likely the cause.
I can’t leave her here so I say, “Sadie, listen to me.” I shake her by the shoulders gentle till she sees me. “I’m gonna take you home with me. I gotta keep my eyes on you till you come back round to yourself.”
As I feared she would, she says, “No, no, no. I can’t leave and have Roy come back to a empty place. You go on. I want you safe away from here.”
Lord have mercy! This is bad and none of it’s good.
“Here’s what we’re gonna do, Sadie.” This is my no-nonsense tone I use to get Gladys to hear when she’s hardheaded. “I need your help. I gotta tend to the Dillards and you gonna help me. I’ll leave Roy a note. I even got him a jar of watermelon-rind pickles in the truck we’ll put right on top of that note.”
I talk calm and move out the door and down the rickety trailer steps as fast as my swoll knee will bend, grab the pickles from the seat of the truck, and go back inside, out of breath. I wanna be away from here before Roy comes.
I write: Roy, Sadie gonna help with a sick ma. I bring her back in the morn. Marris.
The pickles sit on top to keep the note in place. Don’t want Roy to think I took Sadie and don’t let him know.
Sadie still sits in the chair, looking at the floor and rocking without a rocker. I take her coat off the peg and wrap it round her thin shoulders. “Come on, honey. Let Aunt Marris love on you.”
She stands and comes with me like a lost child, and I’m grateful I don’t have to be forceful. The girl’s had enough forceful.
When we get to my place, I help her outta the truck like she’s sick and sit her at the kitchen table. I bend down and look her in the face so she hears better. “We gonna make pasties for the Dillards. Okay?”
I put the flour, lard, and spring water in front of her, and she lifts her hands slow, starts mixing the dough, then kneads while I peel and slice potatoes and onions. Don’t want her handling a sharp knife just yet. She breaks the dough into pieces and rolls each one in a circle for the pasties; busy hands do a lotta good to settle a troubled heart. A story helps, too.
“I ever tell you bout my rosebush on the side yard? How it come to live in my yard?”
“I like that story,” she murmurs, and her face gets soft.
“You want the long or short of it?”
“Long, please.”
I pour us both a cup of peppermint tea that’s been steeping in the teapot on the woodstove and drizzle in honey for sweet. She sips her tea and I start the story that winds round a bit but knows where to go.
“I love flowers. My Willis Jones couldn’t pass a field of oxeye daisies or bluets or pussy willow without picking me some and bringing em home. He’d say, ‘Marris, these flowers won’t as pretty as you, but if they make you smile, then they can sit right on this windowsill.’
“That man was a pleaser and a smooth talker in a good way. He was gentle like your daddy, Otis. They both liked their likker too much, but they was what I called sweet drunks. They got all mushy-hearted on hooch instead of mean like your granddaddy Hicks.”
Now that I’ve got Sadie’s mind on something tender, I mound the thin slices of potatoes and onions on the dough she’s kneaded and rolled. I add a slice of thick bacon and a dollop of butter on top for flavor, cause the Dillards don’t get much flavor, and then pinch the circle of dough closed.