I prop open the door to the springhouse, the loamy scent of moist earth greeting me. A water moccasin slides out, slow and sinuous, and I step aside to let her pass, then kneel on the ground to put the bucket under the tap. Air gurgles through the line as I pump the handle, then a rush of ice-cold water sputters into my bucket. I fill it near to the top and grab the last log of butter from the shelves.
When I get back, Aunt Val is sitting at the kitchen table, her hair frazzled and her face set in the sour scowl she always wears of a morning. Caro’s there, too, impatient for breakfast.
“Mornin’，” I mutter under my breath.
“Yup. It sure is.” Val lights a cigarette, huffing smoke into the stolid air of the tiny kitchen. Doc Gallagher says smoke’s bad for Caro’s lungs, but Val don’t listen. Some women ain’t fit to be mothers, and she’s sure enough one of them.
I do my best to fill in the gaps for Caro, but it’s hard to know if I’m doin’ things right, since I never knew my own mama apart from a name stretched across a gravestone.
“I’m hungry.” Caro makes a pouty face, her plump lower lip dipping toward her chin.
“Ain’t you always, child? You’ll eat soon enough.” I slide a pan onto the burner next to the kettle. “Granny says we’re in for lean times. You need to learn to do with the feel of an emptier belly.”
Lord knows I had to at her age. When your mama dies bringing you into this world and your daddy’s so mean you can only find peace once he’s gotten to the bottom of his moonshine jar, you’ll do whatever it takes to survive. The only thing that’d kept me from starving back then was the Friday train from Springfield to St. Louis and the fine people who rode it. They didn’t notice me brushing past them, my hand dipping into their coat pockets and handbags as I went by. I was good at what I did. I had to be.
“Mama got one of her headaches again?” Val asks, pulling me out of my thoughts. Smoke slides out the corner of her mouth, and hovers in a blue-gray cloud over the table.
“Yep. She saw something in the woods. Said it was a portent. A sign of hard times. Came on after that.”
“Mama and her signs.” Val barks a laugh. “We’re already in hard times as it is. I ain’t worried too much.”
“I figure not, with the way you’re always smoking them cigarettes and going to sideshows.”
Val stubs out her cigarette and lights another. “I reckon people who work can do whatever they please with their money, Gracelynn.”
I clench my jaw and turn back to the stove to keep my words locked tight within my mouth. According to Aunt Val, the cooking and cleaning I do ain’t real work. She’s always hated me. I can’t reason why she agreed to take me in when my daddy died, other than to have a live-in maid and cook. Lord knows there’s never been a shred of fondness between us.
Just as I’ve finished making coffee, the pan of grits boils over. I curse under my breath, pull the pan off the range, and set it down hard on the table. Caro fills her bowl, then adds three whole spoonfuls of butter, one after the other. I smack her hand. “What did I just say? You need to stop eatin’ so much. Once that butter’s gone, we may not be able to get more.”
“You’re meaner than a snake this morning, Gracelynn.”
Aunt Val snickers, like we’re putting on a vaudeville for her benefit. She blows a slow stream of smoke straight into Caro’s face, sending her into a coughing spell. Caro’s face goes red as summer poppies.
“Can’t you put that ciggie out until after breakfast? Or go smoke outside?” I glare at Aunt Val over my shoulder and open the window over the kitchen sink. A rush of fresh air sweeps into the room. “You’re throwing Caro into fits.”
“She’s fine.”
“You all right, Caro?”
Caro nods, still wheezing, but with the fresh air, her face soon returns to its normal pink. I pat her on the back and start smoothing her hair with my fingers. Caro’s only ten. It ain’t her fault her mama never taught her to be respectful to me or anyone else. “I’ll get you some horehound next time I go to the mercantile. It helps your cough.” I braid her hair, finish the plaits off with kitchen twine, and kiss the top of her head. “Now, after you’re finished with breakfast, wash your face to get the sleep out of your eyes before you go. And don’t forget to wash behind your ears.”
“Yes’m,” Caro says.
I ignore the poisoned look Val shoots my way and pour two cups of coffee—one bitter and black and the other sweetened with sugar—and go out to the screened-in porch where Granny always sleeps, even in the dead of winter, with nothing more than a pile of quilts and a bed pig for warmth. She claims the cold makes her tough.
“You get ’em all fed, Gracelynn?” Granny takes the tin cup I offer her, her hand sun-spotted and wrinkled like the pleats in a fancy lady’s dress.
“Yes’m. Caro has the patience of a hungry cat.” I sit across from Granny and blow on my coffee to cool it. “There’s a new revivalist in town. First service is tonight.”
“Revivalist, you say?” Granny lifts a brow. “Another one of them hucksters, I reckon.”
“Yep. Josiah Bellflower, he’s called. Calvina says she’s bringing her mama to his service. I figure I better go—see what he can do.”
“Them yarb doctors are full-up with parlor tricks. I ain’t worried about losing business. You remember that one that came through two summers ago? He had pig innards in the bucket behind his altar. Claimed he was drawing the sickness out of people, but he’d just put them innards in his hand before he prayed over people. Why—” She pinches her nose, a sharp grimace of pain shooting across her face. “Oh, Lord . . .”
I scoot forward and take the cup out of her trembling hand before it spills. “What is it?”
“No . . .” Granny whimpers. She starts shaking all over. Her blue eyes go wide and fix on something I can’t see.
A shiver of panic slices through me. I’ve been with Granny when she’s had visions before, but this one seems worse than the others. A look of sheer terror is stitched across her face as she speaks strange words I can’t understand. A slow trickle of blood runs from her nostril.
“Granny!” I squeeze her shoulder. “Come on, now. That’s enough.”
After a breathless moment, she shakes her head as if to clear it, her eyes suddenly locking on mine. She wipes the blood trailing from her nose with the back of her hand. “You’re not to set one blessed foot in that revival tent tonight, Gracelynn. You hear me?”
“Why? What’s wrong? What did you see?”
Granny grasps my wrist, viselike. “Listen to me, girl. There’s a certain kind of evil in this world that seeks our kind. And I don’t mean to lose you to it.”
The revival tent sits in Hosea Ray’s alfalfa pasture, lit up yellow against the night. It floats in the darkness like something in a fever dream—out of place and unnatural. A crowd of folks huddle around the entrance, jawin’ and smoking. A cow lifts her head from her slumber beneath a sweetgum tree and moos at the intrusion.