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.