“Naw, he ain’t.”
Cobb said, “Well, let me get them things together.”
He opened his door, and Del stood on the threshold, waiting, and while he did, he noticed the inside was in worse shape than his, but Cobb had done something different most men wouldn’t ever think to do. He’d stuck a bunch of wildflowers in a mug and set them in the center of his small, broken-down table.
Chapter 12
Rae Lynn
After almost two weeks in the camp, she’d yet to make her daily quota.
Ballard had been kind, but on her thirteenth day there, he told her, “Got to pick it up.”
Crow, somehow conveniently close by, nagged Ballard, not only about whites working with nigras, lowering themselves, but also about her slowness. Ballard stuck up for her and while it made her uncomfortable, she was grateful.
“None a that ain’t nobody’s concern but mine and Peewee’s.”
Crow couldn’t let it alone.
“Hell. He chose what he was gonna do, now he better get on and do it. You letting him think he can slack off ain’t helping matters. I know what’ll learn him good. I can guarantee you’ll be thanking me for helping him see straight.”
Ballard remained unaffected, flipping pages on his tally book while speaking in a calm voice. “I said I’ll handle it.”
Crow’s words kept a fear in her. Her day off was the following, a Sunday, and while she knew she ought to rest, she found herself cleaning the inside of the shanty while worrying over how to work faster. She swept and swept, scrubbed with a bit of turpentine and water, moved things around, and though she made improvements, her mood hadn’t. She eventually went to the creek to wash out the spare shirt. She reveled in the quiet of the woods without the usual shouts. From somewhere in the camp, hymns were being sung, accompanied by the thumping of feet against floorboards in time to the music. She sat on a rock nearby, closed her eyes, and before she knew it, she woke to the day almost gone.
She stood, brushed off her overalls, and grabbed the clean, almost dried shirt off the branch where she’d hung it. She made her way back to her shack, where the thin, reedy trill of the harmonica floated through the air from her neighbor’s porch. She allowed herself a brief glance, and he sat with his back propped against the wall, intent only on making music. She went inside and stared at the inside of the shanty. It hit her again, like it always did. Warren is gone. Those three words always came with an unsettling jolt, and always in the quiet moments. As soon as she let them in, what happened back home in North Carolina assaulted her senses once again. Later on in bed, she hugged herself inside her husband’s shirt, hoped to dream of him so she could see him smiling, and so she could remember how it used to be.
Morning came bringing Clyde and his wagon. She hopped into the back, not meeting anyone’s eye.
Clyde said, “Hep, hep, Jackson!” to the mule, and the wagon lurched on to the worksite.
She felt their stares boring in, knew she was being judged because talk got around and they knew she couldn’t keep up. She sat where she could, meaning she sat with her back to them, feet dangling off the back end. The ways of men were still foreign to her, but as luck would have it, their silence and hers lasted until they approached the hang-up ground.
When she jumped off the back end, she overheard someone say, “He ain’t got it in him.”
Someone else said, “Why we breaking our backs when he ain’t?”
She moved away quick, found a lower limb to hang her bucket. Overhead, it was as if someone had tacked a metal sheet to the heavens, the gray clouds smooth and even. Despite the early morning, moisture trickled down her face, and the gnats and biting flies started in and swarmed around their heads. She stood in the heavy air, breathing deep, readying herself for what was to come.
Ballard called out to them all. “Git your pullers, we’re working some older drifts today.”
Rae Lynn winced at those words. Was he trying to make it impossible for her?
He said, “You look like you could fall over, kid. You gonna keep up today?”
She nodded while watching several work hands milling about, a few still hanging dinner buckets, then grabbing pullers, while some took the time to have a smoke.
He shouted again. “Come on! Let’s get going!”
Have mercy, she was sure to have a harder time. Anyone would, but her height didn’t help matters none, and neither did half a finger. Using a puller was tough going, even for the best of them. She had to show she could do it, because she couldn’t appear any less able than she already had. There was nothing to do but get back on the wagon and hope for the best.