Though Abraham is an odd sort, with his square chin and heavy brow, he wants Juna. He wants her so bad he will beg her from his knees to let him touch her skin where he thinks no one else has. He likes the softness of her belly and the shallow spot between her hip bones and the silky skin behind her earlobes.
In the beginning, Juna liked telling Abraham no because she was so inclined and for no other reason. It would frustrate him, pain him, she would say, to pull away from her, and that made him all the more tempting. His face would turn red, and sweat would sprout across his wide forehead. He would be angry, shout at her, threaten to leave her, but always he would return because next time she might say yes. Lately, she has taken to saying yes because she likes the way Abraham’s hands feel on those secret places. Dear God, she likes the feel of it. She leans into his touch and forgets she is supposed to say no. She likes that his palms are calloused and rough and turn her skin red, almost raw, after a time. You can’t imagine such a desire, she will so often tell me. Not for the man but for his touch.
I’m afraid to hear what passes between Abraham and Juna, so I listen instead for the sounds of Dale. I listen for the twigs he likes to snap when he’s bored and sitting on the front porch. I listen for his footsteps that would surely be unsteady on this damp ground. I listen for his soft voice, his mumbling to himself as he stops up his ears and tries not to listen.
The poplars on the far side of the river are thick. The branches tangle overhead, casting a heavy shadow. Black mold peppers their white trunks, and slivers of sunlight dot the ground, which is cool and damp, never dries through and through. Several seasons’ worth of fallen leaves, glossy and slick from having started to rot, coat the ground and make for unsteady footing. As I near the spot where Juna and Abraham lay together, I step carefully so as not to slip and so as not to catch sight of bare arms and bare legs.
I don’t want to see them-Juna and Abraham-and yet I want to know. I want to know about the things that will drive a man to kneel before a woman and beg. I want to know what such desire looks like so I can find it, foster it in Ellis Baine. I wonder if all women can draw such a thing from a man or if it’s only Juna. I want to see, but I’m afraid, so I fight to keep my eyes on the ground and I call out for them.
“At least send Dale to me,” I shout. “Let me take him home.”
I hear nothing of Dale or the sounds I have heard Abraham make when begging and stroking and touching Juna. I press between the poplars until I reach the clearing where they meet. It’s empty. They’ll have long since finished with the tobacco. Long since. I drop to my knees, lay a hand on the ground, and take a full deep breath to slow my heart. It’s pounding in my chest because of what I thought I might see, and now it pounds because Juna said this was not the day for going to the field.
THE SUN IS an hour from setting, making it well past suppertime, when Daddy says we should go have a look. Blue and purple clouds stretch across the horizon, and the mosquitos are out. Last summer, we had the cicadas buzzing all the time, day after day. Folks say they won’t come again for sixteen more years, but I still find myself listening for them, thinking their brittle shells are crunching underfoot when I happen upon a dried-out twig or patch of brown leaves.
The air has cooled a good bit, and I’m happy for my sweater as we walk to the lower field. We find the hoes first, two of them, where the fence line meets the road. The work has been done. The ground between the rows of small plants, green and waxy still and just beginning to take root, is dark brown and freshly turned and free of weeds. The plants get taller as we walk farther into the field. It’s lower here, so the rain gathers. This is where the only decent tobacco grows.
Long before we reach Juna, we see her. Her white blouse has pulled free of her waistband, and her hair hangs loose down her back. We call out that we’re coming, but she doesn’t call back.
Daddy wears his leather gloves. They’re soft from years of wear. His hat rides low on his forehead, shielding his eyes, not from the sun, because it’s nearly gone from the sky, but from Juna. He lifts his chin so he can see out from under the brim. Thin skin stretches over his high, knobby cheekbones, and his eyes are set deep in their sockets. He’s had too little food for too long. Not enough meat. Not enough fat. Mostly beans and pone and wild greens laced with vinegar. He reaches Juna first. She is trailing her fingers over the tops of the rounded leaves. He touches her on the shoulder, and when she lifts her head to look at him, he steps away, stumbles to see her looking so. I take hold of her hands, roll them so the palms turn up. The creases on the insides of her knuckles bleed, and the tips of her fingers are red, raw.
“Where’s Dale?” I ask. “Where were you? I came before. I came and called out. Where were you?”
He’ll be sitting off to the side somewhere, snapping those twigs of his or picking at a long, slender blade of grass. He’s left Juna to do all the work, and she’s forgotten her gloves. Daddy will whip him for it.
“Where’s he gone off to?” Daddy says.
Strands of Juna’s long blond hair hang in her face. Her black eyes are like pebbles. She doesn’t look as if to recognize Daddy or me. She has gone too long without water, and maybe the tobacco has leached through her fingers, maybe too much, and so she doesn’t know her own family.
“He’s gone,” Juna says, reaching out to Daddy.
Daddy turns a shoulder and takes another step away so she can’t touch him.
“Where’s he gone off to?” Daddy says again, angry that his son is too soft and has a girl as his only friend and has clean hands and tender red cheeks.
“Dale’s gone,” Juna says.
6
ANNIE STANDS NEAR the stove in Grandma’s kitchen. The air is thick and damp, steamy even. Every window is closed, and Grandma has not turned on any lights. Instead several candles burn, their wax just beginning to spill over. Dim light flickers on the pale-yellow walls. Long shadows fall from chair legs and table legs and from Grandma, who stands near the sink. Two cast-iron pots sit on the stove, a low flame burning beneath each, and clouds of steam rise. Grandma, wearing her best quilted robe and her Sunday morning slippers, is carving a loaf of bread.
“Water’s ready,” she says to Annie and tips her head in the direction of the two heavy pots simmering on the stove. “Will you see to it?”
Grandma’s long white hair hangs loose down to her waist. Wiry strands, frayed and broken off, frame her watery blue eyes. That long hair and the soft light from the candles and the tone of Grandma’s voice, pitched ever so slightly deeper than normal, make her look and seem less like a grandma and more like a woman Annie doesn’t know so well. Grandma gave Mama her name. Long before Mama married Daddy, Grandma knew Mama would be born a girl and named her Sarah. Watching Grandma now, Annie imagines she looks like the woman she was before she became a grandma.
Knowing she shouldn’t speak while the water is simmering, Annie nods to Grandma and sidesteps around the table where Mama and Caroline sit. The rims of Caroline’s eyes are red from all the crying, and she is letting Mama hug her and stroke her hair. She’s probably thinking about that husband-to-be of hers and wishing he were here to comfort her and protect her. Annie wishes he were here too because then he could get a good look at Caroline when she isn’t looking so pretty.
Before doing as Grandma asked, Annie glances at Mama, but she doesn’t shake her head or give some other sign of disapproval, so Annie opens the cupboard next to the stove, reaches into the back, and pulls out a small dark bottle. The glass is smooth and warm in her hands. She protects it from the light by wrapping her fingers around it, and holds it away from her body so as to not warm it. Grandma taught Annie to do these things always when handling lavender oil. She unscrews the bottle’s small lid, lays it on the counter, taking care not to touch the inner rim, and tips the bottle over the first simmering pot. One, two, three drops. She does the same over the second pot.