Arly Page 10

  “I don’t got to be owned by anybody. Not even Captain or Broda.”

  Walking over to the trunk of the big live oak, I grabbed a wet hunk of melon and ate it. And hated myself for eating it. But I was hungry. One hunk of dirty melon didn’t cool me a whole mite. I spat out a seed. It lay on the sand, in moonlight, looking like a sad little canoe, going nowhere.

  The smell from the turpentine mill drifted in, strong and sharp, with a sting to it that was near to whiskey.

  “I’m Arly Poole,” I said. “This is Florida, and I live in Jailtown which ain’t the whole dang world. Stars,” I said, looking up again, “don’t belong to Captain Tant.”

  Thrusting both hands into my pockets, I walk along through the darkness toward Jailtown. I wanted to see Miss Hoe. When I got to Newell’s Boarding House, there she was, sitting in one of the rocker chairs up on the front porch. As she notice me coming, she stood up and raise a hand.

  “Arly? Is that you?”

  “Yes’m.”

  “Come sit.”

  I bounded up the steps. Then bended down to wipe the boards clean of sand that scuff off my bare feet, and sat down real careful.

  “Thank you for coming to see me.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  The front door was open and a smell of fresh biscuits crept out and into my belly. I wanted to tell Miss Hoe how hungry I was, yet held off. To get someplace empty, Papa always said, just weren’t proper manners.

  “I really like Tom Sawyer,” I said.

  “Good. It’s a book that takes to people, too.”

  “Reckon.”

  I rocked my chair again so it’d keep paced with Miss Hoe’s pulling like a team of wagon mules. “Living,” I said, “is sort of like rocking.”

  Miss Hoe looked at me. “How so?”

  “Well, the way I figure it, just when you got everything moving forward, it all stops, and back you go.”

  She laughed. “Arly, how I do envy the way you phrase things. Somewhere, in your background, there just had to be a lyrical Irish poet. Or perhaps an English one.”

  “Thanks. But you’re dead wrong on both counts. All I got in me is … picker.”

  Her little hands slapped the chair arms. “Nonsense. There’s so much in you that Heaven alone couldn’t hold it all. So much more than Jailtown or Florida. You are America, boy. Why, you’re the eagle, the flag, and President Coolidge … all wrapped in one gift.”

  I stopped rocking. “You know President Coolidge?”

  She smiled. “Not very well. But I know who he is, the way he knows who I am. By that, I mean that Mr. Coolidge wants our Congress to cut the taxes we little folks pay. I heard tell that a United States senator had the gall to accuse Mr. Coolidge of trying to save money.”

  “And what did he say to that?”

  “President Coolidge told him that he wasn’t trying to save money. He was attempting to save people.”

  I sighed. “You know, maybe I just might sort of like Mr. Coolidge.”

  Miss Hoe let out a healthy laugh. “You would. Better yet, I know for certain sure he’d like you.”

  I picked at a sore on my toe until Miss Hoe scolded me to quit.

  “Does he ever come to Jailtown?”

  My teacher’s frown faded away. “Well, I don’t imagine he’ll be here too soon.”

  My hand cuffed a biter bug. “I guess if’n Mr. Coolidge come to Jailtown, he’d stay at Captain Tant’s and Miss Liddy’s.”

  I saw Miss Hoe shake her head. “No, he might not. My guess is that if Calvin Coolidge came to visit Jailtown, he’d bunk in here at the boarding house.” Miss Hoe smiled at me. “Arly, you could be president someday.”

  Hearing her say it almost tumbled me off the rocker chair. “Me?”

  “Honestly. I love America when she elects … little people, like Cal Coolidge. He was born in a very small town, you know, away up north on a Vermont farm. That’s why he knows about hard work and the folks who bend to it.”

  “You told us about President Coolidge in school. But I don’t guess I can remember anything famous that he ever said.”

  Miss Hoe slapped her knee.

  “That’s his beauty, Arly. At last we have ourselves an honest farm boy who doesn’t speak too much or too often. And if he decides to run again, in nineteen hundred twenty-eight, he’s got my vote.”

  I grinned and then felt my face fall to sober. “Papa don’t vote at all.”

  She touched my hand. “But you shall. You’ll be heard. And better than only being listened to, you will also be watched and heeded.”

  Her hand floated up to touch my head.

  “You always do that,” I said. “When we git talking, you reach up and touch my ears. How come you do it?”

  “Because.”

  I shook a finger at her. “That ain’t a proper answer. Leastwise, that’s what you always tell us to school.”

  “Very well. Because … if you’ll permit me a deep breath, a rural teacher, like myself, works in an educational dungeon. In the dark, Arly. Sometimes the darkness lasts for years and years. But then, just when she almost concludes there is no light, a wee little spark ignites. Have you ever looked up to the sky on a misty evening?” Miss Hoe pinched my elbow. “It’s all up there, my dear. Then, the breezes clear away the fog and out pops the first star. That one sparkling Arly Poole that I know could shine beyond clouds, darkness, and Shack Row.”

  I was sort of surprised to see Miss Hoe jump up from her chair and move to the porch railing. She pointed up at the sky.

  “Always look up, Arly. Even if you trip when walking, look upward at the sky and all its lanterns.”

  Chapter 23

  I skip happy all the way home.

  Shack Row weren’t sleeping, like usual. Instead of folks resting supper, inside their shacks, I saw people standing in clumps outside our doorway in the dark.

  Coming closer, I could hear Addie Cooter crying. Nearby was Essie May, holding little Florence and staring my way. Turning my head, I saw old Mr. Witt limping toward me, holding out both his arms like he had something to speak out.

  “Arly?”

  I didn’t answer up because his face seem to want to tell me the all of it.

  “It’s your pa,” Mr. Witt said.

  “What’s wrong?” As I asked the question, my whole body started to heat, like I’d sudden took a fever. Saying no more, I run inside our shack to where my daddy lay on his tick.

  “Papa?”

  There was no answering. Just silence. As I kneel down to shake his shoulder, I felt Mr. Witt enter our shack to come up behind, resting his hand to me. “He give out, Arly. I come across to see him and found Dan like he be now. Clean gone.”

  “Papa?”

  More people crowd up closer to our door, and I could hear little Delbert Cooter say, “I want to go see the dead man. Let me go see Mr. Poole.”

  “Please hush,” his ma said.

  Mr. Witt spoke. “He be, Arly. Dan Poole’s left us.”

  “No,” was all I could say.

  “I figure it was his poorly lungs. All that crop-dusty poison. And I be powerful sorry, Arly.” His hand pat my back. “We’re to miss old Daniel.”

  Somebody lit a candle. Then I saw Papa’s face, a raw red, like usual, from all his hours, his days, an entire lifetime under sun. Except for Sundays, there weren’t been as puny as a leaf of shade to cool him or allow him to rest under. Bending over, I wrapped both arms around the thin body, to rock him gentle, holding his head to my shoulder. The stubble of his beard rub scratchy against my cheek, yet it was an honest feel, rough, with no quit to it. Like each tiny whisker stuck out brave to know it’d be a final chance to stand proud.

  “Papa,” I whispered to his ear, “I never got you no rocker chair.”

  Looking down at his face, I could see that his eyes were near closed. He was resting. His field work was over. The tore rag of his shirt smelled of melons, sweat, and black soil. There was still grit on his hands.

&n
bsp; “Somebody’s went to fetch Brother Smith,” Mrs. Cooter said.

  Mr. Witt kept patting my shoulder. Leastwise, his old hand moved on me, even though I couldn’t feel nothing on my side of it. Mrs. Witt was near too.

  I couldn’t make myself turn Papa loose or lie him back down to his tick. So I only kneel in the candlelight and rocked him. With my hand I tidy his hair so he’d appear handsome to the Heaven folks. He’d already gone. The man in my arms weren’t no longer Dan Poole. Maybe the angels wouldn’t bother to ask if’n he was only a picker. Eyes closed, I somehow saw Papa all dressed fine in a new white suit, with a hat to match that would shade his head. And white shoes.

  “Papa, you look so proper. And I be so proud of you. They don’t work nobody in Heaven, and God won’t charge no shack rent. You don’t have to cough up a penny to live there. It’s all free. All clean. And most of it’s in the shade.”

  I thought I heared him breathe. Opening my eyes, I knowed that I’d thunk wrong. Papa weren’t to breathe no more. Or choke his crop dust.

  “Brother Smith’s here,” Essie said.

  I was still kneeling on the dirt of our shack floor when Brother come to us. For some reason, I didn’t have to look over my shoulder. Then I feel his big hands on me, hefting me up, as if ordering me to turn Papa free.

  “Come now, Arly,” he said. “We help.”

  Us pickers had our own graveyard. Out back. Not too fancy a place. No markers with names on them. And the crosses fell over in the rainy season, even though the kin of the dead tried to keep the crosses stood up. Dinker Witt and Mr. Yurman had a hole dug, and we walked to it. The grave weren’t ample more than a knee deep. Brother Smith carried Papa in his mighty arms, lighter than he’d burden a half-growed child. Essie May line Papa’s grave with fresh greens and fern to fashion a bed for his resting. Jackson and Delbert add some flower petals. Mrs. Witt come with a small rag pillow, handmade, with fancy sewing on it in color yarn, to place under my daddy’s head.

  Looking down at him, I was thankful that tomorrow there’d be no run for the picker wagon. Or no half wages.

  Bending, I folded his rough hands over his skinny chest the way people are supposed to do. It would be the last thing I’d do for him, so I took a ample time doing it, locking his fingers, just the way he’d say a blessing over our beans. Then I nod to Brother Smith.

  “Brothers and sisters,” his deep voice said. “We gather to bury Daniel Poole, a man who be neighbor, friend, and a daddy to his Arly. All his life he work on dirt. Now he sleep in it. He good white man, Dan Poole. Live proper. We all look to a young colt, a boy that he raise up, to see goodness sweet as apple. Jesus love Dan, because He love us all who got dirt to our hand and clean in our heart.”

  Brother stretched his big arms toward the sky, closing his eyes, and smiling. As I started to shake some, Mrs. Cooter held me close to her, supporting me up. She felt warm and good clear through.

  “Ain’t no cukes to pick in Heaven,” said Brother. “Only be sunshine and moonlight and angels to sing sweeter than whippoorwill. Ain’t no sweat up in the yonder, or mean-mouth folk to yell angry. Everyday be Sunday peaceful. Dan, he already know. Already there. Angel folks now washing him clean with virtue so he look his best to greet the Almighty.”

  Leaning close to Addie Cooter, I prayed that all the words Brother said would blossom true. Even if’n no, I felt thankful that he’d spoke it out so shining.

  I was sort of surprised when I saw Brother Smith stuff a hand inside the front of his billowy shirt and pull out his little Bible. Behind him, Mr. Yurman lit up a pine torch and stepped in closer to shed light.

  “I now read,” said Brother, “from the First Book of Moses, call Genesis.” He paused. Then, bowing his head to his open Bible, his thick fingers sort of blessed the crispy pages as if he loved each one. “This,” he said softly, “be my mama’s Bible, and it say like so.” Brother readed slowly. “In the beginning, God create the Heaven and the Earth.”

  That was all he read. Brother close his Bible, stoop down, and toss one handful of dirt onto Papa. “Amen,” he said.

  “Amen,” everyone said too.

  “Dan Poole,” said Brother Smith, “you got a Genesis now in Heaven. A new beginning. So don’t you fret no more. We look to young Arly and do for him proper, hear?”

  Papa hears, I was thinking, trying to stand proud and not shake too ample much.

  More petals got sprinkle all over my daddy’s body to quilt him. Two of the pickers work spades to begin the covering as Addie Cooter turned me away. Even so, I wheel around one last time, trying to catch one final look at the only other Poole I ever knowed.

  Brother Smith come over to me.

  “Thank you,” I told him.

  His big hand took my shoulder. “Arly, you best spend a life just exact the way Dan wish for you.”

  One by each, the people of Shack Row come to me, putting their arms around me. Yet I couldn’t feel nothing except empty. I was a bucket with its bottom tore out, and all of my innards was draining from me.

  Brother Smith was the last one.

  As the two of us stood alone behind our shack, I looked up at his kindly face. God, I figured, had to favor Brother Smith. He too would be a strong and gentle giant that a person could turn to for solace. Brother’s big hand rest light on my shoulder.

  “You ain’t alone,” he said. “Nobody be. Because there’s a Almighty away up in the yonder, smiling down at you, and wanting to grow you up tall and sturdy, the same way He do for a young cabbage palm. He’ll keep on sending you sunshine to dry a washing, and rain to water your thirst. The Lord be a bigger brother to you, Arly, than this old fisher ever hope to be.”

  I nodded, but it weren’t much more than a slight bow of my head.

  “Thanks for coming, Brother Smith. I don’t guess nobody hereabouts could get proper buried without you to say words.”

  With his arm across my back, his hand on my far shoulder, Brother turned me around, and together we walked to the road side of our shack, to its only door.

  “You best go inside and try to sleep.” His hand touched my face. “I be here outside at your doorway, like a old guard dog. Arly, I’ll be right nearby until you go to sleep. Hear?”

  “Yes. I hear.”

  Lying inside the shack on my tick, I listened to the deep voice of Brother Smith humming a hymn. No words. It was only a light breeze of a tune which seemed to whisper to my ears and to close my eyes.

  I feeled like a sick hound, remembering Dan Poole and everything he’d told me, and how hard he’d sweated all his life as a picker.

  With every breath, I could still smell Papa.

  Chapter 24

  Morning come.

  Somehow, during the darksome, I’d fell asleep listening to Brother Smith’s gentle hum. He was gone, and outside the shack the first early gray of a new day was arriving.

  “Papa,” I said, with no thinking. “You’ll miss the picker wagon.”

  Only then did his dying live again. Across the single room of the shack lay an empty tick, mussed up against the board wall, looking gray, alone and cold.

  “He’s no more,” I said.

  Wherever he was, I wanted Dan Poole to know that I weren’t about to quit learning. Because that was all he wanted. My schooling and a ticket out of Jailtown.

  “Arly?”

  Somebody said my name. Hearing it, I jumped up quick and hurried to the door, thinking it was Mrs. Cooter. I was wrong. It was Miss Hoe.

  “Oh, Arly … I just heard.”

  “My daddy died last night.”

  “I’m so sorry.” As she holded out both her hands, I took them. “The pair of you seemed to be so deeply proud of each other. So very belonging.”

  “Yes’m.”

  She hugged me very gentle. “Brother Smith came over to Mrs. Newell’s before I was even up or dressed,” she spoke into my ear. “He could hardly speak. I guess he’d waited outside, holding his hat, until Verna Newell rushed out. Then he t
old the two of us … Brother Poole be dead. That’s how he said it, Arly. Softer than a prayer.”

  “Thank you,” I said, “for feeling grief.”

  Releasing me, holding my shoulders at arm’s length, she studied my face. “Believe me, I really do. But what a gift you’ll someday give your father. You were his hope, Arly. His escape and his dream. I read it all on his face the day I stepped off the gangplank of the Caloosahatchee Queen and saw him shove you toward your … famous lady.”

  Miss Hoe tried a smile.

  “Papa wanted me to git choose for your school.”

  The teacher held my face in her little hands. “You have been chosen, by Brother Smith, by all your Shack Row neighbors, and by God. To learn, to love, and to grow.” She shook her head at me. “No hatred, Arly. Not even a wee lick of it. It would be wasting a good brain.”

  “I’m plenty scared, Miss Hoe. Because I got me a hunch that maybe Papa and me still owe at Mrs. Stout’s trading store. On Saturday nights, us pickers got to report there, to settle up. So if’n I owe, I can’t never leave Jailtown. Mr. Broda will fetch me back with a rope to my neck, like he done Mr. Yurman.”

  “No,” said Miss Hoe. “He won’t.” Her mouth was set grim tight as she spoke it.

  I shook my head. “You be new in Jailtown. They got rules and orders for Shack Row people. If’n ya cut loose, you maybe don’t git no shack to roof over you. And they’ll put you on half wages whenever you stir up trouble. You can ask Mr. Yurman if you don’t believe it. Nobody run away, Miss Hoe, because they dassn’t dare.”

  “Arly,” she said, “come with me.”

  “Where to?”

  “I’m taking you to Mrs. Newell’s.”

  “No!” I near to hollered at her. “I’ll miss the picker wagon. Mr. Broda will put my name on his roster board, to take Papa’s place. I gotta go pick.”