Arly Page 3

  Addie Cooter curled her lip.

  “Well,” she said in a low voice to Papa, “there’s our law. Roscoe told me a sorry tale. He says that it’s mostly moonshiners that rot in the jailhouse, on account of Judge not wanting them to cut in on the whiskey he run hisself.”

  A small black dot appear away out on the straight line of one blue meeting another, in the middle of Lake Okeechobee. People straighted arms and point fingers. Kids got lifted up on shoulders.

  I heared a steamer whistle.

  Chapter 6

  “I gotta get off my feet,” Addie said.

  Looking down, I saw Mrs. Cooter’s old scuffy shoes, hot as it was. It be a caution shame, I was thinking, if she’d saved up and bought ’em too small at Mrs. Stout’s.

  Lots of folks, I had sort of figure out, tried wearing shoes, or boots. Papa had shoes on. His work boots. They didn’t shine up too prosperous, even though he’d earlier yank a rag to ’em, before we’d left our shack. All five of the Cooter kids was barefoot, like me. I’d guess that about half the town people was shod that Sunday, and most be the grown folks.

  Out on Okeechobee, the steamer boat seem to be taking her own time, as if she weren’t too itching to visit Jailtown. However, lots of people had gather to greet the boat and take a fresh look-see at the famous visitor.

  Huff Cooter sighed. “Sure wish that ol’ boat would whip herself along.”

  “Yeah,” I telled him. “Me too.”

  It was right then I heared people start to mumble. Heads turning around, away from the lake, and eyes all look in one direction. That was when I saw a very thin lady, dressed in white lace. Her face was paler than yesterday’s death, more gray than pink, and her hands weren’t much more meaty than twigs. Over her head was a parasol which served to keep her shaded more than the rest of us. The lady stood quietly on the dock.

  She look different.

  Most of the people in Jailtown looked the same. We were pickers, catfishers, gator and plume hunters, fur skinners, cane mill workers, some growers who own citrus, black people and white, dredgers along with their wives and children, along with a few Seminoles who kept to themselves.

  “Who’s that?” a woman ask.

  Her husband whisper his answer. “Holy Moses,” he telled her, “that’s Miss Liddy Tant.”

  “Ain’t possible,” someone else said. “Captain’s against us.” And then another voice mention something called the Rural Education Act.

  A few people spoke to Miss Liddy Tant, bowing as they done so. She mere nod in return. But then she did bother to speak to one person, the somebody who’d long ago saved her life.

  “Good morning, Brother Smith.”

  He quick took off his hat and smiled. “Good morning to you, Missy Tant.”

  She stood her ground, pale and proud, and waited as the Caloosahatchee Queen blowed her whistle again, three times, and creep close enough to the dock for me to see the faces of the city people who lean on her rail. They Waved to us and we all waved back. Nobody throwed pennies.

  “Papa,” I asked, “are them fancy people coming just to see Jailtown? Or to see the Leg?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t guess so. They say the Caloosahatchee Queen be a day boat, and the people on board is sightseers. She stops here to take on wood fuel, then goes to Moore Haven and back to Belle Glade where she moors up. A few’ll go see the Lucky Leg.”

  Two black men dressed up as sailors pushed a gangplank to our dock. Miss Liddy walked forward, and as she went to meet the steamer, people made a path for her, backing off. She looked leaner than a dryspell pea pod.

  “God bless ya, Miss Liddy,” Addie Cooter said, and Miss Liddy flashed her a faint smile.

  Plenty of people got off the boat.

  Which one, I wondered, was the famous person? I certain couldn’t tell. City people all look the same to me. They looked new, not like they was used stuff to buy in Mrs. Stout’s store. Compared to the city sightseers, Papa just plain looked wore out. People in Jailtown seem to be old, tired, and dirty, in spite of washing up for Sunday.

  The last person to walk down the gangplank off the Caloosahatchee Queen was a very small woman.

  She wasn’t old, but she sure didn’t look fresh-painted like the girls from the Lucky Leg, the ones who would sometimes wave to Huff or to me, and blow us kisses. The little lady carried a flowered carpetbag by its handle, but the flowers on the cloth seem to fade out most of their color.

  “Papa,” I asked, “could she be our famous visitor?”

  He nodded. “I think you’re right, Arly.”

  Only one person went to greet her, and that was Miss Liddy Tant. The rest of us just sort of moved out from the shade, to get up real close, and see it for ourselfs. Papa and I ducked between people to hear it all, right up front. Miss Liddy Tant talk up first.

  “Miss Binnie Hoe?”

  The new lady smiled. “Yes, I am.”

  “I am Liddy Tant. Welcome to Jailtown.”

  The two ladies shook hands, and I hear the famous lady say, “I’m here because of you, Miss Tant, and because of President Coolidge.”

  Miss Tant nod to a man in the crowd who rush up to carry Miss Hoe’s belongings. Everything was real calm and quiet. I saw Miss Hoe look us all over, yet she didn’t snicker, the way the city tourists did. Another man come over to hand Miss Hoe a tumbler of what looked like a lemon drink. Thanking him, she took a sip, and I saw her face tighten. As she swallow with a bit of effort, a gang of men busted out laughing. And I sudden knowed why.

  So did Papa.

  “They spiked it,” he said. “Put a stick of moon in it, as a joke.” His voice had a sorry to it, like what they done to her weren’t funny.

  I figured Miss Hoe would spit out the whiskey, but she didn’t. In fact, she took another modest pull from the glass, which near to shock the pants off me, as well as the dredger men.

  “Thank you, sir,” Miss Hoe said to the rowdy bunch of dredgers to which the giver of the drink had returned. “If I am to flourish here in Jailtown, I’m sure that I shall need more than one swallow of such … spirited fortification.” Her voice sounded strong, like it come right up her spine and out her mouth.

  I saw the one dredger’s face redden. But then he grin, and with a wide sweep of his beefy arm, he gave Miss Hoe a right courtly bow. Some of the dredgers even clapped.

  “Tomorrow,” said Miss Hoe, “at eight o’clock, I shall begin my day as Jailtown’s first schoolteacher.”

  I looked at Papa. “She’s a … schoolteacher? But you said we’d have a famous somebody. All we get is some old lady schoolteacher. Jailtown don’t have no school.”

  Papa nodded. “I know, Arly. But maybe, now that she’s here, we’ll have one.”

  Miss Hoe was looking around at all of us. “All right,” she said, “who will volunteer to be my first pupil? I will teach people of all ages.”

  No person moved. It was like we was froze up, or half dead. I didn’t even breathe. No one dare to budge a step forward and sign up for school, and I sure didn’t want to be first. Never, my daddy had warn me, ever be first or last in line for anything. That was when I saw Miss Liddy nod to Brother Smith, like she knowed folks would follow his lead. Brother then edge his way through the crowd until he stop face to face with Miss Hoe. Holding his hat, his big voice spoke out gentle and low.

  “They call me Brother Smith,” he said, bowing.

  The famous lady stared up at him, as if almost suspecting that he’d pick her up to slip into his shirt pocket.

  “Please to meet you, Mr. Smith,” said the little woman. “My name is Binnie Hoe. And so you would like to attend school.”

  Brother nodded. “Yes’m. Before I die, Missy Hoe, I aim to read Bible, clear through. Can you please learn a old fisher like me to read?”

  “Yes,” she said, “I really can.”

  There was a mumble in the crowd of white folks, like they sure didn’t cotton to have a colored man like Brother Smith talking up first to a
white lady. Even if he be somebody sort of holy special in Jailtown. Papa nudged me a step closer to where Miss Binnie Hoe was standing. She weren’t no taller than me. Next to Brother Smith, Miss Hoe looked no bigger than a chigger bug. Then, from behind my back, Papa pushed me.

  “Take off your hat, Arly.”

  Chapter 7

  Sunday night turned out a whooper.

  Most of the doings got perform by Papa and Mrs. Addie Cooter, on account they both seem to fall into a celebration mood. Addie roast a gator tail and some catfish over a outdoor fire while Papa boil some collards. He sang as he cooked.

  “How come you’re so joyful?” I asked him.

  “On account,” Papa took a breath, “that our famous lady actual did come to Jailtown. She really git here. A genuine schoolteacher.”

  “Amen,” said Addie.

  Mrs. Cooter had squirrel away a jug of tart apple wine which got shared to many a mouth. I sneak a sip. To me it tasted right sour, sort of like trying to drink a hot fork. Dinker Witt and his wife come to join us, but neither of them cared to nip at Addie’s jug, because both Mr. and Mrs. Witt claim they once be church people who didn’t cotton to spirits.

  Mrs. Yurman had a pan of leftover pickle juice and that got poured over the collard greens. We had salt too, enough to sprinkle everybody’s turnips. It sure turned out to be a fancy feeding. Best of all, I got to sit beside Essie May Cooter.

  Papa raked his mouth with a shirt sleeve. “Arly boy, that’s cooking fit for a Sunday.”

  “Sure was,” I telled him.

  “We ain’t had us a jubilee here in Shack Row for a bunch of season,” Papa told me. “No sir. But today, on this here Sunday evening, we got ourselfs more’n hope to be grateful about.”

  I swallowed fish. “You mean that teacher lady?”

  Papa nodded. “Sure certain do.” As he come closer to where I sat, next to Essie, I could smell the apple wine on his breath. “Remember how I had to shove you forward?”

  I recall it real clear. It happen right after Brother done it. Using both hands, Papa had near pushed me hard enough to beach a boat, right toward the Miss Hoe lady, close enough to smell how clean she be. Not like Mrs. Cooter or Mrs. Witt. Looking at her made my hands sweat a mite. Besides, I sure didn’t cotton to the idea of school.

  Glancing over at Addie Cooter made me recollect how she usual smelled of mules. But that weren’t too bad, on account that a mule smell better than a field picker.

  Jumping up into the air, Papa landed and then kick the dust. “Hot dang!” he hooted. “Arly boy is gonna git schooling. The lady said he could report tomorrow morn.” He spun around in a happy circle. “Golly, I could spit and hit the moon.”

  As he danced a clog in the dusty road which ran between the two rows of shacks, the people were laughing, like they was fixing to enjoy his fun. When he final quit his jigging, Dan Poole was short of breath, yet it didn’t sober his grin. Nary a mite.

  Papa raise both hands to the sky. “Hey, we oughta spirit ourselfs on some music. Dinker,” he said to Mr. Witt, “how about fetching that old busted-up fiddle of yourn, and scratch us all a tune?”

  Mr. Witt limp off to his shack and then return with a fiddle under his arm.

  “I don’t guess I’ve ever want to dance myself dizzy more’n I do right to moment,” Papa said.

  While old Dinker Witt was tuning his strings with a thumb, and twisting his stick tighter, Papa prance over to Addie Cooter, a woman who be ample large enough to make two of him. Maybe even three. He bent a bow to her, real gracious, and begged her for a dance.

  “Mercy,” Addie told him, “I ain’t been asked to dance for half of my lifetime, Dan Poole. Ya don’t got no notion what you’re possible in for.”

  “No matter,” Papa told her. “On account you can probable dance lots fancier than I can breathe.”

  Everyone laughed.

  Mr. Witt struck up Turkey in the Straw, which start Papa and Mrs. Cooter to dancing. It was surprising that Addie Cooter could fling herself around so light. Maybe it was because she’d earlier took off her shoes and was barefoot.

  “I’d like to dance too,” Essie May said, looking straight at me as she spoke. “Arly, let’s do.”

  “Well,” I telled her, “I don’t guess I’m too fancy at it.”

  “I’ll learn ya.”

  Standing before me was Essie May Cooter. A bit taller than I be, and rounder, but still slender. Graceful as a willow in wind. Long hair, bright eyes, wearing nothing but a little white dress, with a ruffle or two, looking sweeter than a sugar biscuit. Gently she took my hand. As she done it, I promised to remember this time for the rest of my life.

  Next thing I knowed, Essie May Cooter and I was prancing around like we really understood what we was doing. And I didn’t give a hoot if Essie was a mite taller than me. Essie was laughing and I was too. Sure was fun. Huff Cooter was clicking a pair of spoons, like bones, keeping time to Mr. Witt’s fiddle playing.

  Papa quit for breath. When the music stopped too, I heared him tell Mrs. Cooter, “I don’t recall ever feeling so doggone happy. Except when Arly got born.”

  I knowed Papa’s happiness was because my schooling would start tomorrow. But seeing Dan Poole smiling, even with missing teeth, made me feel like I could grab a hold of the world and toss it up and catch it.

  “Golly,” my daddy said. “I ain’t breathe so free and easy in more’n twenty year.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Addie panted.

  “Scrape us another tune, Dinker,” yelled Papa. “I want the whole world to dance all night.”

  Dancing with my arm around Essie May turn out to be even more fun that I thought. She smiled at me all the time and I felt my face smiling right back at her. Essie sure was pretty and she could step softer than a bug on a leaf. As I holded her hand while we danced, our fingers seem to lace together cozy, and sometime she’d give my hand a little squeeze.

  Mrs. Witt sung a song.

  Her husband play the fiddle music behind her, as Mrs. Witt sang Tenting Tonight in a high fluttery voice. When she sang the last words of the song, “tenting on the old camp ground,” people didn’t clap right away, because her singing was sweet as a prayer. I notice something else. As Mrs. Witt sang, nobody took a pull from the wine jug. Not even the men folks. Every person in Shack Row sat or stood church quiet as if to bless the words.

  Soon as her song got ended, Mr. Witt put his scrawny old arms around his wife to hug her. It was a pleasing sight to see. Nobody could say a word. We just watched and swallowed. Seeing Mr. Witt hug his wife, I knowed, weren’t too easy for my daddy. I saw his face harden, guessing that he was probable remembering my mother.

  Once the sun sunk, the evening natural turned dark, and the faces of people begun to yawn. So we spruced up our cooking pots and thumped a final push to the wine jug’s cork. I don’t guess much apple wine was left inside.

  “We had a fair time,” Papa said. “I hope you had at least half the fun I did, Arly boy.”

  “Sure did.

  One by one, families all turned to go back to their own shacks. All the Cooters went too, leaving me and Dan Poole alone, at our doorway. My daddy looked up at the moon which be no more than a curved sliver off God’s fingernail.

  “We ought to git ourselves to bed,” I said.

  “Not just yet,” he said, “on account I don’t really want our Sunday to end.” He sighed. “Lately, it seems like a Sunday only comes along every ten year. Like it never’ll come again.”

  I rested a hand on his shoulder, feeling the rough of his shirt, and the heat left from all his dancing. He felt alive, warm, and I was proud of him. Some people dress fancy on the outside, I was thinking, but somewhere inside Papa there be a fancy that couldn’t be store bought. It just prospered there within him, sort of like a sweet-smelling flower that no eye could see, and no hand could pluck away from him.

  “Tomorrow.”

  He only whispered the word, yet I figured I knowed his thought. Sure
enough, I’d reasoned right, because he looked at me with a bent grin.

  “Tomorrow,” he said, “you start school.” His hand cupped my knee. “I ain’t never been too strong on thankfulness, but I’m glad. Ya gotta learn, Arly boy. Listen up proper, so you won’t be another Dan Poole.”

  As I held his rough hand, I knowed there was a lot worse things to be.

  Chapter 8

  Monday morning come.

  I sure didn’t need a peacock to squawk me awake. Papa was up too, and I could tell by the way he run to catch the picker wagon that he’d near be first in line. Not last.

  Mr. Roscoe Broda was there, waiting like usual. But I didn’t even bother to look his way, nor did Papa. And I was thankful glad he didn’t drop his noon bag. One turn at that mishapper was ample plenty. Mrs. Cooter shot me a pie-face grin.

  “School’s today,” she reminded me.

  “Yes’m.” I winced. “Is Huff going?”

  Addie Cooter shifted the mule reins to her other hand. “Hope to tell ya, Arly. All my five’s going, unless they want their butts booted or their hides tan.”

  I waved a so-long to my daddy and scoot back to the shack, ate a stale biscuit, boil me a turnip, and top it off with a cuke. The cucumber I liked the best. Then I left Shack Row and pointed for Jailtown, because I’d promised Papa I’d go, without even a bother to hunt up Huff Cooter. Besides, he’d be going to school with the other four Cooter kids, which ought to full his hands with pester, seeing how Huff was next to eldest.

  Essie May Cooter was thirteen, and if’n I dared to do it, I would’ve walked to school with only her. There weren’t hardly a soul in Jailtown who didn’t cotton up to Essie May. I sort of figure it out why. Her clothes all pinched a mite too small on her, especially around the chest which looked to me a lot like her mother’s. Addie Cooter was no board. Another thing about Essie May was this—the longer her legs growed, seems like the shorter her dresses shrunk up. As to underwear, Essie didn’t bother it much.