Southern Legitimacy Statement: I grew up in South Carolina wishing for snow in the winters and shoving my toes in the pluff mud on the banks of marshes during the summer. My family ties stretch across this corn-flake-shaped state, from the coast to the hills where my great-grandmother was a Granny Woman. My Sundays were spent on the front porch of my grandparents’ house watching my grandfather mow the lawn in a short-sleeved white collared shirt, navy blue tie, and cardigan. I am confident my storytelling sprouted much like the weeds he chased, from the fertile land on which I now base the majority of my stories.
I live in North Carolina under the bright lights of baseball fields, carting electric guitars and amps to my eleven and thirteen-year-olds’ metal band practice, and wherever else my two sons need a ride. My mother came to our house for vacation ten years ago and never left. My husband puts up with all of us and is the dogs’ favorite. I kind of like him, too.
Bone Edge
February 1868
Hoyt rose early. It was still dark out, but he couldn’t sleep for more than a few hours at a time. So much was strange about waking up in a house. His eyes were used to the night sky overhead, not the beams of a roof. It was startling. He poked the fire, careful not to spill embers out onto the floor. One of the dogs, Rabbit, stretched and huffed. Hoyt scratched the dog’s belly. When he stopped, intending to fold the quilt, Rabbit nosed under his hand, eager for Hoyt to scratch her ears. Hoyt smiled. It had been so long since Hoyt had spent the night next to a warm body.
Wells sat up in Ma Tom’s bed by the fire.
Hoyt looked at him. “She likes me.”
Wells grabbed his shirt from the end of the bed. “She likes everybody.”
The business of the morning began quickly. Ma Tom was up shortly after Hoyt. Her movements were slow, but practiced. Heating water, kneading dough, scraping the iron skillet, slicing bacon. It was a dance. Ellen joined Ma Tom in the kitchen. She put on her apron and prepared the rest of the breakfast.
“Coffee, Hoyt?” Ellen held out a mug.
“Thank you.”
She nodded at him, still wary of his presence.
“Will you be with us long?”
“Oh, no, ma’am. I’m afraid I’ll be moving on.”
“What? No.” Ma Tom wiped flour from her hands onto her apron.
“Oh, yes. Well, y’all have been so kind to me to let me eat with you and sleep here in front of this nice fire. I can’t ask no more of you.”
Ellen eyed the man. “Well…”
Ma Tom interrupted. “I won’t hear it. You said already you got no place you’re going to. And this is a good a place as any.”
“Oh, I do have some plans.”
Ellen brightened. “Of course you do. You mind me asking what they are?”
“No, ma’am. I don’t mind. I feel slightly embarrassed by it all, though I’ll tell you.”
“Please don’t. I’m sure your plan is just fine.”
He wraps the warm mug in his rough hands. “I’d like to have my own set-up. Maybe near the coast, where all the boats come in and sell things people need. Food and supplies, that kind of thing. Peppermints for the kids. You had those licorice pieces? Been trying to save up my money to get a loan.”
Ma Tom clapped her hands together. “That’s a mighty fine plan, if’n I ever heard.”
“Sure sounds nice. I hope you get what you’re after,” Ellen said.
Hoyt nodded. Ma Tom refilled his coffee. “Ain’t no sense you scooting off now though; take your time, is all. Let the government get some things sorted out. Ellen was just reading the other day about the mess in Washington. Besides ways, we could use a hand around here, if you don’t mind staying for a bit.”
Ellen briefly paused her work, her shoulders tightening. I don’t want him here. Why don’t I want him here? Sheresumed scraping the skillet.
Hoyt had hoped they would offer to let him stay. “Ah, well. I don’t know if that’s…”
“It’s just that…well…” Ellen caught herself. She didn’t want to be rude, interjecting herself like that. There was just something bothering her about Hoyt. Who was he really? What was it at the back of her mind, the thing that was itching and tingling, whispering. But what was it telling her?
Ellen asked, “Hoyt, I realized I don’t even know how you come to hear of Meban’s passing?”
Hoyt sipped the coffee and nodded. “Yes, well I believe I read something in the paper. A notice of some kind. Or…no, maybe…I think one of the treeman’s wives or a cousin of his, maybe, down from these parts had sent him a letter. Maybe that’s where it was mentioned. I’m sorry. I don’t rightly remember.”
“Not another word.” Ma Tom turned her back to them to finish the day’s biscuits. “You were brought here for a reason, Hoyt Koning. You were a friend of my son and he was a good man. He saw good in people, so I know he saw good in you. He would want us to help you. So, that’s what we’re going to do.”
Hoyt smiled.
Wells was reluctant. He didn’t feel friendly, but didn’t want to upset his mother. He set to work while Tippy agreed to show Hoyt the farm and surrounding lands. As they walked, Tippy told him about Ruth. Hoyt was surprised to hear she was a Negro woman. He’d never had thoughts about whether a white should be with a Black; he knew it happened, but not like this. He knew white men who just wanted to bed them, not marry them. It was peculiar and perhaps something Hoyt felt could help him later. He’d have to think about it.
Hoyt followed Tippy to the tub mill. The young man filled the hopper with grain, the rock turbine turning with the force of the creek water. Hoyt watched the crippled man’s thick arms push and stir the grain in the hopper to help funnel it to the grinding stones. The bin began to fill with a bone-colored flour. Hoyt had seen larger grist mills during his travels, but appreciated the simplicity of this one. It was smart.
Farm work had always suited Hoyt. The familiar rise and fall of the sun dictating the work day was comforting, predictable. The sound of the shovel splitting the earth, the smell of hay and manure and wet animal was enough to send his thoughts back to the Engel farm, back to a time when there was acceptance, or at least he’d thought. Farm labor was easier than felling trees and much less dangerous, so long as he kept his hands in the dirt and his mind on what he wanted.
Hoyt rotated his right shoulder, his arm reaching up and back to work out the ache. Chopping wood never was his favorite chore. He’d spent two days with the Sellars and was learning their movements, habits. He knew they would be finishing supper about then. He wanted to give them time, time without him. He could feel the unease his presence created and knew to step carefully, work slowly; he was biding his time. He kicked the snow from his boots before opening the door to the house.
“Oh, I didn’t realize ya’ll had company.” Hoyt took a step back and looked from Wells to Ma Tom. He’d come face-to-face with a young woman he’d never seen before. He’d almost run right into her. “I’ll come back later.”
Wells was in the corner drying his face over the wash basin. Ma Tom pushed herself out of her rocker. “No, no. Hoyt this is Jenny Epler.”
“Ma’am.” Hoyt nodded his head at Jenny.
Jenny’s face flushed. “How do you do?” She attempted a curtsy.
Ellen, who had just finished getting the children settled for the night, brushed a lock of stray hair behind her ear. “Jenny is my cousin. They’re a neighboring farm.”
“Right. The one-armed man,” he said.
Jenny smiled. “Yes. That’s my brother, Artie. Not my husband.”
Hoyt had seen enough of this girl already. The way she straightened when he entered the room, pushing out her bosom. Her smile was coy and meant to be inviting. He’d seen her kind in every place he’d been: too eager, desperate, childish. And he wanted none of it.
Ma Tom uncovered a plate a food. “I saved this for you, Hoyt.”
“Oh, thank you. I wanted to get the wood pile up and done.”
“That’s fine. I’ll need a few logs for inside anyway, so that’s good. Sit down here.”
Hoyt sat. Jenny eased back into her chair. He could smell her. He recognized her dress as one of Ellen’s. Ellen must have lent it to her. His stomach growled. He hadn’t realized his hunger and began eating. He guessed Ellen had taken Jenny’s dress for washing. The girl’s hair was freshly washed and plaited, but a bath couldn’t take it all away. Wells sat by the fire with his knife and a rounded piece of soft wood. Curls of thin shavings fell to his feet. Hoyt knew he was listening.
“I came for some sleeping powder,” Jenny said. “We got to talking, and, well it got dark quick.”
“Yes, ma’am. It does that.” Hoyt wiped his mouth and kept his eyes on his food.
“My Uncle Arthur, Jenny and Artie’s daddy, isn’t well,” Ellen said. “He roams. Sometimes in the night.”
Hoyt nodded.
Jenny shifted in her chair. She smiled. “Tell me about you, Hoyt.”
“Ain’t much to tell.”
“Everyone’s got something to tell.” She leaned forward and rested her elbows on the table.
Wells cleared his throat.
Hoyt’s mouth was full. He swallowed hard. “No.”
“No?” She laughed. “You’re just shy.”
He didn’t answer her. He ate.
“I know a little already.”
“That’s probably plenty, then.”
“Meban’s friend, huh? That was so sad, you know? For all of us. You’re the first good thing that’s happened in I don’t know when.
He sat back, his meal finished.
Ellen gestured to the hallway that connected the two houses. “Jenny, why don’t you go over to Tippy and Ruth’s now? They’ve got a bed made up for you since it’s late.”
“Yes. That’ll be fine, Ellen. Nice to meet you, Hoyt. I’ll be seeing you.”
“Goodnight, ma’am.”
Hoyt smiled into his cup. Ma Tom gathered his dish. He watched Ellen usher the girl down the hall. Ellen sent that girl away. Maybe she didn’t like Jenny around him. Maybe she thought the girl might turn his head. Could Ellen be jealous? Not yet. He could see the uneasiness in her still, the fangs of fear that kept her distant. But fear often turns into a burning desire. He knew this all too well.
Hoyt squinted at Wells. “I’ve watched men whittle away many hours in front of a fire. What are you making?”
“A bird, I’m thinking.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“What kind then?”
“Oh, a Blue Jay seems a good choice.”
“Why’s that?”
“Cause they’re funny little birds.”
“Funny how?”
“Funny like a fox. Sly birds.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah. You ever been in the woods and heard a hawk calling?”
“I suppose.”
Wells let another curl of wood fall to the floor. “Might not have been a hawk. Might have been a Blue Jay. They’re liars like that sometimes.”
