Cottonwood, Georgia
1938
It was a risk and she knew it, but a risk she figured worth the chance.
Without saying so much as a word, she gathered her cane pole and paraded out the back door as though she were making her way to the old outhouse that hadn’t been used in a decade. But Mama was at the well, drawing water for their ritual Saturday evening lemonade. Mama said the well water was better than anything that came from a faucet. “Whoa, little girl. Where are you heading off to?”
“I’m going fishing.”
“Like that?” Mama eyed her up and down. “Kinda dressed up, aren’t you, shug?”
She looked down at the blue-gray dress that fell in soft pleats from the belted waistline and ended in a hem two inches below her knee. “This? It’s not that nice. And it’s from last year, besides. And look, Mama. I’m wearing socks and shoes, so it’s not like I’m up to something.”
Mama cocked a thick brow. “Who said anything about you being up to something?”
About that time her papa came out the back door, the screen flying open and then slamming against the door frame. “Who’s up to something?” He propped his straw hat upon his head. “Sugar lump, where you off to?”
“I’m going fishing, Papa. I have my cane pole and my worms. See here?”
“In a dress? You’re going fishing in a dress?”
She sighed like she’d heard Greta Garbo do in a movie once over at the picture show, then fingered the lace of her linen handkerchief she’d tucked into the fabric belt at her waist. “Well . . . aren’t we having ice cream later? It’s Saturday, isn’t it? And Mama, don’t you always insist we girls dress up a bit? I was going to fish for a spell, then come back and change into some proper shoes.” She stuck out a foot so her father could see the scuffed everyday square-toed lace-ups.
“Well, go on,” Papa said, pulling a thin cigar from his pocket and heading over to one of the porch rockers to smoke it. “Go on so you can get back in time for your mama’s peach vanilla, now.”
“I won’t be late,” she called as she raced down the steps and across the back lawn, through the path she and her brothers and sisters had long ago etched into the landscape toward Poor Man’s Pond. When she arrived, breathless and a little anxious, she looked around the bank for a sign of the man-boy she’d met earlier in the week, met him twice in fact. Once that first day, the next time two days later. Both of those times had been on accident. This time, she hoped he’d be here again.
But he was not. Feeling let out like an old automobile tire, she set her bucket of worms down and then pulled one of the wigglies out with the crook of her finger and hooked it on the line. She sent the worm sailing through the air and into the water with a plop of the cork, then braced her feet apart and waited. The least she could do, she reasoned, was bring home a few fish for Mama to fry up in the pan for their breakfast the next morning.
“See you came back.”
She turned with a start, but this time she didn’t drop her pole.
“Hello,” she said slowly. She looked back at the water, trying to pretend she wasn’t all that interested in his arrival. “Wasn’t sure if I’d see you out here today or not.”
She heard him chuckle, then eyed him slowly as he settled in next to her and got his line ready.
“What’s so funny?”
“What’s the dress about? I ain’t never seen no girl that can fish like you before, but I can honestly say I ain’t never seen no girl fishing in a dress, neither.”
She bristled and blushed appropriately. “I’ll have you know we have a social outing later. All I have to do is change my shoes and put some stockings on. So there.”
“Stockings? Should girls like you be talking to boys like me about stockings?”
“Well, I don’t know.” She looked out at the cork resting on the water, saw it bob a couple of times, and she lowered her voice to a hair below a whisper so as not to scare the fish. “Maybe girls like me shouldn’t even be fishing with boys like you.”
He gave her a funny look, then glanced back at the water. “You got one.”
He reached toward her as though to help her bring it in, but she jerked her shoulder. “I can do it.”
They fished in silence for the next half hour; him bringing in about six fish and her bringing in about nine. “A fine mess you got there,” he said. “Fine mess.”
“I’ll have Mama fry ’em up in the morning.”
“Good eats.”
She licked her lips, tasted the salt on them, then worried she might have beads of sweat all over her face. She pulled the handkerchief from her belt and patted around her lips with it.
“That’s pretty,” he said.
She looked at him then, allowing her green eyes to meet his blue ones, then discreetly glanced over the sweep of the light brown hair over his forehead, the broad brow and naturally flushed cheekbones. His ears were too small for his head, she reckoned, but his lips were full and . . . She didn’t dare to think beyond that. “My grandma made it for me. See?” She extended the frilly piece of linen toward him, and he took it. “It’s got my initial on it. Right there.” She pointed to the fine lettering in the center of colorful embroidered flowers.
“S,” he read. He looked up at her then, caught her eyes with his, and held them. “You’re pretty; anyone ever tell you that?”
She didn’t answer. Couldn’t really. His was the first male voice other than Papa’s to say those words, and she’d not prepared herself for it.
“You blushing?”
She turned to gather her fishing equipment. “I gotta go. Mama’ll skin me alive if I’m late for ice cream.”
“Y’all are having homemade ice cream tonight?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“My mama makes the best butterscotch in the world.” He paused. “I guess you’d better be going.”
He turned as though nothing had happened, nothing had been said at all, and went back to fishing. She stepped away from him, from the heat of him, and began to trek up the muddy embankment to where the wiregrass grew and a dirt path would lead her home. “Bye,” she called over her shoulder.
“Bye now.”
She’d gone only about ten yards when she heard the sound of footsteps running hard and fast behind her. She stopped and turned and he was there, coming toward her, slowing in his step.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
He stopped just a yard short of her, fought to catch his breath as he extended the off-white embroidered handkerchief as though it were a bouquet of flowers. “You forgot this.”
“Oh.” She blushed again, deciding that it was his fault; had he not told her she was pretty she would have remembered to retrieve it from him. She reached for it, and he took the necessary steps to close the gap between them. Her fingertips brushed along the back of his hand, tanned but not rough like her papa’s. She jerked back as though burned, but he grabbed her hand before she could fully retreat.
“You’re pretty,” he said again, his eyes squinting in the red light of the sun, then leaned over and gave her the swiftest of kisses on her cheek, then her lips, then her brow.
She felt her flesh go to goose bumps and she shivered, hoping he hadn’t noticed either one.
He stared at her for a moment. “I best get back to the pond,” he said, then turned and began to walk away.
“Wait,” she said, and he stopped. She extended the handkerchief toward him. “Keep it. So you can think of me sometime.”
He took the offering, smiled, then turned back for the pond.
She watched him. Just stood there and watched him until he turned back around and said, “I’ll see ya later, Stella.”
“Yeah, maybe so, Valentine,” she called back. She ran the rest of the way home.