Chapter 22
Faith, practice, and patience, the words juggled into air, squeezing.
The old judge looked at Cash, then back to me, nodded and scribbled something down on his paper. He lifted his pen and pointed. “1004. Step up here, 1004 . . . Yes, you, Miss Bishop.”
I blinked and climbed out of the cloud of Emma’s words.
“Miss Bishop,” the older judge with a white bow tie said, “is this your plant in the Pepsi container?”
“Yessir.”
“A fine plant you got here, ain’t it, Tom?”
Tom, the judge with a long droopy mustache, wearing a green bow tie, murmured a soft “yessir.”
A sappy smile weighted my cheekbones. Faith . . .
Cash shifted and pinned angry eyes to mine.
I set my mouth tight and looked away.
“Yessiree,” the judge in the white bow tie said, “you got yourself a fine plant there, miss. Must’ve taken a lot of work and years to learn this fine a’planting.”
Practice. I drew myself up taller, mumbled a shy thank you.
“Yessiree,” he said again, “lotta patience to grow burley this good . . . Admirable, young lady. . . .”
Patience. Patience. Patience. I felt myself bursting—my toes wiggling, stretching—my fingers tap, tap, tapping the rose.
“I say the blue goes to Miss Bishop, this year.” He grinned. “Whatta ya say, boys?”
Judge Tom nodded. “I say that’s exactly right, sir!”
I couldn’t help but nod, too.
Then Cash slowly wagged his head, stepped forward with a tiny book, and laid it on the judge’s clipboard. “Page three,” he said, cutting me a sharp look and taking a badge from his back pocket.
His eyes never left mine as he pinned it onto his shirt.
C. CROCKETT—AG JUDGE, it read.
Judge. A breath caught in my throat. Oh . . . he’s an Ag judge . . .
“Page three? What’s this, Crockett?” the judge asked.
“The deadline, Judge.” Cash thumped the book. “Girl done missed her exhibit deadline.”
“Hmm?” the two judges grunted.
“Page three states that all exhibits must be on the fairgrounds and tagged by six a.m. August eighteenth, to be eligible to show for judging and any awarding of a ribbon and cash prize . . . She didn’t get it in till midmorning,” Crockett rattled. “Late.”
Sweat circled my neck, dampened my chest. “Wonder what your judges will say about your timing, young lady . . .” the lady at the entry table had said.
The crowd of boys scooted over to the judges, murmuring, craning to glimpse the handbook.
“See here, Crockett,” the older judge said, pointing to my plant, “this is the best burley I’ve seen in years. Right, Tom?” He slipped a finger under his bow tie, stretching the collar, angling his reddening neck toward the ceiling.
“Indeed it is,” Judge Tom affirmed, adjusting his spectacles. “In my twenty years, ain’t never had the rule invoked.” Big-eyed, he glanced at Cash. “Yessir, best burley this building’s seen in quite a while.”
“Says right there in them rules, it ain’t,” Crockett spat. “Unless you want me to go get Mr. Harlinger to explain his official rules . . .”
From behind me, a boy said, “Had my entry in ’fore first light. Don’t seem t’all fair.”
Another grumbled, “Mine’s been rotting in this stuffy building since Saturday morning.”
And another, “Two long days without sunlight for my plant. Made two trips for it, too. Tain’t a bit right.”
I looked down at my rose, its crimson head shaking, tapping faster and faster against my side, petals falling.
“Here now, boys!” the older judge hushed. “I’ll be the judge of what’s fair! Pauline! Pauline, over here,” the judge barked, motioning across the room to the woman at the entry table.
Pauline jumped up from her seat, straightened her skirt, and hurried over to the judge. “Yes, Judge?”
“What time did you sign this gal in? 1004 here?”
My knees banged along with my heart so loudly that I thought folks might hear the clanging.
She pinched her lips, looked at me kind of pitifully, and that’s when I knew she would remember the exact second.
“It was 10:04, sir . . . today, Judge . . . four hours and four minutes late,” she said, darting her eyes at my tag before dropping her lids.
Ten o four. Mon 1004. I sucked in a breath, pressed my hand over the badge. She’d assigned the time to reflect my late arrival.
“Ten o four?” he called back.
Pauline touched his sleeve. “You know how it is, sir . . . some of these . . . these hill people can’t even read or write, so I, well—”
Drifts of boyish snickers punched the canned air.
Shame filled up and rumbled inside me. I lowered my head.
“Very well, Pauline, that’s all,” the judge grimaced.
Pauline gave a curt nod and left.
Cash tucked teeth over a tight grin, crossed his arms.
The older judge huddled close to whisper to Judge Tom.
After a few seconds the two men parted.
Judge Tom took out a white hankie from his back pocket and wiped his forehead. Then he stuffed it back, pulled out a blue ribbon from the stack fastened to his clipboard, and cleared his throat. “First Place. 2322. Franklin.”
Faith withered.
Cash raised a smug brow.
“1805. Leakman. Second Place,” Judge Tom announced, and held up a red ribbon.
I pulled off my badge, then crumpled and tossed it to the floor.
“And it’s 1123, Tim Dooley, for Third Place.” The judge dangled the yellow ribbon.
The room tilted a little, my ears roared. Stepping away, I felt Cash’s hand land on my shoulder. “Ain’t so royal now,” he whispered thickly.
“Sprocket mouth,” I shot back, knocking his hand off, blindly making my way to the ladies’ room.
I don’t know how long I stood there in the tiny stall, my breakfast and dinner swirling, disappearing down the toilet. Cussin’ and a’fussin’ the Crocketts. Spent, I sagged against the door, wiped my face with tissue, gulping down dry air.
A light knock startled me.
“RubyLyn,” a soft voice called. “It’s me, Ellen. Saw you come in, but when I didn’t see you come out, I got worried. You okay?”
I found my tongue and gave a wobbly “fine,” then opened the door and stepped out.
“That’s good,” she said, looking me over. “Saw you passing me, looking peaked.”
“My dinner,” I fibbed, “didn’t set right.” I touched my clammy forehead.
“Want me to go find your mama for you?”
“Mama . . . ? No, no. I’m okay.” I tried to smile.
“Okay, if you’re sure.” She patted my shoulder. “Sure is a pretty rose,” she said, noting the flower in my hand.
“Yeah, and thanks, I’ll be better in a bit.” I set the rose and my purse down on the seat beside the sinks, straightened the collar on my dress.
“Hey, won me a blue ribbon with my knitting.” She pointed to her chest. “How’d your tobacco do?”
She’d been late like me, but I was glad she won. Shaky, I said, “That’s real nice, Ellen. I—”
“Ellen, Ellen,” a woman’s voice floated in, hovering. “There you are, sweetie! Say good-bye to your friend, we’re leaving for supper.”
“Well, hope you feel better. Bye, RubyLyn,” she said, smiling. “Maybe I’ll see you around before we go home.”
I nodded and offered another wobbly smile.
At the door, her mama straightened her pinned ribbon. Then the woman bent down to kiss her daughter’s cheek. Beaming, they locked arms together and left.
Wasn’t a day that went by that I didn’t miss her. But standing here alone in this big echo-slapping building, I missed Mama worse than ever. I closed my eyes and felt the tears pressing, piling on the years of loss and loneliness.
Clutching a fist to my chest, I pounded back the low chirp of Patsy’s song, striking once urgently, twice, and a third more fiercely.
A black cleaning woman wearing a starched gray dress and heavy black shoes walked in with a stack of paper towels, pulling me out of my misery. Silently, she offered me one before stuffing them inside the hanging box. Grateful, I took it and wiped my nose. I noticed she had the same coloring as Rainey. Pinching another glance at me, she toweled the water off the sinks and left.
Thoughts of Rainey leaving me alone in Nameless pushed in, crowding. I picked up the rose, clenched it in a fist. Wincing, I flexed my fingers, loosened, tightened.
The petals and stem fell, littered the floor. My fever’d palm smarted, scratched, and blood-specked from the thorns—my chest aching from the thrashing.