Chapter 24
We pulled out of the Kentucky State Fair’s parking lot shortly before nine p.m., the flickering lights of the Ferris wheel and the city fading as Rose drove away. The shine I’d trumpeted some twenty hours earlier had waned, the glum of going back home empty-handed hovered. I turned back once more to catch the pretty sparkly lights, wishing I could never leave.
So far, Rose had been great about not asking why my tobacco didn’t win, or why I hadn’t met her earlier. She was pleased about all of her spoons selling, and chatted about this hawker and that hawker, a drunk pitchman and a sober one, the folks who spent and those who didn’t.
An hour later Rose stopped at a filling station. She had the attendant fill up the tank, then went inside. She returned with Zero candy bars and two Cokes. “Helps with the belly ache.” She guessed at my quietness and shoved one of each into my hand, then swigged her Coke and unwrapped her own candy.
My mouth watered. I guzzled down a big drink of Coke and bit into the candy bar, savoring the white fudge, caramel, and peanut concoction.
When we’d finished, she said, “Sorry ya didn’t win, honey.”
I mumbled, “It’s okay.”
“I waited for you to come by the booth after the awards . . .”
“I’m sorry, Rose, I—I, well, uh, I met Ellen—the girl from Whitesburg and we got to talking—” I half-fudged.
“Nice gal.” She patted my arm. “I had myself a talk with one of the judges. Heard Crockett invoked the time rule.”
“Sure did,” I admitted, red-faced.
“Judge went on to say you grew some mighty fine burley, and you’d surely win next summer. Know what? Next year you might want to enter your drawings, too.”
“They have a spot for art?” I perked.
“Yup, and so do the Zacherys if you want to sell ’em.” She reached over and smoothed down a pucker on my dress.
“It’s a fine dress, Rose.”
“Like the Cinderella slipper. Meant only for you.”
Grateful to have her soft cheer, I sank back into the seat and let the day dissolve. As the automobile sped down the road, I felt myself peeling off the day’s losses.
Rose turned on the radio and lit herself a cigarette. “Keep drawing, kid. There’s money in your art,” she exhaled the affirmation into the smoky air.
Loretta Lynn crooned “Blue Kentucky Girl.” I leaned my face to the window, inhaling the cool breeze. Tuckered, it weren’t no time till the sweet melody and the hum of tires pulled my shoulders in, drooped my head.
When the bouncy mountain road jarred me awake, the big clock on the dash showed it was two in the morning. Ten minutes later Rose pulled into town and braked at the stop sign beside the Shake King.
Surprised, I popped my eyes. Lena Stump loitered in the parking lot wearing a short skirt and an even shorter top, leaning into a man’s automobile window.
Rose gave a disgusted humph and sped off toward Gunnar’s. When she pulled up to the house, she said softly, “Honey, I sure am sorry you’re coming home without that blue ribbon.”
“Had a great time seeing the city, though.”
“I better get, kid. A woman in a booth down from mine ordered eight spoons. I was saving them to have on my wagon this fall, but that’s a lot of cash now. Need to take me a quick nap and then head back to the city.”
I climbed out of the truck and circled to her side and poked my head into the window. “That’s great, Rose, and thanks for taking me and all.” I felt like I’d let her down. I had to fix it.
“See ya soon, honey. Next year your tobacco will win, you’ll see. And your art will, too.” She lightly cupped my chin, before backing up her big automobile. I watched the headlights cut through the fog as she pulled away.
I looked over to the Fords’. Rainey must have heard the automobile, because his porch lit up.
Thoughts of him leaving surfaced and I struggled to push them back.
Weary, I stepped onto my porch. I was surprised to see him waiting up. Gunnar sat in the rocker, sipping a drink. A lantern cast soft yellow bands across him, slipping into slats, licking the porch boards.
“Hey, Gunnar.” I hadn’t realized I’d missed him a little till now. I fumbled with my purse, digging for his present.
Slowly, he stood. “You wore that in Louisville? Baring your knees to menfolk?”
“I did. Nothing wrong with it, Gunnar,” I said, my heart dipping. “Ladies in the city wear these kind of summer dresses. Shorter ones even—”
“Ladies? Throw it in the woodpile,” he spat, “I’m burning it.”
“City folks wear the latest style and—”
“And you don’t live in the city. Get in the tub and soak off those sins before bed.” He plopped back down into the rocker and pulled the glass of bourbon to his lips, dismissing me.
“You’re right ’bout that. I live in Hell,” I muttered under my breath. Defeated, I let his candle cross fall back into my purse.
Upstairs, I bathed, and then hid Rose’s dress, folding it safely on a shelf in the back of the closet. I’d have to clean it when Gunnar didn’t have an eye peeled my way—get it back to her quickly before he got hold of it.
Outside, Rainey played lively notes on his violin, soothing. Soon I felt lighter and rested against the window frame, wishing I could see him. Wishing for bigger things back in the city. Pictures of the man and woman in the photograph booth sparked thoughts as Rainey’s words played my heart. Man shouldn’t have to face the world without some sort of good-luck charm and a good woman’s promise.
That was the least I could do for him . . . If I didn’t have anything else, I had my promise. A promise for a soldier who might never come home.
In the fatness of the small hours before dawn, I pulled out a piece of tobacco paper from my desk drawer, gathered my pens and pencils, and leaned into the lamplight.
Quietly, I stared at the vase of drooping daisies in front of me and plucked through confusing thoughts. I scrawled, “Kiss Me. Kiss Me Not,” across the blank page, testing. I wadded it up, snatched a clean page, and then carefully penned the words to the fortune in my best penmanship.
“Kiss Me. Kiss Me Not, Rainey,” I said it seven times, too, then couldn’t help but giggle, knowing my paper fortunes were about as silly as believing the truths of a daisy. But they were pretty, and an easier way for me to say things that I sometimes couldn’t. It was a promise, too. A fullness. And it would lead us to what the other needed as sure as the Tiger Swallowtail flies to its mountain meadows.
Neatly, I folded the tobacco paper counterclockwise, crimped and pressed seams. Crimped and pressed some more. Then I wrote my declaration again. Several times I stopped and flexed my trembling hands.
Satisfied, I placed the fortune with Mama’s inside her purse and set it on the windowsill, hoping for a favorable slice of moon, a lover’s blessing, and a good curing.
I lay in bed listening to Rainey play his violin. Long, fragile notes stretched into the summer night. Rainey quivered the ghosted melody “In the Pines,” snagging the stars.
Little girl, little girl, don’t lie to me
Tell me where did you sleep last night?
In the pines, in the pines
Where the sun never shines
And shivered when the cold wind blows
“ ‘Tell me where did you sleep . . .’ ” Rainey warbled low and lonesome.
“ ‘In the pines, in the pines, I stayed in the pines,’ ” I hummed along softly, my eyes fixed to Mama’s purse on the sill.