RETURNING THE STEWPOT
Daddy’s days got better, and he split firewood and helped keep the fires going, so’s I had time to keep house.
At mealtimes, we talked about Mama, both of us grieving her at long last. Even though I didn’t remember her, I felt I was finally laying her to rest in my mind.
We finished off Miz Shortwell’s stew on Wednesday, and I scrubbed her stewpot clean. I reckoned I’d return it to her on Thursday.
Daddy’s nights got quieter, but I still had trouble sleeping all alone. I lay awake and thunk on things.
I thunk about Raynelle and Blissie. And Mama. And Pick. I thunk about the neighborliness of folks who brung us food in our hardest of Hard Times. Not ever’body looked down on us.
The Shortwells had been friends as far back as I could recall—and even further’n that. Pick and Norris had wore a path betwixt our old house and the Shortwell shanty long ago. From them keeping Pick when I was sick to Norris fetching me home the day I went to Harlan, they done good turns for us. I recollected that day Norris brung me home in Mr. Putney’s truck. And that day on the cemetery road when he seemed so proud that Mr. Putney let him use his truck sometimes.
Mr. Putney’s truck!
I set straight up in bed, my eyes wide open in the dark room. Did Norris have the truck that day Pick disappeared back in July? Had Norris drove Pick to wherever Pick went? Them two was closer’n two baby possums in their mama’s pouch. It had to be.
My eyes adjusted to the dark, and I stared at the window, not seeing it. Did Norris know where Pick was all this time? And not told me? I wanted to git out’a bed and go to his house and throttle the truth out’a him.
I knew I had to wait until morning, but there was no way I could fall asleep.
Next morning, I was up and dressed afore Daddy come from his room to wash up at the sink.
“I need to fetch Miz Shortwell’s stewpot to her,” I said, heading towards the door.
“It’s too early,” Daddy said. “Wait till after breakfast.”
How could I wait?
We had no hominy and no eggs, so I set a jar of blackberry jam and a couple slices of Miz Fraley’s bread on the table betwixt me and Daddy. I could barely chew, but Daddy didn’t seem to notice.
I toted our dishes and knife to the sink. “I’ll wash the dishes when I git back from returning the stewpot,” I told Daddy.
When Miz Shortwell opened the door, I thanked her for the stew. Afore she could close the door, I said, “T’other day ya said I ought’a come by and visit Norris. Is he home?”
“He’s milking the goat round back.”
I slipped around their house to the shed and poked my head in the door. “Hey, Norris.”
“Adabel, what brings ya here?”
I stepped inside the shed. “I was wondering how far back ya been using Mr. Putney’s truck.”
The look on his face was like a critter caught in a trap.
I moved closer to him. “Was ya using it back in July?”
He didn’t look up, didn’t say a word. I took that for my answer.