Jodi

NEARLY STARVED IN THE YARD

Coming up, I used to eat so many carrots my skin turned right orange. I’d run on out into the field behind Grandma’s, yank one of them green stems, and crunch away. Then, one day, I got to where I no more liked eatin’ carrots than my momma liked cleanin’ the trailer. Crunchin’ on ’em hurt my teeth, the taste turned my stomach inside out, and that fresh-from-the-ground craving quit real quick.

The same thing when I was pregnant with you, only, praise the Lord Jesus, it were booze I quit wantin’ so hard. That psycho lady the state made me go talk at once a week said, “Jodi, you don’t want to drink because drinking is the coping mechanism you use when you want to run away. Somewhere, deep down inside yourself, you don’t want to run away from this pregnancy.”

More like not craving that drink deep down in my soul was the bone God finally threw me even though He’d kept me right thirsty and nearly starved in the yard for years.

When you’re poor like me and you come up in a small town like Kinston, people, they want to help you. The church Momma got herself to when she was sober—the one that been praying hard for her all along—they brung over a whole mess a’ stuff for you.

That sweet old pastor, I wouldn’t never in a million years have taken a handout from him. So it was Buddy, who been working on the farm for Graham long as I known him, that came a-knockin’ at my door with two big black trash bags flung over his shoulders.

“Who is it?” I hollered.

In the ignition crank before he answered back, I thought the damn craziest thing: It was Ricky. He was comin’ to wrap me up sweet and kiss me hard and tell me the only thing a girl wants to hear: “Baby, I’ve changed. Let’s make things right for our youngen.”

And, oh my Lord, I had longed for him to come back like a farm boy pines for his first hunting puppy. But I wouldn’t let on. No. I’d act like maybe I’d be a little interested.

When the voice said, “It’s Buddy,” I was still going on in my head like it were Ricky gonna be answering me. The mind is one tricky vehicle when it gets going good down a dirt road with a dead end.

I hauled myself up off the couch where I’d been napping all day. I still got to feeling every now and then like I should be working. But it’s like how that old oak tree at the trailer park must’ve felt like the swing wrapped around its branches had always been there. We all just got to learn to adjust.

Buddy dumped them giant black yard bags on the floor between the kitchen and family room with a thud like a pair a’ work boots going off over the side of the bed.

“What’s that?”

He shrugged. “Just a bunch a’ old junk the church sent over. I brought it in trash bags ’cause half of it will probably be going straight to the Dumpster anyhow.”

I sat down on my knees. My mind wandered to this yoga lady I flipped by on the TV earlier that mornin’. She said this sittin’ on your knees’ll make you be able to digest so good you can eat rocks. I said to the TV, like she could hear me, “I don’t care how thick a accent you got, lady, I ain’t buyin’ that nobody can eat rocks.”

I got to pulling things outta that bag, and I wasn’t trying to look happy or nothing, but I held a beautiful soft white cotton dress with a tiny pink bow right to my chest like it were a baby its own self.

I kept on pulling mess out, and I got to realizing that them clothes, they were all new. I wadded them all back in the bag, scooted it across the floor, and stood up, wiping my hands on my maternity leggings.

“I don’t need no handout from your church.”

Buddy crossed his arms. “You got some sort of baby fund stored up?”

I peered right hard at Buddy, knowing that he was as straight a shooter as I’d ever run across.

I went to get a glass of water and said, “I don’t think that’s any of your dern business.”

Buddy knew well as he knew how to drive a cotton picker I didn’t have no baby money stashed away.

He followed me into the kitchen and said, “I think it would be nice if you would offer me a cold cup of water too.”

“This one’s for you,” I said, shoving it at him all annoyed like. I darn near forgot about my condition for a minute, feeling that heat rising up my spine when our hands met. That was one damn fine-looking cowboy on my green linoleum.

“So how’s you giving me a cup a’ water that you don’t need any different than the church folks giving you some old stuff they don’t need.”

I didn’t realize Buddy was talkin’ ’bout scripture or I would’ve acted nicer. “I ain’t taking no handout even if I do think it’s a nice thing them people’s doin’.”

Buddy sat down on the couch and said, “Instead of being so self-righteous and acting like you don’t need nobody, why don’t you write a thank-you note and call it a day?” He pointed over at them bags. “I’m sure as hell not carrying all that stuff back over there, and I doubt you can do it in your condition.”

I looked down at my belly, remembering that we wasn’t just flirting here. I was knocked up, poor, and all alone.

“Fine,” I said. “Motherhood’s making me soft,” I muttered.

Buddy laughed.

I was giving up pretty easy mostly ’cause any fool could see I worried about how I was gonna get all that baby stuff all day long.

“You know you can come to church any time you want to,” he said. “It’s a nice group a’ folks, and we’d sure be happy to have you.”

I nodded. But it was one of them times that life had got me down so hard I weren’t sure God even remembered my name. “So that why you came over here?” I asked. “You trying to get somebody new in your church?”

I was baiting, but that Buddy, he weren’t biting, not one bit.

“If you ever want to come,” he said, “just let Graham or Khaki know.” He tipped his hat before turning around. “They’ll get word to me.”

I couldn’t keep from watching his tight backside in a pair of worn Levi’s stroll out my door. Much as I thought Jesus had forgotten about me, sometimes a slow smile from a real cowboy is all it takes to make a girl a believer.