June stood with both hands in the ice chest gazing out the front windows of the Crossroads Store. She marveled at the way the late afternoon sun glinted off the shiny black rump of a mare hitched to a travelling cart. She pulled one hand out of the ice and swept it across her brow, letting it rest on the back of her neck. The rickety fan in the shop could not compete with the heat of the day and it wasn’t much cooler inside than it was out.
She forced herself to keep the other hand submerged, despite a wicked burning sensation that crept into her knuckles and settled there, stubborn as a toothache. Debilitating. She’d spent the better part of the previous day elbow deep in a bucket of lye, trying to scrub her one dress clean for market day. Now those raw knuckles were twice-burned and the irony wasn’t lost on her. June winced but put the other hand back in the cooler, waiting for it to reach the same state of numbness as its mate.
“Where you headed Father?”
June spun around to see a tall stick of a man in a black suit standing at the counter. From the back she could not see his face, but she noticed his neck flushed with the July heat – its mottled patches creeping up into a close-cut thatch of white-blond hair that disappeared under a lopsided fedora. She knew this wasn’t Stevie, the clerk’s, father – Stevie’s father was a short, round man who owned the Crossroads Store and made sure everyone knew it. Since he’d put in a gasoline pump he was even worse – bragging about how all the motorcars would have to stop here to fill up. But they had been few and far between.
The thin stranger replied, but June couldn’t make out his answer. She lifted her nearly lifeless hands out of the ice along with two bottles of Coke. She had to hug their cold hardness into her belly to keep from dropping them and she could feel the condensation through her cotton shift. The chill revived her as she walked up to the cash register to stand beside the man in black.
“Hey Stevie.”
“Hey June.”
Stevie packed the man’s purchases in a paper sack – a can of pork and beans, peanuts, beef jerky, some tobacco and a Cheerwine. June looked the man straight in the face and his eyes were so blue, she almost missed the scrap of white collar protruding from his black shirt.
“Howdy miss.” He nodded at her and turned to leave.
“Where you headed Father?” June parroted Stevie’s question like a trained bird.
“Down south – taking up a parish in Lumberton.”
“Oh – that’s not too far from me – I’d be glad to show you the way if I can catch a ride. That your horse and buggy out there? I’ll take you back roads – you’ll be less likely to run into motorcars.”
“Well . . . I’ve got a schedule to keep and I’m late as it is.”
“I won’t hold you up. Stevie?” Stevie popped both bottle tops and waved June out of the shop. He had a soft spot for her and she knew it. Enamored. He was always good for a free soda or a handful of fireballs when his Dad wasn’t around.
“Just got to get my Grandpa and Scout – won’t be a minute.”
The tall man strode to his wagon, stowed his purchases in back and was up on the seat before June could rouse her grandfather from his spot in the shade. She called out to the traveler.
“Please sir – it’s so hot and we’ve been standing all day at our market table. Sure would appreciate the ride – Grandpa here’s plumb worn out.” The old man wobbled on June’s arm while a scrawny coonhound nipped at his heels.
June saw the Father drop his shoulders in resignation and set down the reins. The horse whinnied and scraped a hoof through the dust.
“Hold on Delilah. Hold on.”
He got down from the driver’s seat and came around to the back of the wagon where he let down a set of steps. Then he reached for June’s grandpa and helped him up.
“That cur yours?”
“That’s Scout – she’s no trouble.”
The dog skittered up the steps and settled down beside the old man, eyeing the stranger warily. She let out a warning grumble as she curled up between a small Army trunk and a bulging canvas sack. Grandpa nodded his thanks at the man, shut his eyes and promptly fell asleep.
The Father returned to the driver’s seat to find June sitting on the bench, a satchel between her feet on the floor. She held two sweaty bottles of Coke.
“Forgot to give this to Grandpa – want it?”
“No thank you, I don’t take sweets.”
Abstemious. June shrugged and chugged one of the sodas in a single gulp. She drew the back of her palm across her mouth and licked her lips. Then she turned around and placed the empty bottle in the open cart, where it proceeded to make a tinkling nose every time the wagon hit a pothole. The extra soda she wedged between her legs, carefully holding it upright so it wouldn’t spill. She felt the damp coldness on her inner thighs and smiled to herself.
The Father watched June with a mixture of trepidation and titillation. Her yellow cotton dress was spotless, but thin and he could just make out the shadow of her bra beneath it. As she turned around he caught a flash of peachy skin between her budding breasts. When she placed the soda bottle in her lap he forced himself to look away and slapped the reins on the horse’s sleek rump.
“Hup Delilah. Giddyup.”
June was lost in thought as the journey began. She’d always been fond of teachers and here was a preacher – the best kind of teacher there was. And driving her preferred form of transportation too. Serendipity. She couldn’t believe her luck and it wasn’t even her birthday – not for another two weeks. Her mother thought it was funny naming her June when she was born in July. Her mother’s sense of humor was legendary, though it was not among the things June had inherited. June was turning 14 later in the month, but you wouldn’t know it to look at her. She was tiny, “no bigger than a tea cup” her grandma used to say. She was born too early and never did catch up. She still wore her sandy hair in two long pigtails and hadn’t had new clothes in a couple years, both of which gave her the appearance of a girl no older than 12.
June loved teachers because they had so many words. In school she was mesmerized by everything her teacher said – all the words on all different topics – history and science and geography and even math. The wonderful words for what you could do with numbers surprised her. But best of all were the books full of stories – they read all kinds of stories about faraway places, oceans and deserts, knights and battles, queens and princesses, witches and spells, good girls and bad boys and lions and tigers and bears.
Her teacher let June bring home a book from school and she could get another one when she finished. She’d trade one she read for a new one, until she’d exhausted the school’s collection. Then the teacher started lending June her own books, which made June nervous – she was worried she’d spill something on the book or that Scout would get hold of it and chew it up. The thought of the words being torn apart was dreadful to her.
Since she was a child, June had been fascinated by words. As a baby, she’d babble away, imitating what she heard. She loved to watch her parents play Scrabble – they talked about words as they played and June listened. Her Pa was known for making up a word when her Ma was winning and he got desperate. Sometimes they let her play too. June loved those little squares – smooth and neat with their sharp black letters that each stood for a sound. They seemed to hold such possibilities with their endless combinations. She pictured the letters arranging and re-arranging in her mind to form words and tasted them on her tongue as they appeared.
Her parents had shelves full of books and June remembered her Ma reading to her each night. They’d snuggle up under the covers and travel together to imaginary places. Pa loved to read the newspaper and he let June look at the comics. As a child, she’d made up stories to go along with the pictures. When her parents passed, times were tight and her grandparents had to sell off most of the family’s belongings – anything that wasn’t strictly necessary for daily life. This included the books and Scrabble. As they packed up the game, June secretly pocketed a J, a U, an N, and an E from the box. She kept them lined up on her dresser and made sure they were nice and neat each night before going to sleep. Now the bookshelves were empty except for Grandma’s old tea cups, which Grandpa couldn’t bear to part with after her death, and the books June borrowed. Books were not supposed to leave the school, but the teacher took pity on June since she’d lived through so much tragedy at a young age. Excruciating.
“You don’t have a motorcar?”
“Nope.”
“Wouldn’t that be faster for getting where you’re going?”
“Probably.” The Father seemed to June a man of few words.
She took a long swig of soda, grimacing at its lukewarm temperature.
“Your knuckles are so red – you been boxing bare handed?” The Father eyed June’s hands with one white eyebrow raised.
Inquisitive. “No Sir. Just doing wash and digging in the garden. Honest work.”
“Honest work, indeed.”
June caught what she assumed was supposed to be a smile, but looked more like a sneer. Father’s lips were curled back so his yellowed teeth gaped from his mouth like their old mule’s. June stowed the empty Coke bottle in the back with the first, then tucked her hands under her legs.
“I saw you buy that Cheerwine.”
“Yes. What of it?”
“You said you don’t take sweets.”
“That’s for my digestion – after dinner. Got a poor constitution from all my travelling.”
“You’re a preacher, that right?”
“Uh. Yes – Father Lyman.”
“Nice to meet you, I’m June. June Carson. That’s my grandpa and my dog Scout. We’ve just been selling our produce at the market. We go every Saturday.”
“How was business?”
“Oh fine, fine. Got a bunch of money I’m bringing back home. Saving up for something big.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“Can’t tell – it’s a secret.”
As the cart rattled over the gravel road, Father Lyman saw June’s bag shift and a wad of bills spill out.
“Uh – miss?” he jerked his head in that direction and June followed his glance.
“Oh dear.” She reached between her legs and stuffed the cash back into the satchel.
The Father’s eyes went to the back of her head where her crooked part zigzagged in a creamy line through her golden-brown hair. He imagined her mother standing behind her fixing her hair that morning – the silky strands slipping through expert fingers to make two even plaits. But no self-respecting mother would settle for a crooked part. He thought about it more directly, remembering his own mother working on his sister Sara’s hair so long ago. No. No mother would have her daughter go out in public without a perfectly straight part. Sara’s was always arrow straight and smooth as a wet duck’s feathers. Now that he was looking closely he could see that June’s braids were slightly uneven, as a result of the crooked part. Crooked part meant no mother to do her hair, poor child.
“Your Ma and Pa at home?”
June looked up at the clouds before answering. “Yes sir – Ma’s fixing Saturday supper.”
So, he was wrong. Maybe her mother was one of those women who was too busy for her daughter, or worse, jealous of her looks and threatened by her beauty. June was beautiful, or would be. She was still a child, he reminded himself, couldn’t be more than 12 or 13. Her knee still showed the scar of youthful adventures. He could picture her falling out of a tree that she’d scrambled up to pick an apple – red and rosy as her cheeks were now.
“You always want to be a preacher?”
June’s question brought Father Lyman abruptly back to the cart, where the girl sat uncomfortably close to him.
“Yes, I felt a calling at a young age. The Lord spoke to me.”
June nodded as she watched the fields go by. A clump of cedar trees in the distance squatted dark green in a yellow meadow. The shade beckoned.
“You folks churchgoing people?”
“Of course.” June scoffed. Scratching her leg, she added, “We go to Cedar Grove Methodist every Sunday.”
“That around here?”
“Over yonder.” June gestured off to the right of the road.
“Well, I’ll be starting at Mt. Gilead church outside Lumberton next week.”
A bee buzzed by June’s head and she swatted at it. It circled around Delilah’s hindquarters and June leaned forward to shoo it away. She took the opportunity to stretch her left leg. Father willed himself not to look at the girl’s petite frame from the back as she half stood. Eyes on the road, he steadied the horse and scolded the child.
“Ho there Delilah. Watch yourself girl, you’re lurching the wagon.”
June ignored his words.
“You say the Lord spoke to you?”
“Hmmm?”
“Why you became a preacher.”
“Oh yes, well.”
“So what words did he use? And what did it feel like when it happened?”
Father Lyman looked confused. June waited patiently, eagerly for his answer. She was ready to memorize the words that came from the mouth of God.
“Can’t rightly say. I just knew it was for me.”
Obscure, thought June.
“I sure wish he’d speak to me. I bet he uses beautiful words. Words that sound like the sea or like wind across dry grass.”
She waited again for his reply, but in vain. She tried once more.
“Isn’t it hard to know he’s there when he’s so quiet?”
“That’s called faith girl, and if you have to ask, you probably don’t have any. Mr. Carson – you doing alright back there?”
There was no answer from the back of the wagon. June turned to see her grandfather slumped with his head resting on the sack and Scout spread across his lap.
“Say, I know a spring out this way – just beyond the field. We should stop and take a break in the shade.”
“Well, I’ve got to be in Lumberton . . .”
“Look – Delilah’s flanks are all frothy. She could use a rest and some cool water.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“Turn left off this road – just ahead.”
Father Lyman steered the cart onto a rutted lane where two dirt tracks were barely winning the battle with advancing weeds. In a few hundred yards they entered a stand of pine trees towering high above. Copper needles covered the ground like a rusty carpet and the temperature was a good ten degrees cooler. It was like a cathedral – silent and still with only birdsong and toad trills in the air. Sunbeams slanted through the trees, cut into strips that glimmered on the surface of a small pond made by the spring.
Oasis. June tasted the word on her tongue as she thought about the cool spring water.
Father stopped the cart near the edge of the pond and unhooked Delilah. He led her to the spring and wrapped the reins around one of the rocks on the shore. Then he settled himself on the grass, using the rock as a bolster.
June stepped down carefully, sore and stiff. Her bad leg throbbed from the wagon’s jolting movement over stones in the road. She limped to the back to get her grandfather and as she walked beside the cart, she saw that Scout had nudged open the footlocker and was rooting around with her snout.
“Scout, stop it.” June let down the steps and climbed into the back, elbowing the dog out of the way. She looked into the trunk and saw stacks of books, all the same shape and size, with matching black covers. She reached in and lifted one out. The cover was pebbly like a snakeskin she’d once found just after its owner had outgrown it. She read the golden letters glowing on the black background: Holy Bible. She pulled another book out – it was the same. They were all the same. She riffled the tissue-thin pages and saw that each page was stuffed with words. So many words. Abundance.
“You coming to take the water?” Father’s voice startled June. She wondered why he had all these Bibles. The church he was going to was no doubt already equipped with the most important tool for worship. She put the books back in their place and closed the lid.
Then she shooed Scout out of the cart and roused her Grandpa. She helped him down the steps and across the clearing. She felt the stranger’s eyes on her as she moved gingerly under the old man’s weight. She set him on a bed of moss under a tall dogwood.
Father Lyman regarded June and her Grandpa out of the corner of his eye. He hadn’t noticed before that the girl was lame. She walked with a clear lurch, nearly stumbling as she helped her grandfather to a seat in the shade. Poor child.
“Mr. Carson, that ought to feel good. A quiet spot where you’re not getting thrown about. The back of that wagon must be mighty uncomfortable.” He got no response from the old man.
After Grandpa was settled, June grabbed the empty Coke bottles from the cart and took them to the spring to fill them. She gave one to her grandfather and drank from the other herself. She noticed that Father had taken off his shoes and socks and was cooling his feet in the pond.
“Good idea” she said, and she did the same.
From her seat by the pond, June saw that Scout had plopped down in the shade beside Grandpa and was chewing on something. At first, she thought it was a stick, but then she caught a flash of blue – a bird? Father Lyman had taken out a pouch of tobacco and rolled himself a cigarette. He was contentedly puffing, leaned back with his hat angled down over his eyes. His toes kicked up little splashes of water. June went over to Scout and stuffed her hand in between the dog’s jaws. She gripped something hard – not a bird. She pulled it out and turned it over in her palm. It was a small rectangular notebook with a blue cover and a tiny pencil stuffed into the spine. June opened the cover and saw that it was a book of receipts with perforated pages. The first few pages only had the stubs, printed with dates and names and the same amount: $3.50. Exorbitant. Most of the notebook was still unused. Looking at the first stub she noticed a name at the bottom, scrawled in messy writing, and smudged now from being in Scout’s mouth. She could just make it out: Humbert Lyman. June crept to the wagon and stuffed the receipt book into her satchel. She grabbed out a couple of apples and tied the pack up tight.
Mrs. Archer in the market stall next to theirs often gave June the few remaining fruits that no one had purchased. Today she’d offered two apples, Arkansas Blacks, nearly as dark as plums, a pear and a few sweet potatoes. The fruit was slightly bruised and the potatoes pitted with eyes that scared customers off – but they were still edible.
“Apple?” she gestured with one arm to Father Lyman, but he was lost in his own world and didn’t answer. She flattened her palm and offered it to Delilah, who eagerly snatched it up with a snort of pleasure. Her bristly nose hairs and warm breath tickled June’s skin. June clicked her tongue quietly and rubbed the horse’s forehead, which was patterned with a white star.
“You’ll never get rid of her now. She’s spoiled rotten that one.” Father Lyman spoke from beneath his hat – apparently, he’d been listening.
“She’s had a tough day in the sun hauling us around – a treat can’t hurt. She deserves it.”
“Just like a lady, eh Carson – you know the type – always wanting sweets. I bet you’ve managed some horses in your time, and some ladies too.” The preacher chuckled lewdly. Grandpa was silent.
Delilah nuzzled into June’s neck, only proving Father’s point. June crunched her own apple.
“You know Eve’s apple was the downfall of mankind. The apple is the earthly manifestation of sin – picked by a woman. Ain’t that right, Carson?”
Preposterous. The word popped unbidden into June’s head before she could stop it.
“You’re forgetting that Adam and the snake had something to do with it.” She had her back to him, but she thought she heard the Father snort, although it could have been a frog. “I like to think that Eve was doing her part to forage for food. What was Adam doing? Reclining in the shade?”
The man in black straightened at this and shifted his hat back onto his head. June hadn’t meant for her remark to hit so close to home.
“She let the serpent tempt her. She fell for his tricks. She was weak. Carson – what is that church of yours teaching this girl?”
Still Grandpa gave no reply.
Misogynist.
Having made his point, Father leaned back against the rock again and resumed his nap. June went to get the Coke bottle from Grandpa to refill it. He smiled up at her and nodded his thanks. She skirted the edge of the pond and crouched down across from Father Lyman. From that angle she could see a strip of bare chest – he’d taken off his collar and unbuttoned the first few buttons of his shirt. But what June could see of his chest wasn’t bare – up near the base of his neck was a dark shape with some words below it. She put one foot into the pond to lean closer. The mucky bottom squished between her toes. Obscene. Now she could see that the shape was a crudely-drawn dagger and the words curved around its blade read “Romans 12:19.” She pulled her foot out of the sucking mud and as it squelched, it released a foul odor of decay.
June was familiar with body ink – some of the farmhands at the market were inked with the name of a girl or a rose. But she hadn’t expected to see one on a man of God. Peculiar. She rolled the word around her lips as she rinsed off her foot and re-filled the bottle. She brought it to her grandfather, who had dozed off. She sat down beside him and regarded Father Lyman from behind. The delicate skin on the back of his neck with its pinkish hue and fine light hair reminded June of nothing so much as a baby pig. When her parents were alive they had a pair of hogs which they raised for meat to sell. As a little girl, June had taken one of the piglets from its mother and kept it in her room for a week, feeding it milk from a bottle and bedding it down in the bottom drawer of her dresser, among her seldom-worn flannels. She remembered snuggling that pig in her arms and feeling its fine hairs poke her bare arms – just a little tickle. But then her Ma had discovered the theft and returned the piglet to the barn, where June watched it grow up to become one of her father’s famous sausages.
“We best be moving on now.” Lyman roused himself and packed everyone back into the cart. Delilah resumed the journey as the sun glinted at the edge of the horizon. Back on the main road, the ruts bounced the cart around and June rubbed her knee. A loud grinding pierced the thick air and out of nowhere a massive black automobile zoomed up behind them. June turned and was blinded by its shiny chrome jaws advancing toward her, its maw ready to swallow her up. At the last moment, the driver swerved around them, startling Lyman so that he jerked the reins and Delilah stumbled into the ditch. June felt her heart racing and her throat tighten. Beelzebub. They sat in the dip as the dust from the road settled around them. At the edge of the ditch June spied a flattened rabbit, the victim of some other crazy driver, most likely at night. It lay on its side, ears and legs curled up. It might have been resting except its body was flat as a pancake and tinged with brown-red blood. She could make out tread marks from a thick tire stamped across its fur. Motorcars were nothing but metal monsters belching smoke and fumes. Her Ma had never wanted one, but her Pa insisted it would be a mark of his success.
Lyman straightened his hat and eased Delilah back onto the road, glancing first in both directions. He muttered a few indistinguishable words under his breath.
“Where do our souls go when we die? You ever think about it?” Demise.
“Huh?”
“Our soul – it’s separate from our body, right? So where does it go? Bodies get buried in the ground but I don’t think souls do. Souls can roam.”
“Roam?”
“Yeah – move around, maybe visit the people that were left behind.” June paused to collect her thoughts. “Ever wonder why some people die – I mean before they’re old?”
Lyman felt his throat go dry while his eyes got moist. He saw Sara lying in her bed – thin and drawn – dwarfed by the pillows. The quilt she’d made herself out of scraps of old dresses a colorful rebuke to her pallor. He hastily wiped a tear from his cheek.
“Well, people get sick.” The words came out harsher than he intended, nearly a grunt.
“No, I mean when they’re not old and they’re not sick – like an accident of some kind. My aunt and uncle died in an automobile accident. Why does God let something like that happen?” Debilitating. She’d already used that one today. Words whirled in her brain slamming into each other like bumper cars. Torturous. June fought back her tears, focusing on the feel of the word in her mouth. She pressed her lips together, waiting for the preacher’s words of comfort.
They didn’t come.
Delilah’s clop-clopping on the gravel rang in June’s ears. Her stomach burbled as its acids digested the apple. The small snack had only stirred her appetite. Her leg throbbed. Vexation. She squinted her eyes shut and saw the butter yellow kitchen where her mother stood in a flowered and floured apron kneading biscuit dough.
“Ma’s back at home right now cooking up Sunday supper. A ham and butter beans and greens. And some of her famous angel biscuits. The ladies of the county have been wanting that recipe for years – they promise Ma all kinds of things in return but she just smiles and says ‘They aren’t all that special’.
“Mr. Lyman, you must stay to supper. I know you like beans – I saw that can of pork and beans you bought at the store – oh and pork too, so you’ll love Ma’s honeyed ham. And surely, she’s making a pecan pie for dessert. I know you said you don’t take sweets, but this one time you can make an exception, don’t you think?”
June was aware that she was gushing out a mouthful of words like a swollen stream after a hard rain. She turned to look at the stranger with wide eyes and her best smile. Disingenuous.
“Well, now, I’ve got that schedule to keep.” Lyman thought it was only polite to decline at first, but he felt his mouth moisten at the mention of honeyed ham. His own mother used to make a ham with honey glaze for holidays, before Sara passed and family gatherings were too difficult. He’d been on the road for two months straight with so few sales that he could only afford the occasional meal and even then, pork and beans was a splurge. He watched June with a side eye as she described Saturday supper at the Carson house. He’d never heard of angel biscuits, but as a man of God, he felt sure he’d love them.
“And your Pa – he’s at home today too?”
“No – he’s down the county checking out a new thoroughbred. He races them – well, he doesn’t race them, he has boys for that. But he buys them young and trains them up. He’s about the winningest trainer this side of the state line.
A buyer and trainer of thoroughbred horses must be flush with cash, Lyman reasoned. He was sure to make a big sale at the Carson house. A fine, God-fearing man like Mr. Carson would need multiple Bibles – one for every bedroom in his grand home and one for the parlor. Maybe he’d even want a few extra to give as gifts when he went horse trading.
“Well, I’ll be, that’s something. I’d like to meet your Pa. Maybe a quick supper couldn’t hurt.”
June nodded. “Then, it’s settled.” Duplicitous.
They rode on in silence for the last few miles. The sun sank lower and the sky began to glow pink and orange. As he drove, Lyman thought about June’s rosy cheeks and crooked part.
“Hope you’re good and hungry ‘cause we’re close now.”
Lyman felt his stomach grumble and hoped June hadn’t heard. He’d decided to allow himself a sliver of pie and a small scoop of ice cream, it if was on offer. It would be rude not to. Sara used to make a pecan pie that was the envy of all the girls.
June directed Lyman off the main road onto a small dusty lane. It curved through a field that looked like it had once produced wheat. Crows swooped across the sky scolding each other for some previous slight, as grasshoppers bounded among the weeds. As they rounded a bend, Lyman saw a clump of trees ahead and a gray outline that looked man-made. Coming closer he could pick out a squat building, listing to one side like a drunk. Creeping vines draped across its roof and curled down around the windows, which were shutter-less except for one hanging on by a single nail. Where the shutters had been he could just make out a hint of slate blue one shade darker than the rest of the house, which was faded to a dull gray. Reddish stains bled from the clay ground onto the foundation, just visible between a few shaggy azaleas, their bright fuchsia a slap in the face. The roof overhanging the porch was tilted at a forty-five-degree angle. Lyman pulled Delilah to a stop at a rusty mailbox teetering on a crooked post planted in a rangy plot of ragweed.
He had to hand it to her. She’d kept it up until the end, when the house and its evident squalor could not be ignored. He thought it was his game and she’d played along. But, maybe it was really hers and he was the one who’d been played. He stiffened, then wilted. For her part, June kept her eyes straight ahead, hoping to get herself and her grandfather into the house without a scene. Perilous. She took a deep breath and exhaled.
Descending slowly from the driver’s seat, Lyman trudged to the back to help the old man out of the wagon. He guided Mr. Carson along the path, up the crumbly steps and into an old rocker on the porch. Scout followed along behind, eyeing Lyman’s ankles with suspicion, then flopped down at the top of the steps. While the stranger was otherwise engaged, June grabbed her satchel and reached behind her, maneuvering the trunk open with one hand, while she deftly palmed a Bible with the other. Her knuckles were mended by this time and ready for a challenge. She dropped the book into her bag and climbed down from the cart bracing herself against its side for support. Lyman was just stepping gingerly over the dog and down the front steps.
“Mr. Lyman.” June held out her hand to shake his. His blue eyes were so light they were almost white; his pupil a tiny black pinprick.
“Miss Carson.” Lyman tipped his hat, ignoring her proffered gesture and hustled up into his seat behind Delilah. June gave the horse one more pat on her star as she walked to the house. Delilah snuffled into June’s hand.
“Giddyup Delilah.” When the stranger slapped her flanks with the reins, Delilah turned to give him a look.
June listened to the horse’s hooves on the rocky lane as they faded into the distance. She heard Lyman sneeze three times, then heard nothing but the crows.
When the sun completed its journey below the horizon line and the fireflies began their nightly dance, June helped Grandpa inside to his inside chair. By the light of a kerosene lamp she fried up some eggs with a strip of salt pork and a corn cake. They ate in silence, except for the peepers, who serenaded them through the open windows. Scout sprawled under the table, just conscious enough to catch a falling crumb. A light breeze floated in, one of those July miracles in this part of the country. As she ate, June considered the events of the day. Implausible. She rubbed her knee and wished away its soreness.
After dinner she gave Grandpa a quick scrub with the water she’d drawn that morning. It seemed so long ago – like a different lifetime. As she tucked him into bed, he muttered:
“Don’t know what a Bible salesman needs with a preacher’s collar. Darn fool.” Astute.
“Hush now, Grandpa.” June made sure to maintain eye contact with him as she spoke. Since he’d lost his hearing he had to get by with reading lips. He was getting older and she didn’t want to think about what would happen when he was gone too. Inconceivable. She kissed his forehead and smoothed his counterpane. Surely, he didn’t need it on such a warm night, but it comforted him. Grandma had made it for their fiftieth anniversary – a Wedding Ring quilt.
As she closed her grandfather’s bedroom door, leaving it slightly ajar so she could hear him if he needed her, June felt the day settle heavily upon her. But, as tired as she was, there was one more thing she had to do before surrendering to sleep. The house sang with stillness as she went to her satchel and pulled out the Bible and the receipt booklet. The receipt book had dried into a series of ripples and she could make out some pinholes on the cover where Scout’s teeth had punctured it. The nub of pencil was battle-scarred but still usable. June put her treasures on the bed as she opened her window. The breeze had picked up and the peepers too had quickened their rhythm. She gazed at the sky with its multitude of stars – each one part of something bigger than itself, something with a name she could learn. Sidereal. They shone brightly like so many spotlights on June’s upturned face, punctuated with a giant grin, the new moon hidden away but full of promise.
After straightening the JUNE tiles on her dresser, June settled into bed, holding the Bible in her hands. She felt its rough cover – leather or something approximating leather, patterned with tiny bumps like the goosepimples that rose on her bare arms when she thought about her parents’ accident. Its surface was black as the sky above and just as full of promise. She opened the book and felt the pages slip through her fingers. She noticed that certain passages were printed in red ink – maybe to stand out from the black type that crowded the pages, and a thin red satin ribbon nestled in the spine. Flipping through the book to find Romans, she read the nineteenth verse of the twelfth chapter: “Vengeance is mine,” printed in blood-red type.
She shivered and whispered into the silence. Turpitude. She stowed the Bible in her nightstand.
Then she took up the receipt book and smoothed it with her palm. Fingering the little paper slips, it struck her that opening the booklet backwards would yield a series of blank pages. This was quite a prize in a house with few surfaces to write on. June had taken to using the undersides of can labels peeled off in one long strip. She had rolls and rolls in her top dresser drawer covered with a neat, tiny script. She’d trained herself to write small so she could fit more ideas in.
Withdrawing the pencil from its snug home in the booklet’s spine, she opened the last page backwards and wrote:
“June stood with both hands in the ice chest, gazing out the front windows of the Crossroads Store.”
Jennifer is a recovering academic who, when not debating the merits of media concentration with college students, prefers to read and write her own poetry and fiction. She lives in southwestern Virginia and travels elsewhere whenever she can.