The Saints of Swallow Hill(11)
She called after him, “You ain’t all that good looking.”
He stopped and faced her again. “I ain’t? Well, darn.”
She relaxed, and a hint of a smile curved her mouth. “You’re real good looking is what I mean.”
Why not. He flipped the sign to CLOSED, strolled around the back of the counter, pulled her close, and slid his hand under her dress.
She gasped, groaned, and said, “I don’t know. My daddy might come back any second now.”
“Where is he?”
“At the house eating dinner.”
He leaned into her, his hand still under her dress, but he was having trouble. What normally happened, wasn’t.
He paused, and she said, “What’sa matter?”
He backed away and said, “I can’t. Sorry.”
Smoothing her dress down, she appeared as embarrassed over the failed encounter as he was. Neither looked at the other as he rushed out the door. Mystified, he cogitated on the incident the rest of the day. Come dusk, he set up camp for the night, and in the dim glow of his dying campfire, he played a couple of melancholy tunes on Melody. After a while, curiosity got the better of him, and he set the harmonica aside. He needed sleep, except he was still perturbed. Tentatively, almost embarrassed-like, he reached down to himself and let his mind wander to the times with Sarah, Bertice, and Myra, while trying to forget what happened with that pretty gal at the store. He concentrated on imagery, dresses flipped over heads, round backsides, moans and groans. He dwelled on Bertice’s skills at taking him in her mouth. And, Myra. Wild, reckless Myra, the most enticing one of all. Despite his imaginings, the results were less than encouraging, and he stopped. What the hell was wrong with him? Had the wrongdoings of his past caught up to him by way of Moe Sutton and a godforsaken grain bin?
He continued wandering about Clinch County, and oftentimes would recount his astounding story to various individuals he met, and they would listen, shake their heads, and agree on the dangers of working grain bins. All went along fine until he started describing how he’d seen himself lying on the ground. He tried to explain it, and the best he could do was to say he’d been floating in the air above himself watching everything as it unfolded. He’d tell how he’d seen a third feller helping out, and how the others confirmed him being there, though the man was gone long before Del came to. These individuals got a worried look in their eyes, a look that said they deemed him tetched in the head, maybe even downright crazy.
They would cut him short, and say things like, “Oh! You was surely dreaming,” or, “Was you drinking when it happened?”
With elbow jabs and dubious expressions, they’d change the subject. Finally, he quit talking about it. He continued to drift as if lost. He spent more time with birds, squirrels, rabbits, and frogs than he did with people. His beard grew out and so did his hair. He didn’t have the extra pants or shirt anymore, because his others got wet one time too many and started to fall apart, so he had to put them on and burn the old. His constant and only companion was Melody, but even attempting to brighten his mood by playing soon fell flat. Del finally concluded there was nothing much forthcoming from the woods of South Georgia. He was going to make himself crazy, thinking and thinking on that wondrous, yet terrible incident. And he wasn’t doing himself any favors as he was about out of money. It was time to try to put the past behind him and find a job again. He set out walking. After a while he came to a small town called Argyle.
At the General Mercantile, he splurged on crackers and hoop cheese while asking the man behind the counter, “Is there a train to Valdosta?”
The store owner, with three-day-old whiskers and strangely white teeth, said, “Sure. They got trains running over to Valdosta from Fargo. If you can get to the station down there, look for the GS&F symbol. That’s the one you want, the Georgia Southern and Florida Railway. Also called the Suwannee River Route.”
“Fargo, huh. That’s a ways from here.”
Another man came in to pay for gas and upon hearing the last part of the conversation, he pointed at his truck loaded with cantaloupe in the back, and said, “I’m heading to Fargo. You’re welcome to ride with me.”
Del stuck out his hand, and the man shook it.
“Sure do ’preciate it.”
“T’ain’t nothing.”
After a month of sleeping on the ground, drinking out of creeks, and having little to eat, he’d made up his mind. He hadn’t known he was heading that way until he got to thinking on what Woot said about that turpentine camp. He followed the stranger out, and when they got to the truck, the man cut open a cantaloupe and handed him a slice to eat while he rode.
Del said, “I’m obliged to you,” and settled onto the front seat to enjoy both the ride and the fruit.
The sweet, fragrant scent filtered into the cab, reminiscent of summer days at home on the back porch, splitting open ripe melons with his sister and gorging themselves until they could eat no more.
His ride dropped him at the station, where he checked the schedule, then took himself a ways down the track. It was late in the day and there wouldn’t be another train until morning. He rested against a large pine, too tired to coax any tunes out of Melody. Cricket frogs began to burp out their own evening song, and next thing he knew, he was waking up and surprised to see he’d slept through the night. He drank from a nearby stream, cupping his hand down into the coolness. He splashed water over his head and face, ate a few crackers with cheese, before making a few adjustments to what he carried. He moved closer to the tracks to wait. He was nervous about jumping the train, and his small breakfast rolled about in his stomach.