The Saints of Swallow Hill(13)

Butch said, “They got several camps down there. S’what I heard ’cording to Lenny Crawford. Said he’s going to go to work at one of’em. So many’s done folded in on their farms and ain’t hardly no mill jobs to be had. Said he can’t make him a living, but he ’spects he can do something, despite the fact he’s one handed.”

Warren said nothing. Lenny had broken his arm real bad while working at Cobb Turpentine Farm and because he hadn’t been able to afford the doctor, it hadn’t healed properly.

Butch went on. “Heard tell they rent out fifty-cent, one-dollar, and two-dollar shacks. Wonder what the difference is?”

Warren said, “Not much, though some might have an extra room, or maybe they’s a tad bigger inside.”

Butch said, “Shoot. Got their own store, juke joint, schoolin’ for the young’uns, churches, just about anything you need’n is right there, and get this. The whole entire shebang can pack up and move when they’s done working a particular area.”

Warren said, “I been in them camps before. It’s some rough living now, mind you. Besides, we doing all right right here, ain’t we, shug?”

He grabbed Rae Lynn’s hand and squeezed. Rae Lynn didn’t answer; she was listening to Butch, an idea forming.

Warren jiggled her hand, waiting on her to agree, but what she did was to turn to him and say, “What if we went there to work for a while, Warren?”

Warren dropped her hand and said, “Why would we want to leave here when we got this house? And we got enough work for everyone in the county who wants a job.”

Exactly, Rae Lynn thought, and only me and you to do it. She pushed her hair back off her forehead, the damp air making it unruly. Butch sat back, ogling her.

He said, “Rae Lynn, I ever tell you what a purty sight you are?”

Rae Lynn said, “Every time you come over, Butch.”

Butch turned to Warren, “Ain’t she, though?”

Warren, still put off by her suggestion, picked at a thread on his shirt.

Rae Lynn said, “What you want’n, Butch? A piece of that pie I made?”

He said, “A piece’ll do.”

He sniggered at his little joke, and when Rae Lynn shot a look at Warren, he now became preoccupied with adjusting the straps to his overalls. She got up to serve Butch his pie. Butch was all right, but he had ways that annoyed her, like staring at her a tad too long while Warren acted like a knot on a log over his obviously rude remarks.

Butch switched to a different subject, to her relief, turning his attention back to Warren.

“How’s ole Eugene doing with that law practice a his in South Carliny?”

“All right, I reckon,” and the conversation went on from there.

When Butch was done eating, he rose from the chair and told them he had to go see about some hogs. The rain came down harder after he left, and the wind picked up. The trees bent this way and that, catching Rae Lynn’s eye as she stirred a pot of stewed okra, the steam flushing her face pink. She was checking on the biscuits in the oven when a loud bang and then part of a limb shot through the roof almost over her head, startling her. Water immediately began dripping inside, hitting the hot stove and making it sizzle.

“Warren!”

He was right behind her, and said, “I will be damned. I should a cut some a them branches over this house like I said. I was afraid this might happen one a these days, what with that piece a tin missing up there.”

The hissing grew louder as the water continued to hit the stove. Rae Lynn grabbed a bucket filled with wood near the stove, dumped the wood out, and stuck it under the leak. Warren stared at the ceiling.

He said, “I got to get that limb off the roof, or it’s gonna make it worse.”

“You can’t do nothing in this downpour, Warren. The food’s done, anyway. Come on and eat. Wait till it stops raining at least.”

“I got a canvas piece with some pitch on it; it’ll hold till I can fix it proper. All I gotta do is move the limb and cover the hole.”

“It ain’t no sense in doing it this minute!” Rae Lynn’s temper rose as he ignored her.

He said, “I need you to hold the ladder. Get your coat on. Won’t take long.”

She huffed in frustration, and she decided then and there to put her foot down. To say something.

“No, it’s a bad idea. You might get hurt. Or me.”

He stared at her in surprise. “You ain’t gonna help me?”

She folded her arms. “It can wait, Warren.”

He flapped a hand at her and went outside. She watched as he ran to the small barn behind the house, where they kept their john mule, Dewey. A few minutes later, he came out with a ladder, the pitch bucket covered with a cloth, and the canvas plopped over his head. She went onto the porch, saw him lean the ladder against the side of the house near the midsection where the chimney rose. He climbed one-handed, carrying the pitch bucket and was almost at the top rung when she yelled at him, her voice barely rising above the clap of thunder.

“I wished you’d wait!”

Warren yelled back, “I don’t want the damn house full of water. Do you?”

Rae Lynn fumed at his stubbornness as the storm grew worse. The split rail fencing, pines, and outhouse were shrouded in mist as the temperature dropped from the heat earlier in the day, and Rae Lynn actually shivered. Back inside, she dumped the okra and tomatoes into a bowl, not caring she spilled some. She set the biscuits on the table while listening to Warren thumping about overhead. The limb remained partially through the roof, moving now and then like he was tugging on it. She tried not to envision his attempts to free it while standing on a slick roof.