The Saints of Swallow Hill(17)

Del said, “Well, I actually wouldn’t mind working the trees, if it’s all right.”

“That’s nigra work.”

Del said, “I’ve done it all, but I like working the trees best. Grew up doing it.”

Peewee rubbed his chin and seemed to think on it. “I don’t know.”

He twiddled with his pencil some.

Finally, he said, “Look, it’s fine by me. We need more doing that sort a work, but I ain’t wanting no trouble around here.”

Del said, “Won’t be no trouble from me.”

“Maybe not, but I got this woods rider who’s got his own ways of thinking. We generally start early, go until dusk. You can work some today if you want, they’s plenty to do. Pay’s seventy-five cents a day. I see you got your own syrup bucket. If you want’n supplies and such and if you’re short on cash, tell Otis over to the commissary to put it on an account under your name. It’ll get taken out of your pay. We use scrips instead of cash. You married?”

All this in one breath.

Del said, “Ain’t nobody but me, and I don’t require nothing fancy.”

“Right. All jobs right now is under Elijah Sweeney, goes by name of Crow. He ain’t particular to whites and coloreds mixing, but you tell him I said it’s all right.”

“Crow? I think I seen him. Got a hat with a crow feather in it?”

“That would be him. And listen, he’s real peculiar about them trees. Be sure you’re careful about your work. Anyway, you got number forty-two. That’s in the section for unmarried men. Plus, everything is fixed to accommodate accordingly. Nigras there, whites there. See? Go that way. Numbers are on wood blocks above the door. If you get lost, ask.”

Peewee waved him out. As he made his way toward the commissary, he looked for the man called Crow, but he’d disappeared. From the cooper’s shed, Del detected the powerful odor of cut wood, along with the sound of rapid hammering. He noticed the man doing the pounding was working to fasten a stave around a row of curved lumber, the slats forming a barrel. Inside the commissary, the proprietor stood behind the counter hunched over a ledger, while a woman dusted off long wooden shelves at the back. She ducked behind a curtain concealing the backside of the store as soon as he made his way toward the counter.

He said, “I’m just hired on and need’n to get a few things.”

The man quit scribbling, and said, “Otis Riddle.”

“Del Reese.”

Otis jotted Del’s name down and gestured at the stocked shelves.

“Get what you need and my wife, Cornelia, she’ll gather it up for you.”

Del walked around selecting a few items—cornmeal, lard, beans, and grits—and carried everything back to the counter.

Once there, he said, “Kin I get some salt pork?”

Otis hollered, “Cornelia! Where the hell you at?” before he made a motion of frustration at Del and said, “Damn woman. She ain’t never round when I need her.”

He disappeared behind the curtain while Del continued perusing the store. He added a bar of soap to his pile of items. Otis came back to the counter, followed by the woman he’d seen earlier.

“Hurry it up,” he said, and swatted her on the backside.

Embarrassed for the woman, Del dropped his eyes while Otis scratched his armpit. Cornelia first sliced some salt pork, then set his items in a wooden crate, her blazing-red face averted. When she finished, she ducked behind the curtain again, never having once spoken to Del. She sure was fine looking, with a tangle of dark, almost black hair falling loose from where she’d pulled it back. Meanwhile, Otis licked the end of a pencil, scribbled a bit before gesturing toward the curtain where Cornelia had disappeared.

He said, “She and I, we ain’t been married but about a year. I’m still learning her on how I like things, if you know what I mean.” He leered at Del like Del knew what he meant, then said, “Alrighty, that’s gonna put you in arrears about six dollars.”

Del quickly calculated what he’d make, and concluded by the end of a full workweek, he’d already be short a few days wages. He hadn’t started yet, and he was going into this thing indebted. It was common in these camps and while he didn’t like owing nobody, he had no choice; hardly anyone ever did when they come to work at a turpentine camp. He nodded at Otis in agreement, grabbed the crate, and went back out into the blazing heat to walk to his new home.

He found number forty-two quick enough. Inside it was a mess. He saw one of the previous occupants had patched the leaky roof, but he was certain the entire population of flies and chiggers in the county had taken up residence. He put the shotgun over the door, propped behind the nails hammered on each end. While he was unloading what he’d bought, he heard a raspy, slithering noise overhead. He suspected a king snake, or at least he hoped that’s what it was. The interior stunk to high heaven, and he tried to find the source of the smell. He pulled open the door on the wood-burning stove and drew back when he looked in. There was the carcass of a possum in the oven, half cooked, now rotted. He held his nose, surveyed the tiny room, noted a stained mattress filled with a less-than-adequate amount of Spanish moss upon which he was supposed to sleep. The walls had gaps in the wood wide enough he could stick a finger through them, and daylight spilled into the dank interior, creating vertical gold streaks across the dirt floor. At least the gaps allowed the air to stir, but come winter, he’d have to chink them somehow, or fill them with newspapers. Hard to believe this was one of the nicer spots intended for the whites. At least he had a roof over his head, crude though it was.