The Saints of Swallow Hill(35)

The woman pointed at her feet and said, “If them boots is dirty, you need to do all that stomping outside. I only just swept this floor.”

Rae Lynn winced, and without thinking, said in her regular voice, “Oh, sorry,” which earned her a questioning look from the woman. Red-faced, she popped the top off the drink and carefully approached the counter. She handed the woman a nickel and avoided too much eye contact.

In a low tone, she said, “I’m looking for Swallow Hill.”

The woman took the nickel, opened the cash register, and said, “Ain’t far.”

Studying Rae Lynn with steady eyes, she gave her directions, mainly to go “that a way” and look for a small sign saying SWALLOW HILL.

“A couple miles or so, and you’re there.”

Rae Lynn said, “Thankee kindly.”

The woman said, “You traveling alone? Where’s your family?”

Now it was Rae Lynn frowning at her. “Ain’t none a your business.”

The woman said, “Huh. Reckon your mama ain’t never taught you no manners neither. Young men nowadays ain’t respectful atall.”

Rae Lynn rushed out, screen slamming behind her. In the truck, she wiped sweat off her forehead and felt a headache coming on. She would get better at this, she had to. After a few miles she spotted a decrepit hand-painted marker that said SWALLOW HILL, fastened to a slash pine with an arrow pointing up. Next, she came to a long and narrow sandy dirt road, not unlike the path to the house back home. With nothing but big clumps of wiregrass and stately pine trees scattered about, the area was isolated and lonely seeming. Rae Lynn drove the last leg of her trip, and out of nowhere came the distinct odor of a turpentine still, long before she came to it.

Minutes later, a cooper’s shed came into view, and beside that, the turpentine distillery. There was another building with OFFICE over the door. She pulled in front of it and got out of the truck, taking a moment to stretch. As she bent backward, then forward, she noticed a man watching her from a distance. She clamped her hat more firmly on her head, shoved her hands in her pockets, and swaggered inside. A heavyset man, busy with paperwork behind a messy desk, puffed heavily on a cigar as if his very life depended on it.

Using her new voice, she said, “Heard there’s work here.”

He lifted his eyes, gave her a once-over and to her mind, it took him a tad too long. His brow cinched like he found her statement strange. Or maybe it was her appearance. She held her ground, didn’t blink, didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

He spoke finally. “We got plenty of work, too much. Name’s Pritchard Taylor. Peewee to some, although there’s a name suits you, not me so much.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. He jumped up with a boisterous laugh.

“I’m only kidding.”

He put out his hand, and with relief, she stuck hers into his grip. He proceeded to grind her knuckle bones together as he pumped her hand. She managed not to flinch, and returned the handshake as firmly as she could, fighting the urge to rub her knuckles soon as he released her hand. He plopped back into his chair and commented on her size again.

“Sheeyoot. You look like a good wind could blow you away. You sure you up to this kind a work?”

Rae Lynn growled out an answer. “Always been a mite small for my age, but I’m strong as they come.”

The new deep voice she used had an unfortunate crack at the end.

He gave her a doubtful glance and said, “How old are you, kid?”

She said, “Twenty-six.”

“What? You ain’t even got no whiskers. Fine, fine. You say you’re twenty-six, I reckon I’m Methuselah.” Peewee chuckled at his little joke and went on. “What’s the name?”

“Ray Cobb.”

“Family?”

“Sir?”

“Family. You got family?”

She said, “I was married, but . . .”

Peewee had been scribbling, and he stopped.

Rae Lynn was quick to reply. “He . . . I mean, she passed on. Tragic accident.”

“Hmm. Sorry to hear that.”

Rae Lynn cringed at her mistake, but Peewee apparently didn’t notice her misstep. He tapped his fingers in a thoughtful manner.

Finally, he leaned forward and said, “I ain’t looking no woods riders. You come expecting to do that, by chance?”

“No, sir. I ain’t got a horse for one.”

“Thought I heard a truck right ’fore you walked in.”

“Yes, sir. I come in a truck.”

“Ain’t got many vehicles round here. Might could use you to haul turpentine to my buyers. We always needing ways a doing that.”

“It’s got a radiator problem.”

“Oh. Well. Where you hail from?”

“South Carolina.”

“All righty, then, so you can’t be a woods rider, but always got the need for chippers, dippers, and tackers. Thing is, we typically only let the darkies do that sort a work, or making the gum barrels.”

“I don’t care what I do. I’m good at any of it.”

“Some boss men don’t take kindly to mixing things up, if you know what I mean?”

Rae Lynn didn’t get a chance to respond because he kept on talking.

“I ain’t in the mood to hear complaints. Tell you what. I’m gonna put you under Jim Ballard, let him figure out where you fit in. He’ll use you where he needs you, and he don’t care who’s doing what long as the work gets done. The work wagon will come get you at five thirty sharp. Driver’s name is Clyde. I’ll let Ballard know you’re to join his work crew.”