The Saints of Swallow Hill(40)

“None a that ain’t nobody’s concern but mine and Peewee’s.”

Crow couldn’t let it alone.

“Hell. He chose what he was gonna do, now he better get on and do it. You letting him think he can slack off ain’t helping matters. I know what’ll learn him good. I can guarantee you’ll be thanking me for helping him see straight.”

Ballard remained unaffected, flipping pages on his tally book while speaking in a calm voice. “I said I’ll handle it.”

Crow’s words kept a fear in her. Her day off was the following, a Sunday, and while she knew she ought to rest, she found herself cleaning the inside of the shanty while worrying over how to work faster. She swept and swept, scrubbed with a bit of turpentine and water, moved things around, and though she made improvements, her mood hadn’t. She eventually went to the creek to wash out the spare shirt. She reveled in the quiet of the woods without the usual shouts. From somewhere in the camp, hymns were being sung, accompanied by the thumping of feet against floorboards in time to the music. She sat on a rock nearby, closed her eyes, and before she knew it, she woke to the day almost gone.

She stood, brushed off her overalls, and grabbed the clean, almost dried shirt off the branch where she’d hung it. She made her way back to her shack, where the thin, reedy trill of the harmonica floated through the air from her neighbor’s porch. She allowed herself a brief glance, and he sat with his back propped against the wall, intent only on making music. She went inside and stared at the inside of the shanty. It hit her again, like it always did. Warren is gone. Those three words always came with an unsettling jolt, and always in the quiet moments. As soon as she let them in, what happened back home in North Carolina assaulted her senses once again. Later on in bed, she hugged herself inside her husband’s shirt, hoped to dream of him so she could see him smiling, and so she could remember how it used to be.

Morning came bringing Clyde and his wagon. She hopped into the back, not meeting anyone’s eye.

Clyde said, “Hep, hep, Jackson!” to the mule, and the wagon lurched on to the worksite.

She felt their stares boring in, knew she was being judged because talk got around and they knew she couldn’t keep up. She sat where she could, meaning she sat with her back to them, feet dangling off the back end. The ways of men were still foreign to her, but as luck would have it, their silence and hers lasted until they approached the hang-up ground.

When she jumped off the back end, she overheard someone say, “He ain’t got it in him.”

Someone else said, “Why we breaking our backs when he ain’t?”

She moved away quick, found a lower limb to hang her bucket. Overhead, it was as if someone had tacked a metal sheet to the heavens, the gray clouds smooth and even. Despite the early morning, moisture trickled down her face, and the gnats and biting flies started in and swarmed around their heads. She stood in the heavy air, breathing deep, readying herself for what was to come.

Ballard called out to them all. “Git your pullers, we’re working some older drifts today.”

Rae Lynn winced at those words. Was he trying to make it impossible for her?

He said, “You look like you could fall over, kid. You gonna keep up today?”

She nodded while watching several work hands milling about, a few still hanging dinner buckets, then grabbing pullers, while some took the time to have a smoke.

He shouted again. “Come on! Let’s get going!”

Have mercy, she was sure to have a harder time. Anyone would, but her height didn’t help matters none, and neither did half a finger. Using a puller was tough going, even for the best of them. She had to show she could do it, because she couldn’t appear any less able than she already had. There was nothing to do but get back on the wagon and hope for the best.

After she was dropped off, Rae Lynn stared at the catfaces, which began near her knees and stretched to a point above her head. These faces and these trees were almost at the end of their use. Someone had moved the cups and gutters, and it tested her ability to reach above the last strip and angle the puller to chip away a strip of bark. As she worried over making quota, Crow’s threats rang in her head. Someone started singing and the call names came one after the other, adding pressure.

“Bluesy!”

“Whisky Time!”

“Sally’s Man!”

They were starting all over again before she finally was able to add hers. “Tar Heel!”

She’d worried about using the name, afraid it might create questions. She could give any manner of reasons for using it if she was ever asked, like the story about the Confederate soldiers standing their ground under heavy fire, or something, but, so far, nobody had except Del Reese. She reached up, struck the bark, and pulled the tool across. She swung the puller one way, then the other, figuring how to leverage it so the blade went deep, but not too deep. Finally, she stepped back, satisfied.

“Tar Heel!”

She kept on, scraping the angled strips. It was about finding a rhythm and keeping on until it was as comfortable as walking. After several trees, and after switching the puller around, testing what worked best, it came. Over and over, chip, chip, pull, chip, chip, pull, until she was calling out “Tar Heel” a bit more regular, or at least she hoped so. The tin gutters followed the slant on the scarified bark, and the clay cups sat at the point of the chevron so resin ran into them. This was the Herty system Warren had refused to take on. He should’ve done it this way instead of using the old box method. The gum went a shorter distance with the cup system, which meant less dried on the catface, so less needed to be scraped off. It was actually called “scrape” and could be used, though it was a lower grade of gum.