The Saints of Swallow Hill(41)

She swiped her forehead with her sleeve and swatted at the mosquitoes landing everywhere, and then there were the gnats trying to fly into her mouth, up her nose, and into her eyes. Battling the insects wasted time. She noticed a few workers carrying buckets working in the distance. They were dippers and had to scoop gum from the cups and into buckets, which were then emptied into barrels and hauled off by the wagons back to the distillery. Their numbers were high too, with daily totals anywhere from eighteen hundred to three thousand cups a day. Thinking about the numbers made her move quicker between each tree. The overcast sky gave relief from the sun, yet the humidity continued to climb, and before long sweat was stinging her eyes, as well as any part of her that had a scratch. She didn’t stop, though. Every second counted.

At noon dinner, with aching and burning muscles, she made her way to the hang-up ground. In a way, she wished she could’ve kept on; she needed the time, but Ballard wasn’t taking counts, and she needed the rest, even if she wasn’t hungry.

Ballard came by and spoke to her. “You’re off by four hundred trees, but if we go till dark, you might make it, but you’re gonna have to hustle this afternoon.”

She said, “Yes, sir.”

Four hundred. If she could do one more tree every minute, she might make her numbers.

She unhooked her pail and moved to a quiet spot to eat alone, sitting on a stump, while facing the woods. She bit into the biscuit and chewed, willing herself to eat. After the men finished, most laid down and closed their eyes. Some went right to sleep, some smoked, some talked, eyes drooping, their voices like a crooning lullaby, quiet and soft. Rae Lynn moved to stretch out on the pine straw, crossed her feet, put her arms under her head, and stared at the trees above her. She noticed how when Crow came around, anybody who’d been smiling quit, while eyes fell to study gum-stained feet or scrappy shoe tips, looking near about as wilted as flowers without water. Their uneasy feeling put her in the same mood. Meanwhile, Ballard carried an air of patience, and the men who worked for him didn’t cower like stray dogs.

Altogether she was uncomfortable being among men in general. For one, they were like a bunch of overgrown schoolboys sometimes with their cutting up and expressive body functions. And it seemed to her no one ever went too long in any conversation before it eventually turned to the opposite sex. Right now there was talk going on she couldn’t help but overhear.

One man said, “How y’all doing now? She forgive you yet? ”

The other said, “She ain’t speaking to me. She ain’t over what went on over to the juke joint.”

“You mean that fun with Lucinda who works in back?”

“Man’s got needs.”

“What you got is a whole heap a trouble you thinking Alice gone tolerate you being a fool.”

Snickering and sneaky glances went left and right, shifty and nervous-like. She worried someone would try to bring her into one of these conversations, and if they did, would she be able to hold her own with that sort of talk. At least she wasn’t the only one who didn’t join in. Del Reese never talked about anybody special. He sat some distance away, tooting on his mouth harp. Sometimes the talk grew serious, expressing worry over being abused for some small thing. They talked of that contraption, the sweatbox, of the people they knew who went in and came out really bad off, or who’d died. Some said a little prayer as soon as it was mentioned, so great was their fear of it.

Crow and Ballard appeared and yelled out to their men. “Get back to it! Hurry it up! Get a move on!”

Rae Lynn jumped to her feet. As she passed by Crow he gave her a cockeyed grin. The workers spread out like ants, lines of them filtering through the trees, the long, hot afternoon before them, the only thing pleasant, the spicy smell of pine all around. Crow followed his men and disappeared. Rae Lynn was quick getting to her drift, pulling at her overalls and shirt, which were still damp from the morning’s work. Each time she finished a tree, she said a little prayer as she moved on.

An hour later, Crow showed up, winding his horse through the trees, mouth twisted like he’d bitten into a sour apple. Rae Lynn focused on a song a distant worker sang, faint, but she caught the tune and hummed along. She struggled with a particularly high catface, aware he could see her having trouble. After the scene at the commissary, she was certain he’d been biding his time, waiting for her to mess up, but she refused to acknowledge him. He wasn’t her boss man, he wasn’t in charge.

“Best pick it up!”

She gritted her teeth, yelled, “Tar Heel!” and moved on to the next tree.

Under his scrutiny, she fumbled with the puller and a piece of bark fell in her right eye. She immediately dropped the puller to the ground, bent over, and began blinking rapidly. Her sweat mixed in with her tears and made the eye burn.

She delicately moved the eyelid around, and said, “Dammitall.”

Crow’s voice was closer now, and he said, “Tick tock. Times a-wasting.”

Rae Lynn shifted away from him and gently rubbed at her eye, blinked several more times, but whatever was in there hurt, so she quit. Her nose began to run.

Crow said, “Ain’t gonna make your count, again. Ain’t no time for stalling.”

Tears streamed down her cheek like she was crying. She did her best to ignore the scratching pain and faced the tree trunk, puller held aloft, but looking up made her eyes run more.