"Andrews, V C - Casteel 1 - 1985 - Heaven#" - читать интересную книгу автора (Andrews V.C)

"Don't ever pay attention to women's work," said Pa, with a gruff laugh. He turned toward the house, in time to hear Sarah bellow our evening meal was ready: "Come an git it!"

Painfully Granny rose from her porch rocker. Grandpa struggled to rise from his. "Gettin old is worse than I thought it would be," groaned Granny once she was on her feet and trying to make it to the table before all the food was gone. Our Jane ran to her to be led by the hand, for Granny could do that if not much else. She groaned again. "Makes me think that dyin ain't so bad after all."

"Stop saying that!" stormed Pa. "I'm home to enjoy myself, not to hear talk about death and dying!" And in no time at all, almost before Granny and Grandpa were comfortable in their chairs at the table, he got up, finished with the meal that had taken Sarah hours to prepare, and out into the yard he went, jumping into his pickup truck to head to God knows where.

Sarah, wearing a dress she'd ripped apart, then sewn back together in a different fashion, with new sleeves | and pockets added from her bag of scrap fabrics, stood in the doorway staring out, softly crying. Her freshly washed hair scented with the last of her lilac water shone rich and red in the moonlight, and all for nothing 1 when those girls in Shirley's Place wore real French perfume, and real makeup, not just the rice powder that Sarah used to take the shine from her nose.

I determined I was not going to be another Sarah—or another angel found in Atlanta. Not me. Not ever me.

two

SCHOOL AND CHURCH

The cock-a-doodle-do of our solitary rooster with his harem of thirty hens woke us all. The sun was only a hazy rim of rose in the eastern sky. With the crow of the cock came the mumbling of Ma waking up, of Granny and Grandpa turning over, of Our Jane beginning to wail because her tummy always ached in the mornings. Fanny sat up and rubbed at her eyes. "Ain't gonna go t'school t'day," she informed grouchily.

Keith sprang immediately to his feet and ran to fetch Our Jane a cold biscuit she could nibble on to calm those hunger pains that hurt her more than they hurt any of the rest of us. Placated, she sat on her floor pallet and nibbled on her biscuit, her pretty eyes watching each one of us hopefully for the milk she'd soon be crying for.

"Hey, Ma," said Tom, coming in the door, "cow's gone. Went out early to milk her . . . she's gone."

"Damn Luke t'hell an back!" shrieked Sarah. "He knows we need that cow fer milk!"

"Ma, maybe Pa didn't sell her. Somebody coulda stole her."

"He sold her," she said flatly. "Said yesterday he might have ta. Go see iffen ya kin round up that goat."

"Milk, milk, milk!" wailed Our Jane.

I hurried to Our Jane, drawing her into my arms. "Don't cry, darling. Why, in ten minutes flat you'll be drinking the best kind of milk, fresh from a nanny goat."

Our morning meal consisted of hot biscuits made fresh each day, covered with lard gravy. Today we were also having grits. Our Jane wanted her milk more than she wanted anything else. "Where is it, Hev-lee?" she kept asking.

"It's coming," said I, hoping and praying it was.

It took Tom half an hour to come back with a pail of milk. His face was flushed and hot-looking, as if he'd run a long, long way. "Here ya are, Our Jane," he said with triumph, pouring milk into her glass, and then into the pitcher so Keith could enjoy the milk as well.

"Where'd ya get it?" asked Ma suspiciously, sniffing the milk. "That goat belongs now t'Skeeter Burl, ya know that... an he's mean, real mean."

"What he don't know won't hurt him," answered Tom, sitting down to dig into his food. "When Our Jane and Keith need milk, I go astealing. An yer right, Ma. Our cow is. now pastured in Skeeter Burl's meadow."

Sarah threw me a hard look. "Well, that's t'wager, ain't it? An yer pa lost, like always."

Pa was a gambling man, and when Pa lost we all lost, not only the cow. Each day for the past several weeks, one by one our barnyard fowl had been disappearing. I tried to convince myself that they'd be back once Pa had a winning streak. "I'll collect the eggs," called Sarah, heading for the door while I dressed for school. "Got to before he wagers all our hens! One day we'll wake up to no eggs, no nothin!"

Sarah was given to pessimism, whereas Tom and I were always thinking somehow our lives would turn out fine, even without cows, goats, or chickens and ducks.

It seemed to take forever for Our Jane to grow old enough to go with us to Winnerrow and attend first grade. But finally, this fall, she was six, and she was going if Tom and I had to drag her there every day. And that's what we had to do, literally drag her along, holding fast to her small hand so she couldn't escape and dash back to the cabin. Even as I tried to tug her along at a faster pace, she dragged her small feet, resisting in every way she could, as Keith encouraged and assured her, "It's not so bad, not so bad," and that's all he could say in favor of school. The cabin was where Our Jane wanted to stay, with Sarah, with her ragged old doll with the stuffing half fallen out. Right from the beginning she hated school, the hard seats without cushions, sitting still, having to pay attention, though she loved being with other children her age. Our Jane's attendance at school was irregular because of her frail health—and her determination to stay home with her ma.

Our Jane was a dear, darling doll, but she could wear on your nerves with her caterwauling, and all the food she spat up that smelled sickly sour. I turned to scold her, knowing that she was going to make us late, and that again everyone in the school would mock us for not even knowing how to tell time. Our Jane smiled, stretched out her frail, slender arms, and immediately my chastising words froze unspoken on my tongue. I picked her up and lavished on her pretty face all the kisses she had to have. "Feeling better, Our Jane?"