GodPretty in the Tobacco Field Read online

  Praise for Kim Michele Richardson and Liar’s Bench

  “This glorious debut novel is one of an unexpectedly fine crop of recent and new Southern fiction. Liar’s Bench succeeds on many levels. As a coming-of-age story, it is splendidly realized and uplifting. As a portrait of a Southern community painfully stumbling into the age of racial and gender equality, it is penetrating and convincing.”

  —Southern Literary Review

  “A well-crafted, beautifully written novel.”

  —News-Gazette (Champaign, Illinois)

  “Satisfying . . . with thought-provoking historical elements.”

  —Historical Novel Reviews

  Books by Kim Michele Richardson

  Liar’s Bench

  GodPretty in the Tobacco Field

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  GODPRETTY in the TOBACCO FIELD

  Kim Michele Richardson

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Praise for Kim Michele Richardson and Liar’s Bench

  Books by Kim Michele Richardson

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 1 7

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Six Years Later

  Acknowledgments

  Making RubyLyn’s Fortune-Teller

  A READING GROUP GUIDE

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  Copyright Page

  For G. J. Berger,

  dearest friend and quintessential

  Jerry Rice in a pass–catch duo

  and

  For Stacy Testa,

  my patient voice of reason and wonderful

  word keeper and story cobbler.

  I adore you both.

  The soil is the great connector of lives, the source and destination of all. It is the healer and restorer and resurrector . . . Without proper care for it we can have no community, because without proper care for it we can have no life.

  —Wendell Berry

  Chapter 1

  As sure as ugly is found in the morning addict waiting to score in the parking lot of a Kentucky Shake King, there is GodPretty in the child who toils in the tobacco field, her fingers whispering of arthritic days to come.

  My uncle, Gunnar Royal, says I’m that child and that I’ll find Salvation if I work hard enough. But it’s doubtful. I’ve been working these fields since knee-high, and ain’t nothing but all kinds of GodUgly keeps happening around here.

  Now, every time we pass the Shake King my uncle points to the whores and hooligans who hang out there. That’s what he worries on—what I might become and what my insolence could bring. That’s what makes him pour the bitter herbs into my mouth, and why he sends me out to work the tobacco rows at daybreak. Gunnar says at fifteen I should know better, should have learned better, being that my sassy mouth-of-the-South has earned me buckets of punishment from his tincture of biting herbs steeped in moonshine.

  When my uncle took me in ten years ago, I learned the widower scriptured his Jesus with moonshine, and he made it his sole purpose to chase out my parents’ devils. If anyone could, I reckoned it’d be Gunnar. A feared man in these hills, he’d served as executioner and strapped no-telling-how-many Kentucky prison inmates into the ol’ Sparky electric chair during the forties and fifties. And although it’s 1969 and Gunnar’s nearing sixty, lordy-jones that man can still set a full field and cut a look that’s meant to do a’hurtin’.

  Outside, a July rain dropped softly onto mountain shadows as the fog rolled through. I waited to be done with his latest by turning to the little windup clock on my nightstand. Keeping time to the soft ticks with steady taps on my knee, I glimpsed into childhood memories, searching for distraction from the mounting pain Gunnar’d dished out.

  I studied my parents’ photograph on the nightstand, my daddy looking on as Mama playfully wrapped the frayed cloth cord around me while pretending to talk to him on the toy telephone. A cottony memory whisked through my thoughts, easing the pain a little: She’d lightly poked my ribs and laughed softly into the tin mouthpiece. “Yes . . . uh-huh, me and the kid’s on the way . . . Right, snugbug?” Mama had tickled me and put the red receiver up to my ear. “Tell Daddy we’ll see him at the tent revival, sugar. Talk to Daddy, RubyLyn,” she’d coaxed. I grabbed the old toy, raised the cord, and shook it at her, hissing like Daddy’s church snakes.

  “Little Miss Preach!” she’d teased, catching me by the ribbon of my dress. My toddler’s giggles had lit across her singsong as she pulled me into the soft folds of her satin slip.

  I’d found the family photograph tucked inside Mama’s old pocketbook along with her tube of Rattle-My-Tattle red lipstick, a few coins, and a homemade paper fortune-teller that we had made together.

  I slipped my thumb and forefingers into the worn paper pockets of the fortune-teller, opening and closing it several times. I ran a finger over the tiny penciled portraits she had sketched of us on two of its triangle flaps. The third folded apron showed her sketch of a tobacco leaf. She had saved the last blank spot for me. Resting a fingertip on the faded red heart with the strange streak through its center, I thought about my daddy’s missing portrait, what could’ve been—and should’ve been.

  It was a sad broken heart that I barely remembered coloring onto the empty space. But, yet, it was my crayoned drawing from a time before memories could snug root.

  I clutched my chest and rolled slowly over to the side of my bed, dropping the fortune-teller onto the bedspread. A shadow spilled under the closed door and I cast a prayerful eye toward it and stood. He went on into his room.

  I wiped a bead of sweat off my upper lip, the pain crawling into my head and sliding down my throat. If he didn’t let me out soon, I feared I would never swallow again, talk again. I began to pace in front of my open window, forcing myself to breathe in the fresh air. Some days the bittersweet vine rooted with patches of morning glory that had been hugging this big old house since 1857 gripped more than the white-columned porch and paint-peeling boards. You couldn’t escape it—him. Not even from outside. Especially like now when the heavy fog burdened, and the cradling mountains squeezed a little too tight.

  Sinking back down onto the bed, I punched the mattress again and again, glancing back at the clock and fighting the nerves whittling me down. Reaching under the pillow, I pulled out my mama’s snakeskin purse with its kissing-lock closure. I rubbed my fingers over the biscuit-colored skin, trailing the diamond paths darkened with age and oil from my smooth tips. Such a fine thing. I knew from town talk that my daddy had it made for her and the skin had come from one of his church snakes.

  I flicked open the golden
clasp and dug out her lipstick and streaked the red paint across my puffy left cheek and imagined a mother’s velvet kiss left its sweet mark.

  Once more, I eyed the clock, slapping my fist on a jiggling knee. I picked up the fortune-teller again, tracing the paper’s speckled grain that had been produced from the pulp of the tobacco stalk, questioning . . . Refusing to believe like some of the townsfolk—that there was anything magical in my fortune-tellers. Believing would mean I’d somehow heralded tragedy with this broken heart long ago....

  Gunnar rapped on my bedroom door. I slipped the fortune-teller into her purse and shoved it back under my pillow. Cupping a hand over my face, I opened the door.

  He frowned as I pushed past him down the hall and into the bathroom, my cramped jaws near splitting. Quickly, I spit out the mouthful of elixir he’d made me hold for fifteen minutes, the tang of moonshine burning my gums and widowing my sass—until the next time.

  I touched my cheeks where the fires had leeched to tender skin, rubbing my tongue over the blistered lining of my jaws.

  I spit again, blood this time that had me screaming. “G-Gunnar!” I looked at the sink in horror.

  Gunnar rushed in beside me. “Good Lord,” he said softly to himself, before going to get the goldenseal medicinal he’d concocted.

  “Please,” I cried. “I need to see a real doc. It’s bad—”

  “Rinse.” He pushed the jar into my hand, watching me swish the antiseptic around in my mouth. “I’ve warned you not to use my paper for those sinful witch fortunes you call art,” he chided.

  “See what you made me do, Gunnar? See? . . . You old . . . executioner . . .” I spit out more blood.

  He backed out into the hall. “You’re not going to waste my good paper making vulgar scrawls.”

  “And you’re”—I spit once more—“you’re not gonna execute me that easy . . . dammit.” Tears splatted down.

  “Quiet that serpent tongue.”

  “Gunnar, help . . . God, please help me. . . .”

  “Only the GodPretty in the tobacco field. Only the GodPretty, RubyLyn.”

  Gunnar’s bedroom door clicked shut on my pleas.

  Chapter 2

  Ugly . . . I sucked on the cold cloth numbing my swollen tongue as dawn crept slowly into Nameless, the mountains holding the nights longer in these old hollars and dark hills. I’d sure found lots more of it ever since my daddy, the sin chaser and snake-handling pastor of Nameless, Kentucky’s Mountain Tent Tabernacle, died when I was four, and six months later when Mama passed, too. You wouldn’t think it could get any uglier than that. But I keep finding more of it in this hollow town that folks said wasn’t worth naming—these tobacco fields where I’d toughened my Kentucky soles and sharpened my bluegrass-green eyes on the passing of seasons—from the long winter months of field preparation, my sneakers oozing in cold mud, to the summers of sticky-sap leaves scratching at my sunburned face, to the tobacco worms hitching onto my skirts, and Gunnar’s mean potions leeching onto raw skin.

  It weren’t no surprise I had to dig for the pretty in these fortune-tellers. Making them helped me feel alive, kept me closer to Mama, and made me feel like the artist folks whispered I’d be one day.

  I pulled up the edge of the mattress and looked at the books I’d hidden there—the beautiful art on worn covers. A thimble of hope bubbled. “Artist. My ticket out of here . . . one day . . . one day soon,” I said fiercely, and dropped the mattress, afraid if I didn’t poke the words they’d never see light.

  Despite it being the Lord’s day, and Gunnar’s punishments, I was going to keep at the fortune-tellers—this time by looking to discover who I’d be swapping that important first spit with. The thrill of discovering who that might be made it that much more daring; the chances of it favoring my absolute true love made it real.

  Stepping over to my bedroom windowsill, I slipped the latest fortune-teller I’d made into Mama’s purse and parted the curtain. Below, Rainey Ford, our black field worker, carried two big bundles of tobacco sticks into the barn and dumped them. He walked back out, pausing to pet the old mama cat circling him. Rainey pulled out something from his jacket, likely a piece of chicken or some scrap he always thought to save for her, and dropped it. The cat hunkered down over the food, then snatched it up and took off into the barn.

  Over the past ten years, when I wasn’t looking, grace had snuck into Rainey’s bones and muscled him into a fine man, tall, strong, but with a softness that made my heart sing.

  As if snagging my thoughts, he peered up at the two-story window. I dropped the lace curtain. Shamed because he saw me and shamed because he’d showed up on Sunday to work for me again.

  When Gunnar’d caught me drawing in the barn instead of helping clean it, Rainey stood up for me, saying, “It’s only a minute break out of a very long day.”

  But Gunnar didn’t care for Rainey’s lip. “Been hearing a lot of fireball-sass this past year from my field worker since he’s turned eighteen,” Gunnar’d bit to Rainey before doubling his chores.

  I peeked back out. Rainey tossed me a small, crooked smile. It was the same one he’d been giving me for years, but this one was different somehow. More grown-up than boyish, like there was a secret in it.

  My eyes went to the bureau, sought out the keepsake that had once belonged to Daddy. My only memento of his, and a fitting spot to keep promises and secrets. I stepped over to the dresser and opened the small, hinged box. Daddy’s snuff was long gone, replaced with memories: a tiny nest of rescued threads from Mama’s clothes, along with the dried tobacco leaves and blooms that Rainey had given me with his promise.

  We’d first met when he was eight and I was five, practically growing up together. When he turned ten he came calling with a pink tobacco bloom in one hand and a looped field clover blossom he’d fashioned into a ring in the other.

  Boldly, he’d asked to marry me and then smacked my cheek with a kiss. Gunnar’d puffed up at that, and said, “Don’t touch her kind, ever.” And then he’d swatted Rainey’s tail all the way down the tobacco rows, across the field, and parked him on his own front porch. Despite that, Rainey had stood up and, with a trembling lip, shouted out a promise, “My bride, my RubyLyn.”

  For a long while after that, Gunnar’d kept a watchful eye on us, harping on “social standing,” cooling Rainey’s declaration, with me tucking those blooms and leaves inside the keepsake.

  Now, even before the day could catch its fire, I could hear Gunnar outside, breathing his own, needling Rainey for news on his tractor part he’d ordered from the traveling trader last month. “Miss Law’s gotten a mite big for her girdle, taking her sweet time getting back to these parts. Should’ve been back with it yesterday,” he said.

  I rubbed the tobacco tin with shaky hands and anxious thoughts of escape. I inspected the dead clippings. Feelings for the land I’d loved, just as dead. Spent youth scattered in an old rusting tin—my destiny doomed, reflected in its pitted brass lid—my draining breaths spent on dying dreams of getting out.

  A few minutes later the screen door slapped. Gunnar’s feet hit the bottom landing, and he yelled up the stairs, “Hurry it.”

  I closed the lid on the tin and went over to the closet to grab my church dress for Sunday service.

  Downstairs, Gunnar barked louder for his breakfast. Tossing the dress aside, I went down in my nightgown to light the oven.

  He had an old wooden toolbox sitting on the table, still gnawing for his tractor part, biting for Rose’s whereabouts.

  “Not like Rose to be late,” I said. “Hope she’s all right.” I glanced at him tapping the wrench against his long johns.

  “Humph, even Satan wouldn’t wrestle with that woman.”

  A loud horn poked the morning light. I ran to the front door and flung it open and saw the rusted jalopy coming down Royal Road.

  “There she is now,” I called to Gunnar. “Rose,” I hollered out the screen door, waving. “Rose . . .” I grabbed my sneakers from the f
oyer and pulled them on before barreling outside in my gown. Running alongside her big old green 1941 Dodge Canopy Express wagon, I ignored Gunnar’s demands to stay put and fix his breakfast.

  It had been nearly a month since I’d last seen the traveling trader. Rose Law was born in Nameless, and everything about her felt exciting and grand and what I imagined I’d find in the city. Miss Rose had a warm smile and a soft touch. Not a bit stuffy, when we’d first met, she’d pulled me into a hug and insisted I call her Rose, same as all the other youngsters.

  Rose climbed out of the truck, shucking off her travels. She hiked up her skirt, peeling back a half-slip with flame-colored blooms and a lacy scalloped hem. She played with the suspender clips on her girdle, tugged at her drooping nylons.

  “Hey, kid,” she greeted, patting her haystack-high hairdo, wriggling down the gathers in her carrot-orange shimmery skirt and matching blouse.

  Rose’s arrivals were big, bright. She looked like one of those she-devils on the paperback covers that she kept hidden in the back of her truck and wouldn’t lend me—what she called her “excitement books.”

  “Running a day late. My truck broke a belt in Louisville and I had to wait,” she prattled, “but I got Gunnar’s tractor part and—” Rose stopped and inspected my face. “Oh . . . looks like you’ve been drinking the Jesus juice again, kid.”

  Heat curled around my face, licked at my ears and scalp. Every time Gunnar punished me with his homemade elixir, the insides of my cheeks and lips would swell an’ tell for a week or more.

  Rose gritted her teeth and muttered a curse.

  “Gunnar’s been growling for that tractor part since yesterday morning.” I tried to change the subject.

  “Been growling for a’smackin’,” she chomped. “Lord, sometimes that fool man reminds me of my grandpap.”