While he hoed corn, I killed two chickens and fried them, baked fresh cornbread. I stuffed underwear, a dress and a nurse’s uniform into a pillowcase. Then I put on an old shirt and a pair of overalls.

Flora stopped by on her way to call the cows.

“You’re going, aint you? You aint never been good at hiding how you feel.”

“Florrie, dont think hard of me.”

“Honey, I dont. When you love somebody, you got to stand by them.”

I started to cry. “I aint sure whether to be scairt or happy.”

“You cant pull them two apart,” she said. “Now you go on. Just promise you’ll be back.”

“You know I will.”

We left as soon as it was dark, walking down Grapevine by lantern light. The full moon was out. Rows of weeping willows leaned and trailed their leaves like the trains of giant ladies-in-waiting. A rim of light glowed behind the black curve of the mountains and a night breeze rushed from the mouth of Bearwallow.

We stopped toward dawn and slept on a high rock above the river. I dreamed of fairies and Wuthering Heights and great adventures. One night, outside Louisa, we flagged down a slow train, a “redneck special” Rondal called it, heading for Charleston. He leaped into a boxcar and pulled me after him. Moonlight flashed between the wooden slats. We made love to the rhythm of the rails, and afterwards fed each other fried chicken.

Nineteen

RONDAL LLOYD

SOMETIMES I THINK I HATE HER. IT’S NOT HER FAULT. ALL IN all, she’s one of the best women I know, right up there with Annadel Justice and Violet Marcum. But a certain look on her face brings the anger up in me, a look of such assurance that I can’t abide it.

She put that look into words only once. We were in bed at the Fleetwood Hotel. She pressed up against me despite the heat.

“I love you like my own kin,” she said.

I was glad I couldn’t see her face in the dark. I knew what it looked like, the lips pressed together, her gray eyes lit with expectation. Nobody I know expects as much as she does.

“Kin aint got a thing to do with this,” I said. I can still hear the impatient edge of my voice. “Hit’s like water running and cant nobody hold it back. But when it’s gone, it’s gone. That aint like kin.”

My impatience melted like ice when she pulled away at the tone of my voice. That’s when I know she’s just like the rest of us, that she’s not any stronger, that she’s not like Mommy, who can’t be hurt by anyone but Jesus. I can come close to loving Carrie then, after I’ve hurt her.