drove faster, talked louder. I smiled inside thinking he was all heated up from the love scenes, imagining himself as a hero driving a buggy through the fiery streets of Atlanta. He was young and longing for an opportunity to prove his courage.
I had seen proof of this when he was courting Sheila. One day he had narrowly missed being gored by the Jersey bull, Franklin, when he jumped in the lot and waved his red handkerchief like a bullfighter. Another time on a Friday after the milk run, Stoney had dared Shorty to throw knives at him, and he had stood unblinking against the barn door as a reluctant Shorty tossed wobbling blades around him.
When we returned from the show that night, I had trouble falling asleep. I imagined Stoney’s hand sliding up my thigh; I felt his eyes burning like hot suns through my chest. But the worst thought, the one secret I never told, was the monstrous idea that swallowed up reason in my brain. What if? I asked myself. What if Sheila got sick like Aunt Doris and died and Stoney fell in love with me?
C HAPTER 6
Grandma says you have to watch out for the worm in the apple, and perfect as my friendship with Sheila was, an occasional crawler wiggled into our relationship. One such time was the day we went on a picnic to Johnsons’ Hole.
Johnsons’ Hole was part of the Tickfaw River that ran along the eastern boundary of Lexie County and on into Louisiana where it widened and burst into Lake Mariposa. In some places the river was only four feet wide as it twisted and turned beneath the high red clay banks. On a narrow rutted lane jutting off from Johnsons’ Road, you came to a horseshoe bend cut out in the tangle of cottonwoods and pine and ash. Here the water deepened and then turned azure against a small beach of white sand. This was Johnsons’ Hole, our shady swimming spot that was always winter cold on the hottest of days. It was my idea to take a picnic lunch to this perfect place one hot July day.
Mama said the two of us could go if we promised to be back by afternoon milking. I loaded our picnic basket with leftover roast, biscuits, pears, and two pieces of chess pie. Sheila brought a quart jar of iced tea and a holey quilt which Stoney’s mother had given them. Sheila had never been on a picnic except for the annual church one, and I told her that secular picnics were a lot more fun. For one thing you didn’t have to wait for the preacher to bless the fried chicken for a half hour before you got some.
We rode out with the truck windows down, a hot wind blowing across our faces. I felt so happy I thought I should be singing or dancing or spinning around to show my feelings. I had dreamed of having a Best Friend on days like this, and now she was sitting beside me in the truck, laughing and teasing me about my scraggly ponytail. “You ought to brush your hair one hundred and one strokes every night, Annette,” Sheila said. “Then it’ll get thicker, and when you get your monthlies, it will be curly too.”
I turned to look at her hunched over the steering wheel. “That so?”
She took a quick glance at me. She was a better driver now and she concentrated on staying straight on the right side of Carterdale Road. “Well, it happened to two of my Mama’s sisters and some other folks we knowed, and I know my hair went wavy some the day I started wearing the rag.”
I calculated that there were a lot more straight-haired people in the world than curly-locked ones, but I trusted that I would be one of the lucky ones that received the miracle. If Sheila said it would happen, then it surely would. She and Stoney had been married for eight months then, and she had become my personal encyclopedia from A to Z on all matters of the body and the heart.
When we arrived at Johnsons’ Hole, Sheila spread out the quilt on the white sand and immediately sat down and kicked off her shoes. Pulling off her socks, she jumped up and ran to the water’s edge where she dipped one foot in and
I had seen proof of this when he was courting Sheila. One day he had narrowly missed being gored by the Jersey bull, Franklin, when he jumped in the lot and waved his red handkerchief like a bullfighter. Another time on a Friday after the milk run, Stoney had dared Shorty to throw knives at him, and he had stood unblinking against the barn door as a reluctant Shorty tossed wobbling blades around him.
When we returned from the show that night, I had trouble falling asleep. I imagined Stoney’s hand sliding up my thigh; I felt his eyes burning like hot suns through my chest. But the worst thought, the one secret I never told, was the monstrous idea that swallowed up reason in my brain. What if? I asked myself. What if Sheila got sick like Aunt Doris and died and Stoney fell in love with me?
C HAPTER 6
Grandma says you have to watch out for the worm in the apple, and perfect as my friendship with Sheila was, an occasional crawler wiggled into our relationship. One such time was the day we went on a picnic to Johnsons’ Hole.
Johnsons’ Hole was part of the Tickfaw River that ran along the eastern boundary of Lexie County and on into Louisiana where it widened and burst into Lake Mariposa. In some places the river was only four feet wide as it twisted and turned beneath the high red clay banks. On a narrow rutted lane jutting off from Johnsons’ Road, you came to a horseshoe bend cut out in the tangle of cottonwoods and pine and ash. Here the water deepened and then turned azure against a small beach of white sand. This was Johnsons’ Hole, our shady swimming spot that was always winter cold on the hottest of days. It was my idea to take a picnic lunch to this perfect place one hot July day.
Mama said the two of us could go if we promised to be back by afternoon milking. I loaded our picnic basket with leftover roast, biscuits, pears, and two pieces of chess pie. Sheila brought a quart jar of iced tea and a holey quilt which Stoney’s mother had given them. Sheila had never been on a picnic except for the annual church one, and I told her that secular picnics were a lot more fun. For one thing you didn’t have to wait for the preacher to bless the fried chicken for a half hour before you got some.
We rode out with the truck windows down, a hot wind blowing across our faces. I felt so happy I thought I should be singing or dancing or spinning around to show my feelings. I had dreamed of having a Best Friend on days like this, and now she was sitting beside me in the truck, laughing and teasing me about my scraggly ponytail. “You ought to brush your hair one hundred and one strokes every night, Annette,” Sheila said. “Then it’ll get thicker, and when you get your monthlies, it will be curly too.”
I turned to look at her hunched over the steering wheel. “That so?”
She took a quick glance at me. She was a better driver now and she concentrated on staying straight on the right side of Carterdale Road. “Well, it happened to two of my Mama’s sisters and some other folks we knowed, and I know my hair went wavy some the day I started wearing the rag.”
I calculated that there were a lot more straight-haired people in the world than curly-locked ones, but I trusted that I would be one of the lucky ones that received the miracle. If Sheila said it would happen, then it surely would. She and Stoney had been married for eight months then, and she had become my personal encyclopedia from A to Z on all matters of the body and the heart.
When we arrived at Johnsons’ Hole, Sheila spread out the quilt on the white sand and immediately sat down and kicked off her shoes. Pulling off her socks, she jumped up and ran to the water’s edge where she dipped one foot in and
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