Read Online Heading Out to Wonderful by Robert Goolrick - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Robert Goolrick
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teat. For three whole minutes he sat and waited.
“Sunday week.”
“We understand each other? You get what I’m saying?”
“I ain’t stupid, sir. I heard every word. I’ll think on it.”
“Sunday week?”
“That’s what I said.”
“I’ll bring cash money.”
“I asked you to leave. I’d like you to do that now.”
They shook hands, like two men at a funeral. Boaty was careful not to wipe his hands on his pants until after he had gotten in the car and driven away, the girl standing in the garden, basket full, staring after his Cadillac until the dust had settled back on the road and the drone of the cicadas could be heard again, the wind rushing through the corn, replacing the swish of the car’s wheels, the dust from the dirt road blowing into the girl’s eyes.
When he went back in two weeks’ time, the girl was standing on the porch, wearing an old dress that was clean and smelled of sun and fresh night air. Beside her was a suitcase that Boaty gently explained to her she wouldn’t be needing. Her whole family was gathered around her, except the father, silent, dressed as though for Sunday church.
Inside, the big blond man sat at the kitchen table. He looked drunk, the Mason jar empty in front of him on the greasy flowered linoleum. He looked like he’d been crying, but it was hard to tell. Boaty put a document in front of him, a piece of paper that gave Harrison Boatwright Glass the right to marry the girl, and ownership of the farm. The man didn’t even ask what the paper was. He just signed his name carefully and in full.
Boaty got out the cash and then hesitated. “You made it clear to the girl that this is forever? No running off?”
“She understands that.”
“It says so in the contract you just signed. So you better be sure.”
“I’m sure. She knows the deal. She’s yours, mister.”
Then, after Boaty had put the cash money on the table, without counting it the father handed over her birth certificate, yellowed and stained, and all he said was, “When do I get my tractor?”
CHAPTER SIX
W HEN THEY GOT to the cattle guard at the end of the rutted dirt drive that led to the gravel road that led to the blacktop back to town, Sylvan touched Boaty’s arm and said two of the only four words she was to say that day: “Please stop.” She said it in a gentle voice with an accent that was strangely refined.
She turned her head and looked back through the cloud of dust at her family gathered on the porch. The father had joined his wife, his hand in her hand, both shy and sad. Around them, the brothers and sisters, one boy with a baby of his own on his arm, stood and stared. Sylvan looked for two full minutes, still, not moving, like she was taking a photograph in her mind, the hot breeze from the road spinning blonde cobwebs of her hair around her head. Then the family all scattered, running off to do chores or play in the fields.
The father stood alone on the porch, and the light caught the tears in his eyes as he forlornly waved at his leaving child, and she waved back, although he could never have seen her. She seemed to want to call out, to cry some last thing to him, but she made no sound at all. After a time she turned back and looked straight ahead. There were tears on her cheeks. She did not brush them away, or try in any way to hide them.
“Now?” Boaty asked.
She nodded, and they rode the twenty miles back to town in silence. At Boaty’s house, a justice of the peace waited, along with Will Haislett and Alma, who had been called to be witnesses because Will was practically the only man around who would stand up for him. With them stood the foremen of two of Boaty’s farms, hired hands standing awkwardly in dirty shoes and clean white shirts, buttoned at the collar, their big red hands fumbling with handkerchiefs in the heat.
Sylvan signed some papers without even bothering to read them. What did it matter what the paper said? Then they stood in front of the
“Sunday week.”
“We understand each other? You get what I’m saying?”
“I ain’t stupid, sir. I heard every word. I’ll think on it.”
“Sunday week?”
“That’s what I said.”
“I’ll bring cash money.”
“I asked you to leave. I’d like you to do that now.”
They shook hands, like two men at a funeral. Boaty was careful not to wipe his hands on his pants until after he had gotten in the car and driven away, the girl standing in the garden, basket full, staring after his Cadillac until the dust had settled back on the road and the drone of the cicadas could be heard again, the wind rushing through the corn, replacing the swish of the car’s wheels, the dust from the dirt road blowing into the girl’s eyes.
When he went back in two weeks’ time, the girl was standing on the porch, wearing an old dress that was clean and smelled of sun and fresh night air. Beside her was a suitcase that Boaty gently explained to her she wouldn’t be needing. Her whole family was gathered around her, except the father, silent, dressed as though for Sunday church.
Inside, the big blond man sat at the kitchen table. He looked drunk, the Mason jar empty in front of him on the greasy flowered linoleum. He looked like he’d been crying, but it was hard to tell. Boaty put a document in front of him, a piece of paper that gave Harrison Boatwright Glass the right to marry the girl, and ownership of the farm. The man didn’t even ask what the paper was. He just signed his name carefully and in full.
Boaty got out the cash and then hesitated. “You made it clear to the girl that this is forever? No running off?”
“She understands that.”
“It says so in the contract you just signed. So you better be sure.”
“I’m sure. She knows the deal. She’s yours, mister.”
Then, after Boaty had put the cash money on the table, without counting it the father handed over her birth certificate, yellowed and stained, and all he said was, “When do I get my tractor?”
CHAPTER SIX
W HEN THEY GOT to the cattle guard at the end of the rutted dirt drive that led to the gravel road that led to the blacktop back to town, Sylvan touched Boaty’s arm and said two of the only four words she was to say that day: “Please stop.” She said it in a gentle voice with an accent that was strangely refined.
She turned her head and looked back through the cloud of dust at her family gathered on the porch. The father had joined his wife, his hand in her hand, both shy and sad. Around them, the brothers and sisters, one boy with a baby of his own on his arm, stood and stared. Sylvan looked for two full minutes, still, not moving, like she was taking a photograph in her mind, the hot breeze from the road spinning blonde cobwebs of her hair around her head. Then the family all scattered, running off to do chores or play in the fields.
The father stood alone on the porch, and the light caught the tears in his eyes as he forlornly waved at his leaving child, and she waved back, although he could never have seen her. She seemed to want to call out, to cry some last thing to him, but she made no sound at all. After a time she turned back and looked straight ahead. There were tears on her cheeks. She did not brush them away, or try in any way to hide them.
“Now?” Boaty asked.
She nodded, and they rode the twenty miles back to town in silence. At Boaty’s house, a justice of the peace waited, along with Will Haislett and Alma, who had been called to be witnesses because Will was practically the only man around who would stand up for him. With them stood the foremen of two of Boaty’s farms, hired hands standing awkwardly in dirty shoes and clean white shirts, buttoned at the collar, their big red hands fumbling with handkerchiefs in the heat.
Sylvan signed some papers without even bothering to read them. What did it matter what the paper said? Then they stood in front of the
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