Prodigal Summer - Barbara Kingsolver [100]
“Howdy, gentlemen,” she called from a decent distance as she approached, just in case they were about to say something they wouldn’t want her to hear. It embarrassed them to death if they let slip even so much as a “hell” or “damn” in her presence.
“Hey there, Miz Widener,” Big Rickie called to her. “I have a crow to pick with you!”
His friendliness caught her off guard. This crow didn’t seem very threatening. “What is it now, those cows I sold you and Joel? Did they all run off already? I warned you they were fence jumpers.”
“No ma’am, them cattle are behaving just fine, thank you. But now we leased them cattle, a percentage on the calves, let’s don’t forget. We don’t owe you unless they all get busy and get theirselves in the family way this winter.”
“I recall the terms, and I gave those girls their instructions.” Lusa smiled. Rickie and Joel had made her a good deal, and she knew it.
“No, now, our contention is with your antitobacco policy.”
“My what? Oh, I see. You’ve got me chalked up as the enemy of the small farmer.”
Rickie hid his cigarette quickly behind his back. Herb, Joel, Frank, and Herb’s son all followed suit. “No ma’am,” Big Rickie said. “We’ve got you chalked up with Miss Butcher, our tenth-grade shop teacher. She used to throw screwdrivers at us when she caught us smoking.”
“A woman, you had for a shop teacher? A Miss Butcher? I can’t believe that.”
“God’s honest truth,” Frank said. “I had her, Rickie and Joel had her, and Herb’s boy here did, too. By the time she retired she was somewheres around a hundred years old, and missing three fingers.”
“She should live to a hundred and twenty,” Lusa said. “Look at you. Despite her years of trial, you’re all still smoking like chimneys. Where’s my screwdriver?”
They ducked their heads like little boys. Lusa felt amazed to be the center of their attention. These men had never fully let her in on a conversation before. Possibly it was the elderberry wine, which Frank was now urging her to sample. He’d put it up in beer bottles, so it was hard to tell who was drinking what.
“Wow,” she said, after a taste. It was dry and strong, almost like brandy. “Good,” she added, nodding, since they seemed very interested in her opinion. “Although I hear it bites as the serpent.”
They exploded at that, all of them, even Herb. Lusa flushed a little, pleased to have earned this amity but also surprised to find herself allying with these men against their women. Or maybe it was just Mary Edna. There seemed to be resentment throughout the ranks on the Mary Edna score.
“So, Mr. Big Rickie. What’s this crow you have to pick with me, really?”
“Them goats up ’air in your back pasture. Now I see why you had Joel and me clear out all your cattle: to make way for the goats. I know what you got ’em for, too.”
“You do?” She felt a slight panic, for no reason. Had Little Rickie shared her plan? Would it really matter if he had?
“Yep.” Big Rickie had a twinkle in his eye.
“OK, why did I get those goats?”
“To make me look bad. They’ll eat down all the thistles and rose briars out of your hayfield neat as pickle. And see, now, a man drives by, he’ll look on the other side of the fence and say, ‘Well, sir, that old Big Rickie Bowling, his hay’s nothing but a mess of briars. I wouldn’t buy that hay for two cents.’”
“That’s exactly why I got goats, to wreck your hay trade. I couldn’t stand to sit here and watch you get rich selling hay.”
“Lord, Rickie,” Joel said, “woman’s going to ruin you. You’d just as well get out of farming altogether, with her running the competition.”
Were they making fun of her now? But this was how they spoke to each other, too—in a complicated mix of rue, ridicule, and respect that she was just beginning to grasp. They were also appreciating her figure rather frankly, especially Big Rickie and Herb’s son from Leesport, whatever his name was. Lusa pulled at her shirt, wondering if her nipples showed through somehow. She racked her brain for the