Heaven (Casteel 1)

"You tell that teacher to stay away and mind her own goddamned business," roared Pa, moving toward Logan in a threatening manner. "Now you've had your say, so git."

Calmly Logan swept his eyes around the cabin, drinking in all the poverty that was only too plain to see. I knew he was trying to keep pity and shock from showing in his eyes, but I saw it there, nevertheless. Logan's dark blue eyes met mine, giving me some silent message I didn't know quite how to interpret. "I hope to see you again in a few days, Heaven. I'll tell Miss Deale you're not sick. Now tell me where Tom is, and Fanny, Our Jane, and Keith."

"They've gone t'visit relatives," said Pa, throwing open the door, standing aside, and

motioning for Logan to go or be thrown out.

Logan glared at Pa. "You take good care of Heaven, Mr. Casteel."

"Get out," Pa said with disgust, and slammed the door behind Logan.

"Why'd that boy come?" he asked when I turned back to the stove, and Grandpa came stumbling in from the other room. "Did ya send fer him in some way, did ya?"

"He came because he cares, and Miss Deale cares, and the whole world is going to care when they know what you've done, Luke Casteel!"

"Thanks fer warning me," he said with a sneer. "I'm skerred, real skerred."

He was worse after that, even more vigilant.

I kept hoping and praying Logan would run into Fanny, and she'd tell him what was going on, and Logan would do something before it was too late. Yet, at the same time, I suspected Pa might have warned the Reverend to keep Fanny close until he had a chance to get rid of me.

I'd read in the newspapers about adopted children selling for ten thousand dollars, and Pa was stupid enough not to ask for that much. But five times five hundred meant he'd have more money than he'd ever had in his entire life; a fortune to any hillbilly in the Willies who couldn't think as high as a thousand.

"Pa," I said on the tenth day after Tom had gone, "how can you go to church every Sunday for most of your life, and do what you've done?"

"Shut up," he said, his eyes hard as flat river stones.

"I DON'T WANT TO SHUT UP!" I flared. "I want my brothers and sisters back! You don't have to take care of us. Tom and I found a way to support ourselves."

"Shut up!"

Oh, I hate you! my wild inner voice raged, even as my instinct warned me to keep quiet or be severely punished.

"Others sell their kids," he said suddenly, taking me off guard, that he would speak--to me--as if trying to explain himself, when I'd thought he'd never do such a thing. "I'm not t'first, won't be t'last. Nobody talks bout it, but it happens all t'time. Poor people like us have more kids than the rich ones who can afford kids, an we who can't afford em, most of us don't know how t'keep from havin em . . . .When there's nothin else betta t'do orna, cold winter's night but go t'bed an take what pleasure ya kin with yer woman-- we make our own gold mines, our kids, our pretty younguns. So why not take advantage of the laws of nature's balance?"

It was more than he'd said to me in my entire life. And he was well now, his cheeks were flushed with healthy color, no longer gaunt. Strong, high cheekbones--damned handsome face! If he died, would I feel sorry? No, I told myself over and over, not in a million years.

Late one night I overheard him talking to Grandpa, saying all sorts of melancholy things about his life going to pot, kids holding him back, keeping him from reaching the goal he'd set for himself. "When I get all the money, Pa, it won't be too late. I'm going on t'do what I always wanted, and woulda done but fer her . . . an em . ."

I stopped crying that night. Tears didn't do any good.

I stopped praying for God to send back my brothers and sisters, stopped thinking Logan would be able to save me. I stopped betting on Miss Deale, and fate that had killed her mother, and lawyers who were holding her in Baltimore. I had to plan my own escape.

Sunday the sun came out. Pa ordered me to dress in my best, if I had any best. My heart jumped, thinking he'd found a buyer. His hard eyes mocked me. "It's Sunday, girl, churchgoing time," he said, as if several Sundays hadn't come and gone without any Casteel showing up.

Hearing the word "church," Grandpa immediately brightened. With stiff joints and many grunts and groans he managed to pull on his only fairly decent clothes, and soon we were ready for our trip into Winnerrow and church.

The church bell chimed clear, resonant tones, giving me a certain false serenity, the sense that God was in his heaven and all was right with the world; as long as the church stood, the bell kept ringing, the people kept coming, kept singing, kept believing.

Pa parked our truck far from the church (others had taken all the close parking places), and we walked the rest of the way, with him holding my arm in a viselike grip.

Those already in the church were singing when we entered.

"Bringin in the sheaves, Bringin in the sheaves, We shall go rejoicin,

Bringin in the sheaves . . ."

Sing, sing, sing. Make the day brighter, make it less cold, less forbidding. I closed my eyes, saw Our Jane's sweet small face. Kept them closed, heard Miss Deale's soaring soprano. Still keeping my eyes closed, I felt my hand clasped in Tom's, felt Keith tugging on my skirt, and then came that loud, commanding voice. I opened my eyes and stared up at him, wondering how he could buy a child and then call her his own.