GodPretty in the Tobacco Field by Kim Michele Richardson Page B

me my marriage bed by the time I get my fourteenth birthday. Aim to get away ’fore they . . . they try and sell me . . . or lock me away up there . . . like Sis—” She dragged her words into a sob. Her face tightened and a fat teardrop fell from her wide honey eyes onto the three pennies.
    â€œWhat? Oh, Baby Jane”—I pressed her head to my shoulder—“no one’s gonna lock you away or sell you.” I stroked her long braid. Though I wasn’t too sure of anything lately.
    A trembling cry caught in her breath. “B-been selling some of the eggs I get for workin’ for the Millers when Pa ain’t countin’ too hard.” She wiped her watery eyes with her tiny fists. “Don’t tell no one.”
    â€œI promise.” I reached over and pulled my lunch pail onto my lap. “Hungry?” I asked again, trying to cheer her.
    Baby Jane licked her lips, swallowed hard, then looked away. “I—I ain’t hungry,” she denied. “Don’t need much to eat, neither.” She pressed a hand into her small belly, pushed.
    â€œYou love the butter and bread. Made you two today,” I coaxed.
    Stubbornly she shook her head. “They see me eating, they might . . . s-sell me, too.”
    The weight of my heart doubled and felt hot. At least I had food. And there was my land to bring to a marriage bed. I looked over at my own tiny patch in the five acres that would be mine someday. “Not yours yet,” Gunnar had said when he’d showed me the deed long ago, “and doesn’t include all of mine,” he added. He’d tapped the paper. “Fully and legally on our daughter RubyLyn Royal Bishop’s marrying day, or eighteenth birthday, whichever comes first,” my parents’ Last Will instructed.
    But I wouldn’t be tied to the land like Gunnar. I was going to be an artist. Rose said it could happen. And Mr. Parker even hung one of my barn drawings up at the Feed & Seed. Weren’t no time before he sold it to someone passing through for a whole five bucks. I had my tobacco to get me out of here, my art to keep me there. But Baby Jane . . .
    â€œLong day. Here, eat.” I nudged, pulling out the slice of buttered bread and handing it to her. “And stop by this evening or in the morning. I’m running low on eggs.”
    She sniffled, took a small nibble, then gave it back. “You are?”
    I frowned and put it back in the lunch pail. “Yeah. And don’t be worrying none about those baby-buyers and marriage, okay? Keep this fortune close.” I curled her hand over the paper and pressed.
    Baby Jane looked anxiously up at Stump Mountain, then slowly opened the folds of the tobacco paper, running her fingertip over the drawings. She pressed it to her chest with a lopsided grin. “It’s so beautiful, RubyLyn.”
    â€œSpecial ones are.” I smiled.
    â€œ Special .” Her face lit as she inspected the folds of the paper fortune-teller, tracing the basket and chickens. She peered curiously at the name Frank and looked back up at me.
    I nodded.
    Baby Jane blushed.
    I tapped the drawing of the chicken. “One day you’ll have fancy chickens.”
    â€œChickens,” Baby Jane marveled.
    â€œSure will.” I couldn’t help sending up a prayer. “The best birds in all ’tucky.”
    She stared at her chicken fortune-teller, then leaned in, wrapped a sweaty arm around me and squeezed tight.
    â€œOh, thank you, RubyLyn!” she exclaimed. “This is the prettiest fortune ever . Even better than the pictures in the book you gave me!”
    I laughed. When Baby Jane was five, I’d found an old book on Gunnar’s bookshelf, The Little Red Hen . Baby Jane had pestered me to read it to her so many times that I finally gave it to her. Ever since, Baby Jane’d taken an interest in hens.
    â€œEven better than Alma Smithy’s fortune,” she