pdf of cover and chapter 1

8/7/2019 pdf of cover and chapter 1

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Quantity discounts are available on bulk orders. [email protected] for more information.

TAG Publishing, LLC2618 S. LipscombAmarillo, TX 79109www.TAGPublishers.comOffice (806) 373-0114Fax (806) [email protected]

ISBN: 978-1-934606-01-8

First Edition

Copyright 2010 Donna Walker-Nixon

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproducedin any form without prior written permission from thepublisher. This is a work of fiction. Any similarities toindividuals living or deceased is unintentional. The author and publisher disclaim all liability in connection with thisbook.


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To Mrs. Joiner, who showedus how to love, and to Tim and George.


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Canaans Oothoon

Donna Walker-Nixon received a Ph.D. in English fromTexas A&M at Commerce with a specialization in fiction,

poetry, drama and linguistics. She was the founding editor,with Marilyn Robitaille, of the Langdon Review of the Artsin Texas , the founding editor of Windhover: A Journal of Christian Literature , and the co-editor of the New Texas series with James Ward Lee. In 2001 and 2002, she was editor of CCTE Studies , the academic journal of the Conference of College Teachers of English. Dr. Walker-Nixon was honored

in 2002 as one of fifteen Minnie Stevens Piper professors inthe state of Texas. In 2004, she was the co-director of theLangdon Weekend , a festival of the arts in Granbury, Texas.


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Donna Walker-Nixon


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Canaans Oothoon

n the months after Alton passed, sometimes, he spoketo me. Careful of the floor nail, Momma . Cold winter

nights, when I would have waited for him to finish watchingHarold Taft, the Dean of Texas Weather Men. Alton losthis hearing in his last years, and the TV blared in the livingroom.

Careful, now. Hear? The voice gone. That distinct odor of coal oil that never left Altons clothes even after he retiredfrom the railroad gone, too. I lay in the bed, reaching across

the covers for Altons arm and clutching the empty air.Cousin Emma Mae once thought I shared all my worldlysecrets with her. If I told her I heard Altons voice, shed say,Twenty-five years ago, some murderer left my daughter ona back road in California. Alton gone six months, and you


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hear his voice. Its not fair.If I told anyone in Allards Crossing, wordd get back

to Andrew in his padded office, just a half block off thesquare in Lindsey. Dr. Hobbs, theyd say, you sure your mother ought to live out in the country by herself? Andrewhounded me to move into a retirement community, not twodoors down from his medical practice. I could have livedthere as easily as stay out in the country his thoughts, notmine.

When Alton passed, hed planted an early garden. Thismorning, I got up early to shell green beans for my dinner.The fruits of his labor, I tell myself. I needed to go to thestore to get some pork rind for the beans. Alton said I madethe best green beans in the county. I almost heard him, tellingme to get on down to the store, buy what I needed, and thendrive to Fort Worth to meet Emma Mae and eat one of themfancy lunches where she does the ordering and I nibble at theedges of them little sandwiches with the crust cut off.

I could have chosen the main highway to the store, butthem eighteen wheelers make a body take a second wind andsay prayers long and loud to the Lord. Not that at eighty, Ididnt sometimes prefer death to living, with all the achesand pains and arthritis. First thing, before I headed to the

store, I needed to check on Virtie.Virtie went with me to see the first Madame Bovary.Before that, I went to another fortuneteller who sat in a tentwith a sign that read, FORTUNES TOLD. CHEAP. Churchof Christ preachers told me Id go to hell for following inSauls footsteps when he contacted the Witch of Endor.Kids today give in to peer pressure, and I gave in when my

friend come back and said, That woman told me everythingabout my future. Virtie entered the musty tent with me, girlsholding hands and praying to God, Dont let us court thedevil unbeknownst. The woman smelled from where shewet herself. You will meet a tall, dark stranger from the


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North. He will turn your life around.Not two weeks later, a young man from Connecticut who

managed the cotton mill come to church. Within a month, Ipinned my hopes on him, only to have them dashed when hewent home for a visit and come back with a wife and a two-year-old baby.

After that, I lost faith in the future and told myself,Disappointment can be another one of the wages of sin.Then my brothers gypsy wife, who converted to theChurch but who still held on to her beliefs, told me about afortuneteller on the outskirts of Lindsey. I dont hold withpagan beliefs, I told her.

I learned my lesson with that other woman, and, besides,the church teaches against false prophesying. I claimed theBibles sufficiency.

To my dying day, Ill praise the Lord for giving me thepresence to change my mind. The first Madame Bovarypassed on several years back; now I see her daughter, thesecond Madame Bovary. Some fifty-five plus years ago, thefirst Madame Bovary took my hand, patted it softly. Do notdespair. I see in your not too distant future a young man, ahard worker. He has hair of gold. She paused. This doesnot make sense, but I see a child. A young girl, already three,

no five-years-old. Beautiful child, but with dark hair, not likeyours and not like the young mans.I bolted, not leaving my money behind. Less than a

month later, a young widower with golden flossy hair startedattending the Church of Christ. He brought with him hisbeautiful daughter Jasmine who had coal black hair. WhenAlton and I married a few months later, I claimed her as a

daughter, just like I had given her birth. Through the years,when the going got tough, when Jasmine died of emphysemaand I couldnt find comfort from Andrew, the second MadameBovary said, I see a bright future. Your daughter waits for you, but you have much to accomplish on this earth.


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On the road I usually take to Virties house, telephonerepairmen parked their big vehicles on the side of the calicheroad. I had to circle all the way around, down the road leadingby the old Snow place that belongs to Emma Mae and her husband Wilson. In the fall of 1921, old man Snow killedhis wife and her mother, then he found his stepson walkingon the road next to a farm nearby. Murdered that boy, too.He put the head in a tow sack and throwed it down the well.Some boys found the head when their dog wouldnt stopbarking. County sheriff placed the head on a pole in front of the Lindsey courthouse, hoping someone might recognize it.They caught the old man, and they hanged him. Folks saythe ghosts of them women haunt the area. I dont go that wayunless I absolutely have to, but I had to check on Virtie.

The caliche road stirred up a white thunder cloud as myold tires hit the country back roads. Off in the distance, justafter I passed the Snow place, I noticed the dry creek bednext to Virties place. The field leads to the west branch of Allards Creek that crosses my old home place and thensnakes back to Virties farm.

Virtie, you home? I didnt have to knock, just openthe door and come in. Virtie always had an open door, and ahouse that needs cleaning. Old newspapers dating back five

years or more, Virtie placed them next to her chair so shecould cut out recipes or articles about her cousins in FortWorth. I tried to push the papers into an orderly pile, notwanting to hurt Virties feelings by presuming to clean her house. I shuffled to the back of the house and nearly trippedover another pile of old newspapers with the slick ads lyingon top.

Virtie, Virtie. She didnt answer. I thought to myself,she must be out back feeding her geese. Them geese, theyflocked, squawked, hammered at my feet. Virtie. Finallyin the distance, down at the creek next to the bridge, I spottedVirtie. I couldnt figure out how she got there without me


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seeing her when I had just drove across that same bridge.There Virtie stood on the bridge, facing the old Snow

house, her eyes glazed like that man in Lindsey who livedon a main street and mowed his lawn in his underwear andt-shirt. Virtie peered over the metal frame. Her foot hung inthe broken wood where I had to make sure my tires didntget hung. Virtie started to fall. I grabbed her arm as hard asI could, and I caught her. We walked off the bridge together,me breathing one long sigh of relief.

Jesus come to me last night and told me to meet himhere, Virtie said, her eyes red, clouded like a blind dogs.

I stopped by on my way to the store and thought Idcheck in on you before going to see Madame Bovary. Her hands felt cold, clammy, but we walked hand in hand likeschool girls. She smiled. I had my Virtie back.

When we got to the house, Virties mind traveled her back to the past. Remember how we used to snuggle in your Grandmother Allards quilts on cold winter nights and giggleand make up stories about the men wed marry.

As jealous as the day is long, Emma Mae alwaysreminded me as how blood kins got to stick together.

We giggled like school girls, but it didnt last more thana moment till Virtie started talking about Jesus calling her

home and seeing Grandmother Allard in the clouds. Justover in the gloryland, she spoke the words of a song.I sang some of the words: There with the mighty host

well stand. I couldnt remember the rest. Do you remember,Virtie? She never could sing. Said songs sounded just likeany other words, but she liked their meanings. She startedtalking about her geese, and I told myself she knew enough

about her surroundings that I could safely leave her on her own til her son would come in at noon to check on her.I looked at my watch. Ten oclock, Virtie. Ive got to

meet Emma Mae for lunch, so Id best get going.Ive always called the view scenic. Emma Mae, Virtie,


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and me grew up listening to Grandmother Allard tellingstories from the Bible. Every time I passed the church, Icaptured mind pictures of our golden days.

A quarter mile down the caliche road, I pulled onto thepaved farm-to-market, just before the highway leading toMurles Guns and More. When I walked across the gravelparking lot, I glanced across the road at Allards CrossingCommunity School, remembering the end-of-schoolbarbeques where folks from years gone by come each May.Virtie and med sit in folded lawn chairs. I might comment toVirtie, or maybe Virtie commented to me: Why, I declare,if times aint changing. I dont recognize half of the folkshere. The otherd say, Me neither. Then Id tell Virtie Ihad to get some of her chocolate meringue pie before theygobbled it all up.

I savored, if you can call it that, kicking the little cementstones on the parking lot as I moved fast as I could to thegreen wooden door, where the paint flecked off in blotches.The screen fell down and covered the soda pop sign.

I wished I had time to have the second Madame Bovarytell me what the future held. I had questions, but at themoment, I had to get that pork rind, take it back to the house,and then head to Fort Worth.

At the edge of the three wooden slats that led up to thedoor, I braced myself to pull the door open, careful that thesummer breeze didnt throw it out of my hand. The door opened, almost of its own accord, and I almost run intoa stranger wearing one of them black mesh shirts. Nicerestaurants in large cities post signs saying, No shirt, noshoes, no service. The fancy folks at the Zodiac Club, no

wait!! The Zodiac Room. Theyd think this boy didnt wear a shirt appropriate enough for them.I reeled backwards off the wooden slat and back onto the

gravel. Not like most men, whod stop and say, Im sorry,Maam, at least three times, he kept walking, not paying


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attention to the fact that I stumbled and couldnt catch holdof the door. My black pumps the ones I have speciallymade to accommodate my left foot that turns inward theyscraped the ground too hard, making a crunching sound.Finally the young man stopped and asked, You all right?

Not hardly. Not knowing exactly why I answered thatway. In most instances, Id tell him that I couldnt help gettingon in years and I dont pay attention to doors opening andclosing like I used to. The boy turned his face toward me,pock marked with covered-over blemishes from childhoodacne. I stared into his ice-blue eyes and his burnished red,brown whiskers: his hair in a twisted knot of a ponytail. Onfirst glance, this boy looked like a young boy in his twenties.I saw more of those ice cold blue eyes and wrinkles, and Icouldnt help thinking this boy had to be at least thirty, if notolder.

I rushed to judgment and couldnt explain to myself why. Usually, Id have told myself, Now hold on, Girl.But them ice pick cold eyes, like little sneaky stars peoplingthe heavens. Mysterious, different, something Id never seenbefore, yet something I knew all too well my whole lifethrough. One of them memories thatll stay with me forever.Catching my balance, standing firm on the paved gravel,

my shoes planted like one of them standoffs in Altons oldwesterns: Marshall Matt Dillon facing square at some villainwe dont see as the music plays and the beginning fades to acommercial for Crest toothpaste.

He breathed in, then out. With that intake of breath, afaint odor, maybe of a rope burning. My brother used to work on a cattle ranch in West Texas, and he took me out one time

at branding time. If the cowboys got a rope too close to thefire, you could smell the rope sizzle. This fellow smelled likethat, and he didnt stop to say a word, not Im sorry, hopeyoure all right, Maam. Nothing, and Murle waltzed acrossthe floor of his store, flung open the door, and asked all the


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questions that this fellow shouldve asked in the first place.Miz Hobbs, Miz Hobbs, you didnt get hurt, did you?

Murle grabbed hold of my left arm and kept me fromfalling.

I thanked him mightily and told him so that hippie mancould hear, Now your mama raised you right.

Murle said he had to check on the gas pump which hadrun slow lately. The other fellow nodded and said, Kinfolksdont cheat their own. He pretty well knew he just losta dollar at least when he filled up. I noticed a lime greenVolkswagen van with stickers all on the front hood andpainted on the back a picture of a pink and white angel withflowing blonde hair and ice blue eyes like this hippie man.Daughters of Albion : the words in italics on the side in apurple, blue color that didnt match the lime green.

Always one to get along, rather than pick a quarrel,Murle allowed as how he never intended to cheat a singleliving soul, especially kin. Murle pulled out from his wallettwo one dollar bills. Here, this more than makes up for anymoney you might have lost on that tank.

You aint about to make money just giving it away, Iwanted to yell at Murle.

My wifes inside. Make yourself known, Murle said,

as I walked into the musty store.For the life of me, I never could figure out why he calledit Murles Guns and More when he carried fewer guns thanhe did more . Murle sold gas, grocery goods, used clothing,and a few guns in the little shack they built on to the sideof the store. When someone come by wanting a haircut,Madame Bovary cut hair and told fortunes for them what

wanted their fortunes told, not that she made a full livingtelling fortunes.Gossips one of my deadly sins, and I knew I shouldnt

ask after this man, but that burnt red beard made me shudder.Honey, honey, I called out to the second Madame Bovary,


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who sat in an old office chair watching her show on a littleblack and white television that she brung into the store.Whats that show?

Nothing, Madame Bovary answered and turned off theset.

You dont have to turn it off on my account.Almost over anyway, Madame Bovary said back.

Besides, youre here now.Honey, who was that man I just saw?The one with the ponytail?Thats the one.Small markers of place set the pace for the real

conversations that folks have. You cant help but recognizethem markers and think itd be mighty useful if you didnthave to rely on them.

Even when Alton was living and we could almost predictwhat the other would say next, them markers punctuated our conversations.

That boys no good. Dont you remember Hobart?Yes, who could forget Murles first cousin Hobart, that

buzzard. Andrew played on the Lindsey football team withhim, and Id heard tales of his drinking and running round onhis wife. That boy of Hobarts give his wife poison orange

juice. The jury let him go. A crying shame. But Murles nota thing like them, I tell her.This boy I just passed coming into the store, he calls

himself Canaan. Hobarts sisters son, the one she had whenshe went to live in Houston. Hobarts parents raised him inRed Oak close to Dallas. I remembered that story. I couldnthelp thinking, that boy cant be any good. Not with his

roots.Have you been to Lindsey lately? Madame Bovaryasked.

I went there just last weekend to do my weekly shopping.I felt disloyal, but sometimes you just have to go to the big


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city to get certain grocery items.Well, did I notice the old Perrys Five & Dime, on the

west side of the square.Lands yes. New owners, right? Theyve painted it purple.

Looks like a hippie shop where they sell items that shouldbe made illegal and incense that smells like sweet chewingtobacco about to go sour, if you ask me.

Well, that boy Canaan rented the shop and moved intothe room upstairs. Got plans to open up a store in a fewweeks; folks round these parts dont know exactly what kindof store. Hobart called on Murle to come and help with theelectrical wiring since Murle used to make his living as anelectrician. Them folks aint about to pay for something theycan get for free.

Pictures of nude men and women doing untowardthings plastered the walls. That boy painted them pictures.The decent ones show baby lambs and tigers in the jungle.Outside the range of Hobarts hearing, the boy told Murlethat hes the reincarnation of some English poet. WilliamBlake, Madame Bovary thought, but neither of us ever heardof this poet before.

Still, what with them modern poets and the things folkstoday call poetry, you know lines that dont rhyme, whos to

say?And hell call his new store the Daughters of Albion.Madame Bovary knew that much for sure since she heardMurle talking with Canaan earlier in the day.

Whats Daughters of Albion? I asked.I dont know. Let me ask Murle. She called his name,

but he didnt answer, and she concluded he had gone to the

supply room.Well, I dont need to know a single thing more. Allmy questions about this fellow had been summed up in twowords: Hobarts nephew. I told Madame Bovary, I need totalk to you when I get back from Fort Worth about some


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things that trouble my soul.Thursday ought to be good. Not Friday. I cut hair then,

Madame Bovary reminded me as she walked to the freezer in the back of the store and cut off a slab of pork rind.

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