Chapter 10
May 29, 1936
He did not scare me, not at first…
I walked to the back of our land just as I do every afternoon to get away from Papa. I traipsed carelessly into the clearing and rounded the large oak when I came upon a man. His clothes were soiled with dirty handprints on the front, and his pants wrinkled near the hems. A small bag hung loose from his shoulder. A sketchbook lay in his lap, the stub of a pencil rested between his fingers, and his back pushed against the large trunk of the oak tree as he slept.
Normally, a person like him would frighten me, but something about his facial expression caused me to pause. His features seemed soft, almost as if he hadn’t faced the hardships his clothes revealed, and his lips curved into a smile.
How strange to smile in your sleep…
I tiptoed over to the tree, picked up the nearest stick then poked him in the shoulder, quite sure the man would open his eyes and be alarmed at the fact he’d been caught trespassing.
I was wrong.
From still as death to quick as lightning, he pulled the end of the stick, and before I could let go, he had me on the ground. His dirty forearm pressed against my neck as my back pushed into the roots of the oak. His fingers dug deeper into the skin on my arm, while my other arm was pinned against the tree. I struggled against his weight, trying to free myself, but he was stronger.
The same lines that creased his face when he smiled deepened into something menacing as the edges of his lips straightened and his eyes shot a cold, hard stare. Tears welled in my own eyes, blurring my vision, and my lungs burned.
“Please,” I pleaded. I didn’t recognize the voice that came from my mouth: strangled and foreign. “Please,” I said again, barely a whisper, his grip so tight against my neck, no other words could escape.
A softness touched his gaze as he stared into my eyes, then he raised his forearm to release me. My head spun as I gasped for air and tried to push up to run, but my feet and legs failed me. I smashed forward to the ground again, landing on my palms. My wrist shouted in pain.
“Wait,” he called. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to harm you. I thought you were here to hurt me.”
More tears burned down my cheeks as I gripped my wrist, trying to suppress the throbbing ache. I dared to gaze back at him; his features had changed from stone cold hard to soft.
Opening his eyes wide, he creased his forehead. The threatening stare disappeared as an expression of sheer concern etched his face. My heart slowed at his new demeanor.
He walked closer and knelt next to me, reaching to wipe a tear away from my cheek.
I recoiled from his touch. “Leave me alone.” My voice shook.
“I’m not going to hurt you, I promise.” Slow and steady, he reached for my cheek again.
While his behavior seemed sincere, I was afraid of the anger I had just seen in him. I see meanness like that every day. But as I watched his movements, a deep part of me couldn’t help but wonder of this man all the same. How could he be so menacing one moment, then sweet the next?
Placing the calloused pad of his thumb on my cheek, he softly wiped my tears away. I held my breath as he moved his caress down to my arm. Gingerly, he took my wrist in his large grasp and easily turned it up then down while padding his fingers around the bones before he settled in next to me. “It’s just bruised.”
I didn’t know whether to run or to stay. My body shook as if it was cold, but it was the middle of summer.
“Adrenaline,” he said as if reading my thoughts. “It’ll pass.”
He was right. It did.
“Why did you poke me?” he asked.
To save you. “Strangers are not allowed to trespass on Papa’s property.” I tried to keep my voice firm, but it wavered.
He laughed, and my cheeks burned. After all he had put me through, he had the gall to laugh. Not only with his mouth, but his whole body. His shoulders shook up and down, while his eyes, chin, nose, lips, everything on him turned up in delight.
How dare he?
“Lady, you could have been killed, and the only thing you wanted to tell me was no trespassing?” He shook his head. “How’s your neck?”
I placed my hands to my throat, remembering his cold stare as his weight bore down on me. I shuttered again, though not from adrenaline. That glare had been close to Papa’s, and I prayed to never see it again. Yet, while Papa’s eyes always seemed evil, this man’s changed. They seemed innocent and caring. The logical side of me said to run, while a deep interest in this stranger rooted itself to my soul and begged me to stay.
“It’s fine,” I said.
“Well, if you were here to kill me, at least I would have died at the hands of a beautiful woman.”
I looked behind me to see of whom he referred.
He nudged me with his elbow. “I’m talking about you.”
“The sun has cooked your brain.” I stood on wobbly knees and smoothed my dress with trembling hands. Grass stains covered the side of my skirt. I had to get my dress off and soaking before Papa saw. Curious or not, I needed to leave, and so did this person. “It’s best you be on your way.”
The man stayed seated, his legs now outstretched and crossed at the ankles, his fingers twirling a piece of dead grass. He was obviously in no hurry to leave, and his easygoing attitude annoyed me. Did he not realize the danger he could be in?
“How did you get here?” I demanded. Besides the oak, the land sat empty. I did not see any sort of car or bike he could have rode in on.
He pointed his finger to the east. “I followed the tracks.”
The train tracks.
“And my brain is fine.” He stood and held out his hand. “I’m Samuel William Thomas.”
I refused to accept his offering, even though a longing in me yearned to reach my arm out, let him touch me in that gentle way again.
He stared down at his outstretched hand before pulling it back, a slight smirk on his face. “May I draw your image?”
“What?” I asked, certain I had misunderstood his question.
“May I draw you?”
“Me?” I didn’t know whether to blush or laugh in his face. First he tried to kill me, and then he wanted to draw me. His moods were dizzying. “I’m not pretty enough to draw. If you want to draw someone, draw my sister, Lila. She’s the pretty one.” I placed my hands on my hips. “But, you really must leave. If Papa finds you, he will—”
“He’ll what? Tell me to leave? I’m not worried about your papa.” Samuel grabbed his pencil off the ground. “And I don’t want to draw your sister. I want to draw you.”
He reached for my hand and pulled me back to a seated position. “You’re pretty enough, trust me.”
This man was either lying or crazy. Papa always told me I was smart, but not pretty. Lila received all the beauty, and my late brother, Richard, the brute.
Still, his eyes, his demeanor, so full of trust and excitement, drew me in.
“Fine.” I scowled at him, irritated more with myself than him. How could I be so drawn to someone that tried to hurt me? “You can draw me, but you have to hurry.” Dinnertime drew near, and I didn’t want to get in trouble.
The man hastily flipped his sketchbook open and pointed to an area where the flowers grew wild. “Go sit over there.”
Still unable to explain my interest in this stranger, I did as I was told.
If Papa had caught me outside with a man, I would have been in serious trouble. I was not supposed to be far away from the house, much less with a stranger, but something about Samuel had me less concerned about following the rules and more concerned about him. No one had ever called me beautiful before. Ever.
He scooted closer and reached for my hair. I shrank away, and he politely pulled his hand back. “May I?”
His eyes danced with merriment, like touching me and drawing me were the best things that had ever happened to him.
I nodded my permission, and he moved a strand of hair behind my left ear while he took a few pieces and placed them over my right shoulder. Gently, he tilted my chin up toward the sky.
His touch was warm, and even though his hands were rough and calloused, his actions were gentle. It was hard to believe these were the same hands that nearly strangled me moments before.
“Now, stay still.”
I sat and tried not to sneeze at the sun as his fingers and hand moved swiftly over the paper.
“What’s your name?”
Hesitant, I finally told him. “Myrtle.”
“Just Myrtle?”
“Smith. My name is Myrtle Smith.”
“That’s a beautiful name.”
I could not fight the smile that parted my lips. I had never thought Myrtle beautiful, until this dangerous yet kind man by the name of Samuel William Thomas said so.
I sat there as still as I could just as he had asked. His pencil continued to scratch the paper in quick succession, and his gaze danced back and forth between his pad and my face. I wanted to look away from him, avoid his deep, piercing gaze, but I did not. No one had ever looked at me so intensely without either hatred or sadness in their eyes. When I did not think I could stay still for a second longer, he told me he was finished.
“May I see?”
He held up the sketch. The person staring back at me had my eyes, but her smile was too genuine, too pretty to be my own. A smile of true beauty and joy. Contagious even.
“That picture is not me.”
“Sure it is.”
“No, it’s not.”
The portrait did not show a girl of fifteen, but a female who had blossomed into womanhood. That was not at all how I felt. While a part of me was irritated with this man for wasting my time, drawing an image nothing like my own, another part of me, deep down, could not help but wonder. Who was he? Why was he here?
“I swear it is.” He signed his name at the bottom. S.W. Thomas.
“Why S.W.?”
“Samuel William sounds too pretentious, don’t you think? Besides, it takes too long to sign.”
“I think Samuel William is a wonderful name.” I dared a small smile toward him. “But you can sign your pictures however you want. Besides—”
The sound of the train’s horn cut off my words. The late afternoon train meant Belle would have dinner on the table soon. I had to leave or risk suffering a whipping.
I scrambled to my feet, but he took my hand.
“Don’t leave. You’ve just gotten here.”
“I must.” I pulled out of his grasp and ran toward the house.
“When can I see you again?” he shouted.
I stopped and turned back around. “Tomorrow…”
Samuel, by far, is the most interesting person I have ever met. I thought about him through dinner, and as I sit here, writing in this journal, his lazy smile runs across my mind like a pleasant dream. Oh, I do hope he will be there tomorrow.