The Cabin

This short story is for my fellow blogger Kevin’s No Theme Thursday for 9/26/24. Every week, Kevin puts up an amazing assortment of digital art for this event. Please check out his site!

The car stopped and the foster family guy pointed. “Well, here we are,” he said. “That’s their house.”

I wouldn’t call it so much a house as a shack. It was back in the woods quite a ways and the roof was covered in pine needles. The dirt driveway was filled with weeds. I guess they didn’t get out much.

“C’mon,” the man said. He grabbed some paperwork from the front seat and closed the door. “Let’s meet your new family.”

My parents were killed in a car crash when I was eight, in 1937. My grandparents had died and my mom and dad had no siblings. I was put into North Carolina’s foster care system and for the next nine years, bounced around between foster families. Some were better than others, but I always felt like a guest, an intruder, never really part of anyone’s family. At 17, I supposed this one in Wilke’s Cove–near Wilmington–was the last one, so I really didn’t care.

The foster guy knocked on the mildewed screen door and a woman answered. She was tall, angular…gaunt, really…and had prominent frown lines. She wore a threadbare dress and an apron. The man spoke.

“Mrs Robertson?” he asked, taking off his hat politely. “This is Jim, your new foster son.” She looked me up and down with a faint scowl, then held the door open. “Well, come on, I guess you might as well come in.”

The house was damp and smelled musty. In the corner, a man in an undershirt sat in a recliner chair. He held a bottle and stared vacantly at the floor.

Mrs Robertson shouted. “Kids! Come and meet the new foster boy.” Foster boy. Nice.

Four kids appeared and stood against the living room wall. Mrs Robertson pointed to each in turn. “That’s William, he’s eight. That’s Samuel, twelve. Michael is fifteen, and Cheryl is seventeen.” She pointed at me. “This is James, he’s also seventeen.” James? Nobody ever called me that.

The Robertson kids stared at me as the state foster guy and Mrs. Robertson conversed in the kitchen and signed forms. The boys gave me the usual looks: contempt, scorn, smirks. Cheryl was different. She was a pretty girl with dark hair and green eyes. She had her hair pulled back in a ponytail and even though her dress was also threadbare, she still managed to look classy. She smiled and I felt something stir.

The foster guy made his final goodbyes and left. Mrs. Robertson looked at me sharply. “Now James,” she said, “We all pull our weight here. This is not a hotel. You’ll share a room with Michael and help with the chores.” Her face remained hardened. “There’s also an opening for a stock boy at Mack’s. I’ve spoken with the owner and you can start Saturday.” She looked as though she dared me to say something. When I didn’t, her face softened slightly. “All right. Michael, take James to your room. Supper will be in half an hour.”

Mack’s Country Store was about a 15-minute ride on the rusty old bike Mrs Robertson let me use. Inside, there was a lady taking cans out of a box and putting them on the shelf. She wore her graying hair in braids. She sensed me, stood and turned.

Unlike Mrs Robertson, she was very pretty and had a kind face. “You must be James,” she said, as she reached to shake my hand.

“Yes, ma’am. But you can call me Jim.”

“All right, Jim it is. You can call me Rita. Let me show you around.”

As we walked up and down the aisles, I learned she was a widow; her husband Mack had died of a heart attack almost ten years ago. Luckily, he had life insurance, and the store, so Rita was comfortable. “Come on,” she said. “Let me show you my favorite place.”

Out back were docks with gas pumps, chairs, and a small boat. Cypress trees covered with Spanish moss rose from the black water of a swamp that came almost up to the store. We sat and she asked me about myself. That didn’t happen too often, and when it did, I usually said as little as possible. But there was something about her, something trustworthy. I found myself unloading a lot of stuff that I had never told anyone. She nodded and listened without interrupting. I wiped a tear away with embarrassment and she touched my hand.

“Jim,” she said gently. “That’s quite a story. I’m sorry for all the sadness you’ve had to endure, especially losing your mother and father so young.” As we stood, she embraced me. I wasn’t used to getting hugs but it seemed so natural, so welcome. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said with a smile.

I learned the guy in the chair with the bottle was Mr. Robertson. He had served in the Army in WWII and had seen some of the worst of it. He suffered from battle fatigue…they used to call it being shell shocked…and didn’t work. They got by on his monthly disability check and I guess that’s why their clothes were so shabby and the house was so rundown. He never said anything, just sat in his chair with his bottle, staring. It was creepy.

The boys were cruel. They were all younger than me, so I didn’t need to worry about being beaten up like at some other homes. But no matter what I did, no matter how polite I was or how hard I tried to befriend them, they whispered behind my back and laughed. They make jokes at dinner about “the orphan kid” who nobody wanted. They ignored me, snubbed me. Mrs. Robertson was always scowling at me. I got the impression the only reason she tolerated me was because of the check the foster people sent her each month.

I was pulling weeds one afternoon when Cheryl came over. We had hit it off. Unlike her brothers, she was always nice to me. We sat together on the school bus, our hips touching. There were times when we were washing dishes and our hands touched. Something sparked and we both felt it; neither wanted to be the first to pull away. During dinner, we kept looking at each other. One time I came into the bathroom just as she was getting out of the shower. She smiled and wrapped a towel around herself, but not before my assessment of her beauty rose even higher. She was stunning.

She sat down near me while I continued to pull weeds. “Hey,” she said.

“Hey.”

“Uhmm…I wanted to ask you something.”

I stopped pulling weeds, got on my knees and looked at her. Her brown hair shone in the sun and I noticed she had a lot of red in it. “There’s that harvest moon dance at school coming up and I, uh, wondered if you might go. With me, I mean.”

I must have looked surprised because she quickly continued. “I mean, you’re not my real brother, and there’s nobody at school I really like, and it might be fun.” She bit her lip.

“Sure,” I said. That would be fun.” She smiled, leaned over and kissed my cheek, then ran back into the house.

As we expected, Mrs. Robertson was dead set against it and for a month muttered and gave me dirty looks. The boys heard about it and openly mocked and derided me, wondering aloud why their sister was going to a dance with an orphan boy.

Cheryl and I began taking long walks together in the woods, talking. We learned much about each other and our friendship deepened into something more, a relationship. We started holding hands and I told her all about my past. She shared the horrors of her father in the war, the letters that became progressively darker, then stopped altogether, her mother falling into bitterness and despair. When he came home, he was almost unrecognizable, a shell who lost himself in the bottle. They barely had enough to make ends meet and had kept a succession of foster kids, most of them tough and defiant, who also made life hard on Cheryl. But on our walks…or sometimes her sitting on the handlebars of the bike as I pedaled down country roads…our pains were forgotten.

One afternoon, Rita loaned us her boat and we went deep into the swamp with Cheryl in the bow, pointing the way. Cypress knees and lily pads were everywhere; I caught sight of an alligator slipping off the bank into the dark water. Finally, we came to a small island with a cabin. “C’mon,” Cheryl said. “Nobody’s lived here for years.”

The day before the dance, I was working at Mack’s. Rita came out, hands behind her back. “Close your eyes,” she said with a grin. When I opened them, she was holding a shopping bag; inside was a new shirt, pants, and pair of dress shoes. “I hope they fit,” she said. “Cheryl snooped and told me the sizes.”

“Also,” she said, handing me the keys to her car. “For taking Cinderella to the ball in style.”

I didn’t know what to say; no one had ever done something so thoughtful. She hugged me again and smiled. “Cheryl really likes you,” she said. “I hope you have a good time.”

As we danced, the stiff awkwardness of being on our first date wore off and the arms-length formal steps gave way to us dancing with my arms around her waist and her hands around my neck. She nestled into me and all the longing while washing dishes or cleaning up together disappeared.

During one song, she broke away and looked at me. She was beautiful in the dim light; her eyes shone and her lips were parted. We kissed for what seemed a really long time; we couldn’t get enough of each other. We drove home the long way with a fat yellow moon and all the smells of Autumn; the smoky tang of fireplaces, the musty smell of leaves, the loamy smell of hayfields and baled hay. I drove with my arm around her and we frequently kissed and said things to each other that left no room for doubt.

When we walked in the door, I knew we were in for it. Word had somehow reached Mrs. Robertson about our affection at the dance and her her face was blotchy with rage. “How dare you!” she shouted. “Who do you think you are? You’re just some damn scum I put up with for the money! And now you’re kissing? Your sister?!”

“Mom!” Cheryl shouted! “He’s NOT by brother! And I love him!”

“Love? LOVE?! You don’t know what love is! And with this mongrel piece of shit?” Mrs Robertson said with as much venom as she could muster. She looked at me coldly. “That’s it. I want you packed and out of here within 15 minutes. Screw the foster money, I want your scummy ass away from my daughter.” She went into her bedroom and slammed the door. In the corner, as always, Mr. Robertson sat in his chair with his bottle, silent, staring at nothing.

I took Cheryl to one side and whispered to her. She looked at me with shining eyes and nodded. I kissed her goodbye, took my stuff, and with nowhere else to go, drove to back to Mack’s.

I could see the light on in Rita’s little house that was built on to the back of the store. I returned the car keys and told her what had happened. “Oh my Lord,” she said with her hands to her mouth. “What are you going to do now?” I told her and she fixed me up a place to sleep in the stock room. It would only be for a few nights.

I made all the arrangements and when everything was set, I lightly tapped on Cheryl’s window one afternoon. Rita was waiting in the car with a big grin as Cheryl ran down the weedy driveway with a bag with all her stuff. With Rita serving as the witness, we were married in the first Baptist church of Wilke’s Cove. When the part came about you may kiss the bride, I didn’t need a second invitation.

As twilight yielded to night, we pushed the door to the cabin open with its familiar squeal. With Rita’s help, I had cleaned it out, made up the bed, filled the cupboards with food and did what I could to make it cheerful.

I lit the lantern and the warm glow filled the cabin. With the moon flooding though the dusty bedroom window we gave ourselves to each other slowly and gratefully; each caress, each movement instinctive, an expression of our pent-up desire. We cried out together, and that was it; I broke down and wept at the gift of such immense worth. She kissed me and murmured and as the night birds called and the alligators croaked, as we fell asleep, exhausted, in each other’s arms.

That began a month-long period that, looking back, now seems unreal. We ate baked beans out of the can by the light of the lantern; I couldn’t imagine the finest steak dinner tasting any better. There was an old guitar in the second bedroom and I tuned it and played; it was one of the things I had picked up in one of my foster homes. The sunlight sparkled on the water during the day and at night, the waning moon still provided light during our love making. I shared a secret with her; I had applied to NC State University and had been accepted; I wanted to become an engineer. She cried and hugged me.

One afternoon, we heard the puttering of a boat approaching our cabin. It was Rita and she looked stricken. “I’ve got some terrible news,” she said. “Maybe you better sit down.” We sat on the bed and she continued. Cheryl’s dad had finally lost his battle with his demons and had taken his own life with an ancient 12-guage shotgun they kept in the closet. Mrs. Robertson had been out with the other kids and the first one to enter the house. The shock of seeing the carnage had been too much for her; she cried out and held her head, then fell over as though dead.

Two months later, I stood with my new wife in her old home, in her mother’s bedroom. Although speechless and paralyzed, she still managed to glare at me. The prognosis was bleak; it was unlikely she would ever be able to care for herself again.

For the next two months, Cheryl managed the household and cared for her mother and her brothers. With no more disability checks, money was nonexistent. Rita helped me get a job in a sawmill and let use her car. The days were wearying for both of us and at night, we fell asleep on the pullout couch in the living room by 9:00pm, exhausted.

One morning, I heard a gasp from her mother’s bedroom and the crash of a plate. Cheryl came out and flew into my arms. “She’s gone,” she said, crying. “Now they’re both gone.”

I suppose I could have gloated at the sight of her three brothers being taken away by the state orphanage people, but I knew what lay ahead for them and I felt only sorrow.

After the funeral, we sold the house for what we could, and bought a 10-year old car. We swung by Rita’s to say goodbye and thank her everything. “Nonsense,” she said, hugging each of us. “All I did was to play Cupid. Anybody could see it, plain as day.” She grinned. “Now be sure to let me know when you’re settled.”

I honked the horn as we turned out sight and we both waved. Ahead lay Raleigh, college, and from then who knew what. I learned from experience to take it one day at a time.

But if someday we’re blessed with children, I hope we have a baby girl.

I think we both know what we’ll name her 🙂

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