Drifters and Dreamers (novella exceprt)

by John RC Potter

1919 (Summer):

Her mother was half-pulling, half-dragging the 15-year-old Beulah from the barn door and further down the dusty laneway toward their weather-worn clapboard house. Beulah tried to pull away and get a purchase on her feet, but her mother was a strong woman, especially when incensed. When the girl fell on her knees and yelled out in pain, her mother pulled her up so sharply that Beulah thought her arm would come out of its socket. As the woman continued to manhandle her daughter, Beulah could hear the woman seething under her breath, “I shoulda knowed, I shoulda done saw it coming.”

At the corner of the house, the woman grabbed her daughter by the shoulders, with Beulah’s dress being torn at the collar in the process and slammed her against the wall. Then, the woman raised her hefty left leg and pinned Beulah to the wall. Out of the corner of her eye, Beulah spied her younger sisters and brothers standing under the nearby cherry tree, their eyes open wide in astonishment and fear for their sister. Just as Beulah turned her face back to look at her mother, the woman’s right hand slapped her daughter’s face with such force that the girl almost saw stars. The woman continued to slap her daughter’s face in a regular rhythm: first, the right side, then the left. Beulah felt her head being yanked back and forth by each blow like a ragdoll.

Suddenly, the woman stopped and, to Beulah’s amazement held her daughter in a bear hug and started to sob. Beulah could smell her mother’s commingled odours of sweat, cooking oil, and bread from her baking that morning. “Girl, why’d ya do it?” the woman sobbed in Beulah’s ear. “I want ya to done have a better life than me.” Beulah could feel her hair matted from the woman’s tears and snot. “If he’s made my little girl pregnant…” The woman’s words fell off and were carried away as if on a waft of warm air going nowhere fast.

1914 (Autumn):

Jewel Cotton and her children could hear Mr. Cotton ranting and raving as he walked across the fields that pitch-black Indian summer evening. He was drunk again. When not drinking, Ray Cotton was almost bearable; when he was three sheets to the wind, he was mean and dangerous. Every weekend – usually Saturday afternoons – Ray Cotton would make his way across the rolling pastures behind The Flats and head toward the opposite side of Horseshoe Road where Slim Slattery, a middle-aged bachelor, lived on a rundown farm not much better than the Cotton’s dirt-poor property. Everyone on Horseshoe Road, and many in the Cornersville community, knew that Slim made cheap whiskey in a still in a shed behind his barn. Since the country had become ‘dry,’ Slim had become a popular bootlegger with local men who wanted to purchase his homemade whiskey. If lucky, the booze would be made with malted barley or another grain; if not, a man could buy gut-rot whiskey made with chewing tobacco, field corn, and cayenne pepper. It all depended on how much Slim had to drink when making his brew or if he was trying to increase his profit margin.

“Jewel!” Ray Cotton’s voice could be heard shouting. “Jewel, you cheating bitch, I’m coming home. I wanna talk with you.” The closer the inebriated man came to the house, the louder his voice became. Jewel looked out the kitchen window, and by the light of the rising moon, she saw her husband weaving his way down the hill toward the barn and house. She turned around and saw her children standing in the kitchen doorway, their eyes wide with curiosity and fear.

“You know what I always tole ya,” the woman stated, her voice steady but with an edge to it. “When yer Pa is drunk as a skunk, y’all get yourselves upstairs to the storeroom and lock the door.” The woman turned toward the window and saw her husband had fallen when he tripped over a bucket left in the backyard. She hoped her husband had fallen down drunk and would not get back up, but in short order, he was back on his feet and weaving his way toward the kitchen door. Turning back to the children, their mother could see they were afraid to leave her because they knew what would happen next. “Git now!” she ordered, and the children turned and scampered up the well-worn stairs. At that moment, Ray Cotton kicked the kitchen door open even though it wasn’t locked.

The man stood in the doorway on unsure feet, his bloodshot eyes angry and wild. “I wanna see Beulah and Ginny,” the man shouted. “So my wife can look at ‘em and tell why they don’t look like me.” Jewel Cotton sighed. It was the same old rant, the same old grievance. Her husband thought her two oldest daughters were not his and that she had cheated on him. “Have you been listening to that old drunk, Slim, again and his lies?” she asked. Ray took a step into the kitchen, fists clenched. “Slim’s my friend and he don’t tell lies,” the man growled. The man lurched toward the living room door on his way to mount the stairs.

The children huddled together in the storeroom. They had not only locked the door but had pushed the heavy old clothes trunk in front of it. They heard their mother exclaim from below, “If yer a man, don’t take it out on the kids.” There was an ominous silence below in the kitchen. The children knew the order of what could come next. They heard their father take another resounding step in the kitchen below, the sound reverberating off the thin walls of the house. “Hit me!” Their mother’s voice was shrill, rising in the air toward the storeroom. The children heard their father punch their mother; the first punch was always light, almost uncertain. Their mother’s voice had risen even more and held a taunting tone. Then, another step was closer to the kitchen doorway; their father was coming. “Hit me!” The children heard the second taunt from their mother below in the kitchen. Then they listened to their father slug their mother harder the second time; the sound brought tears to their eyes. They heard their mother hurry to the stairway below. In their mind’s eye, the children could see their mother standing below, frantically trying to prevent her husband from making his way to the staircase. They could imagine their mother below, standing on wobbly feet but resolute, trying to block their father’s progress.

The children waited for the following words to come from their mother’s lips. It was always the same pattern. This would be the third and final time; now, their father would haul off and give his wife the full force of his furious fist. After a long pause, their mother screamed, “HIT ME!” They could hear the loud crack from below as he punched their mother and the crash of her body as it hit the floor. Then, as always before, the children heard their mother plead from where she would be splayed on the floor like a rag doll: “Please don’t hit me anymore!” Their mother’s sobs rose in the air and drifted upward to where the children hugged each other in the darkness of the storeroom. It was always the same: after the third “Hit me!” their father had tired of beating his wife and usually went out on the front porch and collapsed in a drunken stupor on the sagging sofa there.

1916 (Summer):

It was high summer, and the war was raging in Europe, but it was not in the minds of two of the Cotton girls. Beulah, aged 12, and her sister, Ginny, one year younger, were walking on air as they left The Flats and journeyed down the eastern side of the Horseshoe Road. They were on their way to go to the fair in town. It was the annual Cornersville Country Carnival, and it would be the first time the girls had attended it. Their mother had taken down the old earthenware crock that sat on top of the old pantry cupboard in the kitchen, in pride of place beside the button jar. The girls and their siblings were allowed to examine the buttons in that jar, a kind of game, trying to find matching or the most attractive buttons. However, the crock—filled with coins and sometimes even dollar bills— was off-bounds for everyone except Mrs. Cotton. Once a week, on Sunday mornings, she would ceremoniously take down the cracked crock with its damaged lid and then sit down at the rickety kitchen table to count the precious money inside. The children would crowd around her, mesmerized by the proceedings' solemnity and anticipation of how much money was in the container. That morning, Mrs. Cotton broke a tradition and took down the crock on a Saturday, and the children were all agog.

Turning to Beulah and Ginny, who stood on either side of where their mother sat, Mrs. Cotton stated, “I have a surprise for you two girls.” She started to pick out pennies from inside the container, carefully counting and inspecting them as if they were ingots of gold. Beulah and Ginny’s mouths were gaping and their eyes were open wide in amazement. Their mother said, “You girls been working hard and it is high time you’all had some fun.” Pausing dramatically but with a slight smile on her face— which surprised the girls because their mother rarely, if ever, changed her solemn expression— the woman continued: “Beulah and Ginny, you gals are going to the carnival!”

Beulah and Ginny jumped up and down on their feet, hugging each other and then their mother. All of a sudden, all the younger children took up a long lament, wailing to their mother that they wanted to go too. Giving a stern look that hushed them up mighty fast, Mrs. Cotton explained there was not enough money for all the children to go; in any case, they were younger. Perhaps their time would come. And that was that!

The closer the girls came to Cornersville, the greater their excitement at the prospect of the exhibits, midway rides, food booths, and activities. The girls felt rich: their mother had given both of them three pennies—three! They kept fingering the coins in their respective pockets. The five-mile walk went by quickly, as if the girls were being transported on a magic carpet. They hoped one of their neighbours would drive by and give them a lift, but the few vehicles on the road were coming from town, not going toward it. Finally, near the end of the Horseshoe Road, just before it reached the highway, old Mr. & Mrs. Wickes were coming down the road behind them with their horse and wagon. The elderly couple were on their way to the carnival, too. They let the girls clamber onto the flat-top wagon, and in no time, the girls were in Cornersville. The horse clip-clopped down the street with the elderly couple on the seat in front and the girls sitting on the flat-top wagon behind them. As the wagon went by the Lyceum Moving Picture House, the girls spied the sign in front and pointed: Charlie Chaplin’s newest picture was playing. The girls had never seen a moving picture before, but they certainly knew Charlie Chaplin from the newspaper and magazines that neighbours gave their mother. They decided right then that they would save one penny each and go to the movie house after the carnival. They even did their time-honoured tradition of curling their pinky fingers together to seal the promise. Before long, the horse and wagon were at the gates to the fairgrounds.

The girls spent the first half-hour wandering around the fairgrounds, amazed at all the sights and sounds of the carnival. They kept checking their pockets for the pleasure of rubbing their three pennies together. There were many reminders of the war raging across the Atlantic Ocean—signs, posters, fundraisers, recruitment—but the Cornersville community was out in full force to enjoy themselves. The girls decided they would each spend their first penny on the Ferris wheel. Looking up from where they were standing, the Ferris wheel towered over them, almost reaching the clouds above. In reality, it was a small Ferris wheel, but they were not aware of it. They clambered into a seat and started screaming with fear and delight as they were transported high in the air. When the Ferris wheel stopped suddenly, the girls were at the very top; Beulah grabbed Ginny’s hand, fearful of the possibility of slipping right off the leather seat. Ginny pointed in the distance, and the girls thought they could almost see the Horseshoe Road where the lane led to The Flats. Then, the Ferris wheel suddenly jerked into motion again, and the girls screamed and laughed as they were taken on its circular journey until their time on it came to an end.

The girls then decided to spend their second penny on a meal of popcorn and lemonade. The remaining penny for both of them was intended for the Charlie Chaplin picture, as they had solemnly promised each other. However, the girls were not ready to leave the carnival. A tomboy at heart, Ginny wanted to go to the livestock section, but Beulah was not interested. She told Ginny they could meet at the fairground front gates in half an hour or so. Ginny walked toward the livestock area, her step light. Beulah began to walk around the fairgrounds, and in the very back section, she saw a colourful and garish sign that announced: ‘Have your future told by the fabulous fortune-teller, MRS. SHARP!’ As she approached the small tent, Beulah saw another sign indicating that the cost to have fortunes told was only one cent. It seemed a miracle and meant to be! She reached into the pocket of her dress and felt the solitary penny, seemingly beckoning her to spend it on having her fortune told. Beulah was desperate to know what her future held.

The flap of the tent was closed. Beulah could hear voices inside; she assumed the fortune-teller had a customer. A moment later, the flap of the tent was thrust aside, and a large woman wearing a summer hat exited the tent. She was beaming, presumably from good news given to her by the fortune teller. Beulah reached into her pocket again, felt the precious penny, and thought of the promise she and Ginny had made to go see Charlie Chaplin's picture. She was about to turn and walk away when the fortune teller appeared at the entrance of the tent. “Are you coming in, dear?” she asked. “It is only a penny to have your fortune told.” Mrs. Sharp was a middle-aged woman with frizzy whitish-grey hair and piercing black eyes; she was skinny as a rail, wearing a bright red and gold outfit that looked more like a costume than a dress.

Beulah knew there was no turning back. She was eager to know what her future held and her life's course from that point onward. Nodding, she followed Mrs. Sharp into the tent. The fortune teller closed the tent's flap and motioned for Beulah to sit across from her at a little round table. She had expected a crystal ball to be on the table, but there was only a little tray with handles and a mirror inset into it.

“I need something of yours,” Mrs. Sharp informed the girl. “A ring or something personal.” Beulah held up her ringless hands, then remembered the old necklace she was wearing around her neck. She had nicked it from Widow Winter’s home on the Horseshoe Road the year before when she had gone there with preserves the woman had bought from Mrs. Cotton. Fortunately for Beulah, the old woman’s mind wandered, and apparently, she had never noticed the necklace was no longer on the little table inside the front hall. Beulah reached inside the neckline of her dress and lifted the necklace from her neck, giving it to the fortune teller.

The woman began to rub the necklace between her hands, her eyes looking past where Beulah sat on a low stool. Mrs. Sharp began to move her head slightly from side to side, seeming to peer into the distance. Suddenly, she said to Beulah, but without looking directly at her, “I see a farm and a clapboard house. You are not happy there and want to leave.” The fortune teller stopped talking and laid the necklace on the mirrored tray in the centre of the table. She then laid one hand on the necklace and the other hand over her closed eyes. “You will marry young. Very young. You will be made a widow when still quite young.” The woman’s voice had become lower; so much so that Beulah had to lean forward to hear her better. “I see an older man; it could be your father.” Eyes still closed the woman shook her head. “No, not your father, but I am not sure who this man is…” Her voice trailed off for a few moments but then she continued. “I see a young man. I see a farm on a hill. I see an opening in the ground…no, not an opening, it seems to be a trapdoor.”

For reasons unbeknownst to herself, Beulah began to shiver with a commingled feeling of fear and excitement, the same way she had felt at the top of the Ferris wheel with the world below her. “I don’t understand why there is a trapdoor in the earth,” the woman continued, rubbing her hand over her eyes as if they were tired. “A trapdoor?” she murmured, seemingly to herself more than to Beulah. “No!” she cried out suddenly, and with a sharp breath, Mrs. Sharp quickly stood up, staring with disbelieving eyes at the girl across from her. The fortune teller suddenly dropped the necklace on the table in front of Beulah. “Please go!” the woman instructed in a shrill voice.

Beulah got up from the low stool. She was dumbstruck by the woman’s words and behaviour. Beulah reached into her pocket and was about to put the penny on the table. “No! Just leave!” Mrs. Sharp exclaimed. Beulah saw a look in the fortune teller’s eyes: was it anger or fear? But why? Beulah turned and left the fortune teller’s tent. After taking several steps away from the tent, Beulah looked back. Mrs. Sharp was in the tent's doorway, staring after Beulah with a look that the girl could not read nor understand. Then, the fortune teller suddenly grabbed the flap of the tent and closed it.

Beulah walked toward the gates of the fairground, knowing she was probably late for meeting her sister. At least she still had the last penny; the girls could still go to the picture show. Beulah reached into her pocket to feel the reassuring coin. It was not there! Beulah searched all her pockets. Had she dropped it? The girl retraced her steps but could not see the coin on the ground. What had happened to the penny? Rather than tell her sister she had lost the coin, Beulah decided it would be better to tell Ginny that she had spent it on the fortune teller. Better to tell a little white lie than admit to being so careless as to lose a precious penny!

Ginny would be upset that Beulah had spent her last penny on the fortune teller and that they could not go to see the Charlie Chaplin picture together. She would remind Beulah about their solemn promise that had been capped by the symbolic intertwining of their pinky fingers. Beulah regretted her decision and reflected on the words and actions of the fortune teller. She tried to find meaning in what had just happened but was at a loss. She saw Ginny in the distance, waiting for her at the gate to the fairgrounds. Their day at the carnival would end on a bad note. Beulah shrugged her shoulders and decided that no one would ruin her day – not Mrs. Sharp the fortune teller, not her sister, Ginny, nor even her mother who would be upset that her eldest daughter had once again broken a promise. Beulah’s mother would perhaps even resort to one of her long-time laments: that Beulah was a bad penny.

BIO: John RC Potter (he/him/his) is an international educator and gay man from Canada who lives in Istanbul. He has experienced a revolution (Indonesia), air strikes (Israel), earthquakes (Turkey), boredom (UAE), and blinding snow blizzards (Canada), the last being the subject of his story, ‘Snowbound in the House of God’ (Memoirist). The author’s poems, stories, essays, articles, and reviews have been published in various magazines and journals. His story, “Ruth’s World” was a Pushcart Prize nominee, and his poem, “Tomato Heart” was nominated for the Best of the Net Award. The author has a gay-themed children’s picture book that is scheduled for publication. He is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. Recent Publication: “Heimat” in Overgrowth Press (Poetry) March 14, 2025 – Overgrowth & “Clara Von Clapp’s Secret Admirer” in The Lemonwood Quarterly (Prose)