Goldeline by Jimmy Cajoleas (i read books txt) 📕

been so full in my whole life. I’m so full it hurts. But then I get a whiff of the hot blackberry cobbler as Bobba pulls it fresh and steaming out of the oven and I gasp out loud.

Bobba laughs.

“Best blackberry cobbler this side of the river, you can bet on it.” She claps her hands. “But dessert comes in its own time. Now it’s time for tea.”

Bobba pours out two cups of tea and they sit steaming in front of us. She dabs honey and a big block of sugar and a little milk in each.

“I never had tea before,” I say.

“I have,” says Tommy. “I don’t like it. Can we skip the tea and just go ahead and have dessert?”

“Why you think you can skip tea? Civilized folk always have tea right at four o’clock, and it’s four o’clock now. I learned that in the Northlands. Y’all ever been to the Northlands?”

“I never been anywhere,” says Tommy.

“Figured as much. Y’all two wandering around here, whole world on y’all’s backs, never even been out past the river. Hard to believe that’s what it comes to, two stupid kids or the whole Hinterlands is lost.” Bobba does her laugh again, her whole big warm body shaking with all the happy. It makes me laugh, Tommy too. We laugh ourselves about silly.

“Can I eat cobbler now?” says Tommy.

“Not until every drop of your tea is drained,” says Bobba.

“But I don’t want any tea!” says Tommy. “I want pie! I want cobbler! I want it all now!”

I take a sip of tea. It’s scalding hot and weirdly bitter, like chewing on something straight out of the ground. I feel it slide down my throat and slither into my stomach and my stomach turns a little. I don’t like tea I don’t think. Still, I want the cobbler. I want the pie. I’ve never wanted anything so bad in my life.

Bobba slices out a huge slab of cobbler and places it daintily on a plate in front of me. “Finish your tea and it’s all yours,” she says.

I have another sip, then a gulp. It’s cooler now. My mouth feels tingly, like when you lick an icicle.

“Gimme some cobbler too!” says Tommy.

“Fine, fine,” says Bobba. “No need to be fighting over Bobba’s cobbler now. Famous cobbler. Best cobbler in the land.” She heaps a steaming purple glob onto his plate. But her smile cracks a little bit, just at the edges. I can see it now, the yellow of her teeth, the little fractures in them like veins, all the powder on her face, the pinch marks on her cheeks, the great false red of her lips. It’s all a story, and I can read it maybe, I can read it if I try hard enough, if I wasn’t so full, if my mouth wasn’t so numb, if I hadn’t drank so much tea.

Tommy sniffs the tea. “Gross,” he says. He pinches his nose.

“Sip, don’t gulp,” says Bobba, with a full wide wolf grin now. “Little heathens. Gentlemen don’t gulp.”

Tommy downs the whole cup in one big slurp.

“Oh boy!” he says, clapping his hands together.

We both eat and eat, and then have seconds, and then eat more. My stomach hurts from all the cobbler, from the sweet, from the mashed potatoes, from my whole last few days in the forest.

“Y’all going to eat it all, ain’t ya? Not leave a bit for Bobba. Don’t anybody ever leave anything for Bobba.” She leans her head down against her gloved palm, elbow on the table, and looks out over all the dishes we cleaned, the empty pans, the dirty napkins strewn all about, me and Tommy eating everything up as fast as we can. “Now how did y’all go and work up an appetite like that?”

“We’re getting chased,” says Tommy, mouth full of dessert.

I kick him under the table.

“Gracious Lord!” says Bobba. “Now who in the world would want to be chasing y’all two?”

“The Preacher,” says Tommy. “I didn’t think he was evil at first but now I’m pretty sure he is. See, he wants to kill us.”

I kick him harder.

“Ow,” says Tommy. “Stop kicking me.”

“Then shut your mouth,” I say, then look toward Bobba. “My momma always told me that kids should keep quiet at dinner. They should eat their dinner and be quiet and keep grateful.”

I see a flash of something in Bobba’s eyes. I put my fork down and study her a minute. She’s way too big to be climbing up any rope ladder. The house would have to kneel down like a good horse to let her up in it. If she ever leaves at all. Oh, she’s got to leave. How else could she get all this food up here? Still, something doesn’t figure right. Bobba keeps making these little stitching motions with her fingers, like she’s unspooling thread.

“A preacher! My, my,” says Bobba. “Hate preachers. Awful men, the worst there is. Good enough intentions, sure, but it takes a certain kind of fool to think he can speak for the Lord. A servant’s heart, they say. Vain heart’s more like it. Preacher’s the vainest type of man. Loves power, respect, even money. Certainly money. Because there’s a fortune to be made off of God, no two ways about it. Preachers have the keys to heaven. They can bind and loose, lock and unlock. Awful lot of power preachers have.”

“Yeah, this guy is nuts. I seen him. I rode in a carriage with him,” says Tommy. “Can I have some more cobbler?”

“Sure, baby,” says Bobba. She slops a steaming, gurgling mess of blackberry cobbler down in front of him. Stuffed as I am, my stomach scoots itself over and makes some room. I can almost taste the sweet goodness in my mouth. “See, I know this preacher y’all talking about. He wasn’t so bad when he was young. Course, he got corrupted, spent his years in the desert. Desert my tail. Just wandering around, whipping on himself, talking to those