Bernie is a poverty-stricken woman whose life takes an unexpected turn when an old friend returns to town. This is Part Four.

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Part Four

Bernie had learned early in her new life that filling her water containers should be the last task of the day. In the Ozark foothills, the town had few flat spots. Except for Main, the streets didn’t have sidewalks, so even the flat stretches could be rough while pulling a wagon loaded down with four gallons of water.

Some folks didn’t mind when she walked across their front yard; some did. Those who disapproved usually were red-faced by the time she knew about it, because she hadn’t heard their calls from their front porch. Sometimes, she found herself running from dogs.

It sure beat running from Glenda.

At the corner of Main and Eighth Streets, Bernie looked up at the bank thermometer’s bright lights. They showed 2:15, and she had told Dody she would be at the high school at 2:30. The lights blinked out and then lit up to show the temperature — 50 degrees Fahrenheit. She kept her coat on.

Eighth Street was steep, but it was the best route to meet Dody. As Bernie stood at the bottom of “Thrill Hill,” she imagined that whoever named it was not in the habit of climbing it on a regular basis. She checked her milk jugs to make sure they were secure, then started her ascent.

Homelessness would be much easier somewhere on the plains.

Bernie thought of Shonda and her invitation for that night. She had ignored Shonda’s request for her to audition for Quiz Bowl back in school, so why would she not do the same now? Although they had been close friends in elementary school, they hardly spoke past sixth grade. Still, she had seemed sincere at Lockard’s, and maybe she was lonely.

Her legs burning, she stopped about a third of the way, where the road leveled out for a cross street. She leaned over with her hands on her thighs. Recalling her old track coach’s advice, she took long, deep breaths through her nose and exhaled through her mouth. Sweat ran down her chest, some of it pooling in her navel. With labored breaths she worked her way out of her coat and threw it in a heap in the wagon. Movement caught her eye.

A gray coupe full of teenage boys roared up the hill and flew past Bernie about a foot off the ground. It was a Plymouth Fury. She yelled, “Slow down!” but knew there was no hope they would hear it.

The rest of the climb was longer but not as steep. She pumped her legs straight through the next cross street and hiked steadily until she reached the top.

The sidewalk that bisected the school’s front lawn bore the names of past graduates. Any other day she would avoid it, but after her meeting with Shonda, somehow Bernie felt bold. She strolled along until she reached her class’ decade. “Chris Fallow, first boy to kiss me, first grade. First boy to feel me up, seventh grade. First one up my skirt, eighth. Ronald Tracy, first boy I felt up, eighth grade.” She laughed. “Chris sure got mad about that.”

At the last name in her class, her knees buckled. Instinctively, she leaned hard on the wagon tongue for support. The milk crate catapulted out, sending the empty containers bouncing across the names of the many she remembered and the few she wished she could forget.

She glanced around hoping nobody had seen. The front of the school faced her, windows running the length of each classroom wall. Some teen somewhere inside, tired of listening to a teacher prattle on about trigonometry or home economics, no doubt had been gazing outside when this woman and her wagon put on their show.

With what little energy Thrill Hill had left her, she corralled the water bottles back into the crate. Although in a different spot now, her coat still lay in the wagon. She pushed it aside to make room.

Staring straight ahead with her eyes out of focus, she said, “Kenneth Wymer.” She looked down at the name. “I’m glad you’re dead and I hope your soul is frying in hell.” Turning to go, she briefly regarded the Methodist Church across the street. “If it’s not, God, then you’re to blame.”

Something struck her shoulder. She turned to look. Two boys were approaching her, one of them tossing a rock up in the air and catching it. He spoke up. “I said, ‘Hi,’ Wagon Lady!”

Bernie grabbed her wagon handle, turned, and walked away. A rock zinged past her ear and bounced along the sidewalk in front of her. She just kept going. Dody would have to wait. All the way up that steep road to be turned away by hooligans. Where were all those bored kids staring out the windows now?

Deflated and again puzzling over Shonda’s invitation, Bernie headed back the way she came. She took a left off Eighth to the gradual slope of Sugarloaf Street. Clouds blocked the sun, which in every other season would make for a nice, shady stroll. Now it just moved her to put her coat back on and try to forget Kenneth Wymer and the two boys possibly destined to be just like him.

——-

She stood at the corner, looking to the right and downhill at Spring Park. No sign of Glenda.

The park was all downhill from where she stood. Preferring to walk on grass, she shuffled down the terraced landscape, her wagon bumping behind her. With no children at play and no leaves on the majestic hardwood trees, the park made Bernie sad.

A contemporary amphitheater, the site of the local hootenanny and a Miss Arkansas preliminary pageant, sat empty. Two foam cups danced on the cement stage in the breeze. Bernie liked their moves, but wondered whether their answers would satisfy the judges.

She arrived at an open-air, covered spring-house where a hand painted wood sign hung from the eaves. It read, “Black Sulphur.” She had tried the others — Red Sulphur, White Sulphur, Magnesia, Iron, Arsenic, and Eye Water, but mostly came back to her favorite.

Bernie grabbed two empty jugs from her wagon and made her way downstairs to the floor, her eyes level with the top of a stone wall around the perimeter. In the center of the dank space sat a large concrete cylinder, a spigot protruding from its side. She unscrewed one of the blue lids and held a jug under the spigot. Decades of mineral deposits had painted an inverted cone, black in the middle and dark yellow on the fringes, that reached from the tap to the floor.

Although Bernie would have preferred to have a job and a home, she knew that a busier life wouldn’t afford time to wait on the spring spigots. The unfiltered gift from nature trickled into each jug for several minutes until finally they were full.

She lugged them up the stairs and traded them for the two remaining empties. As she again reached the bottom and turned toward the spigot, she saw movement.

All too familiar movement.

(Continue to Part Five)