The Last Day of Our Acquaintance

Chapter One:
This is a Rebel Song

She came into town like everyone else did: when the bus breaks down or their money runs out.
Wyatt, Mississippi, hundreds of miles from civilization and millions of miles from reality. I lived there all my life. Never really felt like there was something else out there until she arrived. I mean, we had satellite TV but cell service was spotty at best. High speed internet? We had the equivalent of two tin cans and a piece of string.

She was frustrated by her predicament when we first met and I was in awe by her as she was so different and I didn’t really know what at the time. I knew about farm life. I knew what my daddy taught me. I didn’t, know, however, why I felt like reaching out to her, to touch her, if she would let me.
Was that how a country girl was supposed to feel?

It rained that day. Hard, stinging, afternoon rain. The kind that beckons you to come out and dance in it as the sun still blazes in the sky. There’s no thunder and not a peep from the tornado siren. So, you run out of the house in your shorts and t-shirt, expecting to feel a breeze and have the rain fall on you in a sweet slow motion….
But no, this rain stabs like straw on bare soles.
Still, there I was, waltzing around as the dirt at my feet turned to mud.

“Girl, clean yourself off and get inside!’ Grandma yelled from the porch. “Out there gallivanting like a dog with no sense.”
I agreed with that. I mean, it was summer, I was nineteen, and I did feel senseless about life and what I was supposed to do with it. Grandma wasn't putting me down, just confirming what I already knew.

I ran to the side of the house, turned on the hose and sprayed the muck off of my feet. It was still raining, coming down in layers of tapping rain and a deluge. Grandma sat at the kitchen table and snapped beans.

“Help me with these, Maddy.”
“Of course,” I replied as I pulled out one of the chairs and sat down.
Grandma preferred to do everything the old school ways. She didn’t have a microwave and still had an old-style ice cream maker where one would have to crank at it with all of their might.

I took at a pile of beans, snapping-off the ends at a slower pace than grandma.
“Pastor Richards asked about you last night.”
“Oh?” I asked.
“Don’t you ‘oh’, me, Madison McKinley.”
“Sorry.”

Three months prior, twenty-three year old Robert Kennedy Richards—who, we all still referred to as “Bobby”—a nickname he should have grown out of by junior high—thought it would be a good idea if we started “courting”. Not dating.
Not, let me think about it.
Not, I already know all about you, not interested.

Bobby went as far as to go to my grandparents to ask them...or more like talk them into some southern ritual of a woman belonged to a man if he wanted her. Some perverse version of King David.

My grandfather, bless his heart, thought it was a great idea and invited the Richards over a week later. It was like a reverse intervention and I was not happy. I laid into everything I remember Bobby saying or doing to any other human being. From stealing money out of the collection plate to possibly being the father of Amber Lee Roger’s baby. The whole town talked about it on their front porch, I was just the one who brought it to their attention.
Grandfather was unhappy
Grandma was unhappy.
Mrs. Richards (the second one, I might add) was mortified.
Bobby walked out of the house.

And Pastor Pat Richards looked like he was going to have a heart attack.