Free The Outcast by Jolina Petersheim

or how he thinks he can. Judah has no vehicle, and he wouldn’t know how to drive one if he did. By his own admission, he does not have much money to pay a driver.
    None of this deters him. I watch how the rain plasters his homemade shirt to his lean body and drips off the back of his black felt hat. Judah lifts his thumb like the hitchhikers we sometimes see on the roads and begins walking up the highway.
    Only when I know he is out of sight do I stand and walk barefoot into the sodden yard, trying to catch one more glimpse of him. It is too late. Judah is already gone, despite not knowing where he is going or how he will get there.
    For all our differences, it seems Judah King and I are living lives that are one and the same.

    I have no idea how much time has passed when Ida Mae appears with a mug of black coffee and a bowl of something that looks like porridge.
    “Grits,” she explains, thrusting the bowl at me. “The staple food for everybody beneath the Mason-Dixon Line.”
    The warm bowl feels good in my hands, but the thought of eating anything right now is appalling. Ida Mae collapses into the chair that Judah had occupied and starts rocking with the rolling of her tiny booted foot. Taking a sip of coffee, she keeps staring straight ahead as she says, “Welp, Rachel-girl, didja send him packing?”
    I nod.
    “I think you done right. Judah’s a sweet boy, but you can’t be raising two kids when you’re just a kid yourself.”
    Feeling defensive, I say, “He’s hardly had a chance to prove himself to anyone.”
    Ida Mae pats Lady’s head. The dog has wobbled over to rest a dirty paw on her master’s knee. “I reckon he’s left the church?” she asks.
    “Yes,” I reply, realizing the enormity of his departure. “I believe he has.”
    “That’s for the best too. Judah can never find himself, tied to his momma’s apron strings.”
    “Or under his brother’s thumb.”
    Ida Mae glances over at the vehemence in my voice. “Gerald drives Tobias here sometimes,” she says. “Along with some other menfolk from Copper Creek. They fix the storage barns and bring me quilts from their women that I can sell. In the summer, they bring their produce. You gonna be all right working round all that?”
    Taking a bite of grits, I swallow the buttery granules and say, “That’ll be fine. I’ll just stay in the store.”
    “And have you thought ’bout where you and that young’un are gonna live?”
    “Actually, I was wondering if . . .”
    “Yeah?” Ida Mae stares out into the yard with a bored look.
    “Well, if Eli and I could maybe stay here? For a while, at least? I can cook and clean for you, and I could grocery-shop if a store’s within walking distance.”
    My stomach sinks as Ida Mae shakes her head. “You telling me you’re gonna make those sorry cinnamon rolls every morning and coffee that could replace the oil in a car?”
    “I’ll have to learn how to use an electric stove, but I’m a fast learner.”
    Ida Mae gives me a skeptical look. “From that twister in my kitchen, I’d say you clean ’bout as good as you cook.”
    “I’m actually a very tidy person. This morning was just a little . . . different.”
    “I’ll say.” She sniffs, setting the empty mug on the porch and shooing the orange tomcat away. “Nothing’s been the same since I picked you and that kid up from the hospital.”
    I stand to go inside, carrying my bowl of grits. Before I open the storm door, I turn back to Ida Mae. “I don’t think anything’s been the same for me, either.”
    She smiles even though tears shine in her eyes. “Nah, honey, and it’s never gonna be. You can bet your bottom dollar on that.”
    On my way to the kitchen, I glance around at the blue room and see the yellowed LEGO magazines and nailed horseshoes that have turned crumbly with rust. I no longer think I can ask Ida Mae if we can redecorate this room, for as we were talking, I saw in her eyes the same strange sorrow I know