Rising Above Shepherdsville

by Ann Schoenbohm

  She peered at your name scrawled in pen on the desk blotter. “Emma Dixon?” I pointed to the picture of you and me, Mama, that I kept on the dresser. Her eyes widened. “This was your mom’s room?”

  She picked up the picture of us at Neon Beach in our bathing suits, our noses sunburned and freckled, your arm around me, our hair floating in the wind. She looked at me and put the picture down on the dresser. “You look like her.”

  Something unreadable played around the edges of her face. “Let’s get out of here.” She pulled the afghan off the foot of the bed and rolled it as neat as a jelly roll and tucked it under her arm. I grabbed my Bible bag and my notebook. We tromped down the stairs, our only obstacle Aunt Bernie.

  When we reached the kitchen, she was stirring a bowl of green Jell-O in silence. She’d turned off the radio. “Just exactly how do you two expect to get to town? Do you want me to drive you?”

  Faith waved her away. “Don’t worry. We’ll take Dulcie’s bike. I can sit on the fender.”

  Aunt Bernie shook her spoon at us. “Don’t go stirring up any trouble, now. Be back for supper, Dulcie.”

  She headed down the cellar steps to search her canned goods for the ancient fruit she stored in jars down there, most of it doomed to end up in her Jell-O molds.

  Faith grabbed Aunt Bernie’s transistor radio off the counter, fixing to take it with us. I gave her a don’t-you-dare stare. Faith sure seemed to have sticky fingers, Mama. She rolled her eyes at me, then called down the cellar to Aunt Bernie.

  “Hey, Miss Dixon, Dulcie wants to borrow your radio”—Faith paused, then smiled wickedly—“so we can listen to gospel music on our way to the Bolt and Spool. Okay?” Without listening for an answer, she burst out the door with it.

  I hesitated, not wanting to rile Aunt Bernie. From the bottom of the cellar steps, I heard her reply, “My land, sakes alive. I suppose I can do without it for one afternoon. Best be careful now, you hear?”

  I followed Faith out the door, before Aunt Bernie changed her mind.

  We rolled Maybelle out onto the road, and after a few spills we managed a transportation method that worked. Faith sat backward on the rear fender, her feet dangling, while I wobbled and pedaled down the road. The tires squashed under our weight.

  We made it up to the crest of the hill, near Old Tecumseh Road, and glided down the rise with hardly any effort. No cars passed us on the main drag into town.

  After meandering our way through Shepherdsville, we arrived at the tiny filling station. Faith popped off the back. “Let’s put air in the tires and get something to drink.” I parked Maybelle by the side of the building, and we went inside seeking cooler air.

  You must remember the old gas station, Mama? An old wooden building with a tin roof—two big windows in the front with a screen door in the middle. A saggy porch lurched underfoot, made out of planks and cement blocks. The man who ran the place, Bean, had filled up Aunt Bernie’s car on occasion when we went to town, the empty sleeve of his shirt pinned up to the shoulder.

  Aunt Bernie said he’d lost that arm in Vietnam. Though I tried not to stare, I was fascinated by how he managed to wipe our windshield and fill our tank using only one arm. Aunt Bernie would tip him a dollar, and he made a habit of saluting her with his good hand.

  Bean didn’t pay us any attention when we came in. He was deep in concentration, squinting at a Reds baseball game on a small black-and-white television. Bean had dirty blond hair, floppy like a beach boy’s, which made him seem younger than he was. His chin was scruffy with whiskers, his face handsome, despite his chipped front tooth.

  Of all the men I’d seen in town so far, I had decided that Bean was my favorite choice for winner of my real-daddy contest. I had calculated it out. Our hair was the same color. He was skinny. I was skinny. His eyes were blue. So were mine. Plus, he was the right age.

  Little prickles broke out down my arms. It could have been the window air conditioner blowing full tilt, or maybe it was like you always said, Mama. Those goose bumps were a sure sign that my guess was true-blue.

  Bean continued to ignore us and grumbled at the screen, “Hell, that wasn’t no foul.”

  Faith and I scouted out the gas station offerings: rows of candy, a few groceries scattered on the mostly empty shelves, dill pickles in plastic bags, beets and purpled eggs in jars, and a metal chest full of cold pop on ice. A tiny freezer held ice cream sandwiches and chocolate-covered bars on sticks.

  Faith pulled out a couple of soda pops. I contemplated peanut-butter-and-jelly Goober. I grabbed a jar along with a loaf of Wonder Bread.

  Bean yelled at the screen, shrieking, “He was SAFE! Moron. God. Dang. Moron.”

  Faith and I stood at the counter until we were noticed. Bean rose up to ring our sale, a solemn look on his face. He regarded us with consternation. I wasn’t sure if it was the ball game or if he didn’t like customers in general. “If I had my arm, tell you what, I’d show those boys how to throw a ball.”

  He glanced over at me, inspecting me real good, sizing me up.

  “You’re Emma’s girl, ain’t ya, staying out with Bernie?”

  I nodded. Emma’s girl.

  “Who’s your friend?” Bean examined Faith. “Ain’t seen you round here before.”

  Faith gave him the swiped five-dollar bill for the sandwich stuff and Cokes. “Just visiting,” she said.

  Bean deposited change into her hand, a couple of dollars and some coins. “Nice to meet ya, Just Visiting.”

  He looked back at me. “Your aunt know you’re running wild?”

  I shrugged my shoulders, leaving him to guess the answer. He pointed a finger at me. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” He smiled. “Or them good folks at Redeemer’ll get you kicked out of heaven.”

  Bean closed the cash register and leaned forward on his elbow.

  “You know that Russian guy that went up into space, first guy up there, you know what he said?”

  I screwed up my face. No, what?

  “Said he went all the way to heaven and he didn’t see God up there.” Bean laughed, enjoying himself. “No sign at all.”

  He pointed at his missing arm. “No God in ’Nam, that’s for sure.” He stopped himself, maybe realizing he was starting to sound touched in the head and we were getting spooked.

  Faith gave me a nudge—a signal we’d better get out of there. “Let’s go.”

  Bean smiled, his chipped tooth peeking through. “You take care, Emma’s Girl.”

  As we gathered our stuff off the counter, the station bell dinged. Through the dusty window, we saw a red truck had barreled into the lot, going fast. It missed the pumps, then stopped, squealed, backed up, and swerved in next to the gas tanks, spewing gravel from the road.

  Bean squinted, his eyes slanted against the light. “Aw, here’s trouble.” He picked up a baseball bat leaning against the wall behind him, keeping his gaze leveled at the gas pumps outside.

  19

  g-r-a-c-e

  grace (n.)

  a period of time granted beyond the date set for the performance of an act; mercy; clemency

  Otis Burdine was at the wheel, harsh-faced, a John Deere hat pushed back off his creased forehead. His lip and jaw bulged with tobacco. He leaned out and spat a brown puddle onto the ground. Marlow wagged his tail in the back of the truck, tongue out, panting in the heat. Jason sat on the passenger side, his face a block of stone.

  Otis shouted words, and Jason got out of the truck, his features contorted. He unhooked the gas nozzle and flipped open the little fuel door on the side of the truck. Otis slammed the driver’s door shut and headed into the station. He swung open the screen door and brushed past us, the air suddenly thick with sweat and whiskey.

  Bean’s voice was even and steady. “You girls go on and take your Cokes outside.” We headed for the door, staying as far away from Otis as space would allow.

  Bean greeted him. “Otis.”

  Otis waved away the bat in Bean’s hand. “
No fussin’ today, Bean. Just a pack of chew. Couple gallons of gas. The kid’ll pump it.”

  Faith nudged me and whispered, “Let’s go.” We pushed out the door, antsy to be on the other side of it, away from whatever trouble Otis had in mind.

  We headed for the air nozzle by the side of the building, where I’d left Maybelle. Jason filled the truck’s gas tank at the pumps, oblivious as we walked past.

  Faith arranged our Cokes and sandwich stuff with the afghan in the bike basket, then dug a couple of Snickers bars and five or six packs of gum from her back pockets. I pointed to the loot. I knew we hadn’t paid for any candy and gum.

  Faith said, “Well, he wasn’t looking.”

  I gave her a hard look of disapproval. I want no part of stealing stuff.

  Faith poked me in the ribs. “Don’t be such a priss.”

  I let loose a puff of air from between my lips, the only way I had of expressing my exasperation with her endless pilfering. She was aiming for trouble, for sure, if she didn’t stop pocketing what didn’t belong to her. I knelt and unscrewed the cap from Maybelle’s front tire. I took the air hose off the wall, and blew up the tire until it was good and firm. From the ground, I kept my eye on Jason, hoping he wouldn’t notice us.

  He’d left the pump unattended and had gone round to the back, to pet Marlow, who was whining for his attention. Jason leaned against Marlow, his head touching the dog’s. He ran his hand gently down Marlow’s scruffy ears and neck. Jason was so tender with that dog, I could hardly believe this was the same boy who’d been so cruel to me. By watching the two of them, I understood that Jason had little sweetness in his life, and what’s more, I felt sorry for him because of it.

  The pump clicked off. Jason pulled the nozzle out of the truck and went to replace it in the holster of the pump but missed, and it dropped onto the ground. When he picked it up, he accidentally squeezed the handle and gas spewed everywhere.

  Otis staggered out of the building, clutching a pouch of tobacco. When he noticed the gas that had leaked onto the ground, he sprang like a wild animal. He pounced onto Jason, jabbing him with his finger, over and over.

  “Get in the truck. Can’t you do a dag-gone thing anybody asks you without screwing it up?”

  The screen door of the station opened with a bang, and Bean came out onto the porch, holding the bat. He called, “Move on out now, Otis.”

  Otis opened the driver’s door, got in, and revved the engine. Jason walked around to his side of the truck, holding his arms at his sides like he was trying to keep all his parts intact. His gaze swept across the hood of the truck and found us.

  Jason stared, appearing confused, maybe trying to calculate how long we’d been there—what we might have seen.

  Faith shouted, “Take a picture, doofus! It’ll last longer.” I elbowed her hard. Leave him alone. Last thing we needed was more trouble with that crowd.

  Jason slunk into the truck, and the Burdines pulled out, spitting dust. They rocketed down the road, old Marlow trying hard to keep his balance in the back.

  Bean walked out to the pumps to check for damage, then turned and walked our way. He shook his head in disgust, then spat.

  “Some people treat their kids worse than they treat their dogs.”

  The three of us watched the truck, weaving down the road, until it disappeared from view. Faith spoke, breaking the silence, “That’s why they run away.”

  Bean looked at her sideways. “Just visiting, huh?”

  “Yep,” she said. Then she finished filling Maybelle’s back tire and twisted the cap back onto the air valve.

  Bean fumbled around in his shirt pocket, got out a crumbled cigarette, and lit it. His chipped front tooth made his smile appear sideways. He blew smoke rings neatly out of his mouth. They rose in perfect circles above my head. “It’s Dulcie Louise, isn’t it?”

  Again I indicated that sure enough he had me pegged.

  He leaned against the wall. “She was a good girl, your mama. Wasn’t meant for this town, that’s for sure. Folks talked quite a bit when she up and left.”

  He took a drag of his cigarette. “We were friends for a while, your mama and me. Heck—we were just kids.” He let out smoke in a long stream that floated off in a wisp. “Yessir, I was sorry to hear how things turned out.”

  Bean looked off, not meeting my eye any longer. “Some things haunt you, ya know. Stick with you—crawl up inside and live with you. Sometimes you can’t shake them, no matter what you do.” He locked his jaw, far away in his thoughts somewhere.

  My mind tumbled and turned, trying to unlock his meaning. I wasn’t sure if he was talking about himself or you, Mama, but it hardly mattered. Bean knew who you were deep down, and more than anything else, I wanted to ask him a thousand questions. He spread the corners of his mouth into a toothy grin. “You come back and visit anytime, ya hear?”

  Bean winked at Faith. “Candy bars on me.” He went back inside, leaving Faith and me to our business.

  Yep, Mama. Bean was definitely my number one pick for the could-be-my-real-daddy contest.

  He didn’t miss a trick. I liked that about him.

  With Maybelle’s tires sturdy with fresh air, we took off down the pike toward the church. We lit off through the field and made our lunch by the pond—Goober sandwiches from the gas station. The swans watched us eat, then nibbled our leftover crusts.

  Faith spread out Aunt Bernie’s afghan. We listened to Casey Kasem’s top one hundred songs of the week on the transistor, while the swans circled in the pond.

  Faith sang along with the radio, pretending she was singing into a microphone. I made drumsticks out of tree branches and hammered out rhythms. We ate the mushy Snickers bars and lay on our backs, studying the shifting leaves of the trees and the occasional drifting clouds. Faith took the wrappers off our gum sticks and folded the tiny papers into a colorful bracelet. She had a special knack for making something out of nothing.

  She stopped her work suddenly and looked at me. “What Bean said, about some people treating their kids worse than dogs. If I tell you something, will you promise not to tell?”

  I gave her a look of assurance. Couldn’t tell even if I wanted to.

  “I guess you can keep secrets better than anybody, huh?” She laughed.

  She returned to work on her gum-wrapper bracelet. “He was talking about me, Bean was. What he said is true. That’s why I ran away.”

  I listened to Faith, Mama, all that afternoon. She told me secrets about her life, and I can’t tell you what they were, because I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone. But I can tell you this—Faith’s running away was the smartest thing she could have done.

  While she talked, I drew pictures in my notebook—new pencil drawings of the cygnets, who kept growing more each day. After a while I started a portrait of Faith, while she wasn’t looking. When I was almost done, she discovered what I was doing, grabbed my notebook from me, and scowled.

  “You made me look . . . like somebody else.”

  I cocked my head. What do you mean?

  “I don’t know. You see me different. Not like most people see me.”

  • • •

  Later that night I stared out at the moon, unable to sleep. Anxious for Ray’s visit the next day, I’d managed nothing but an hour or two of twisting and twirling in the sheets. Finally I gave up and turned on the light. I opened my notebook and turned to the page of my unfinished picture of Faith. I took my pencil and filled in the missing parts, shading here and there, giving her dimension.

  Then it hit me, Mama—why Faith looked different to me than she looked to other people—another secret I’d known all that day but hadn’t dared think out loud. There in Shepherdsville, I was the only person she had let see her. Really see her.

  Without either of us looking, friendship had sneaked up behind Faith and me and tapped us on the shoulders, as unexpected as a perfect day.

  20

  v-i-s-i-t-a-t-i-o-n

  visitation (n.)


  the act or instance of visiting; migration of animals or birds to a particular place at an unusual time or in unusual numbers

  Sunday morning I overslept, Mama. I dreamed that you were waiting for me by the swan’s nest behind the church. You smiled like you had a big secret and couldn’t wait to share it. Your hair floated around your face, rising in the wind, loose and carefree. I shouted—so happy to see you that my voice came back, pure and strong. I called, “Mama,” and you lifted your arms out to me. When I reached where you stood, you turned and flew away, giant wings lifting you far above me. I wanted to go with you but was bound to the earth and couldn’t follow.

  The sound of car wheels crunching gravel and doors slamming outside my window woke me. Voices floated in on the morning breeze, dragging me awake, back to the farmhouse with the squeak of the screen door opening downstairs. Part of me lingered in the dream with you, craving to stay there. Aunt Bernie’s voice crept in like fog.

  “She’ll be glad to see you.”

  Ray.

  I sat up in bed, clutching the covers.

  He had turned up after all.

  I wasn’t sure how I felt about seeing Ray, Mama—not certain if I wanted to bawl like a baby or kick him in the shins—repayment for leaving me there in Shepherdsville like he did. But then I thought about Faith and Evangeline and Aunt Bernie, and my thoughts got all twisted up like the sheets.

  I hurried into the bathroom and ran water in the sink. When all the rust had run out of the spigot, I splashed my face. My reflection in the cracked old mirror stopped me. I’d never noticed your face in mine, Mama, until that very moment. Water dripped down my cheeks like I’d been crying. I wondered if I’d look this way when Reverend Love dunked me on Baptism Sunday—bleary and uncertain.

  The sounds of scraping chairs in the kitchen and clinking plates made their way to me. Ray’s voice vibrated in the walls, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying.