by Bette Greene
“Did they do that,” I said, filling in the question for him before answering it. “I don’t know.”
The panel truck circled our tree before coming to a stop at the turkey-yard gate. Both doors opened and two people -both men—got out and without a single word lifted the latch and entered the compound.
Then from Philip’s mouth came little pops of breath.
“Shhhh...”
Pop/pop/pop/pop/pop/pop.
I threw my hand across his mouth. “Hush,” I said into his ear. “I’m going to be needing your help, you hear?” When I felt his face bob up and down, I let go of his mouth. “Sneak on into our house. Wake Pa and Luther while I see if I can recognize those thieves.”
Philip handed me his gun while he shimmied down the tree’s backside.
I watched the men with their long, white cotton-picker’s sacks move on toward the roosting turkeys. Through the moonlight I strained my eyes trying to see just who they were. I couldn’t. But I did hear me a heap of flapping and gobbling going on. Under my breath I said, “Come on, Pa. Oh, please!” But what if they take off with two bags full of turkeys before Pa and Luther get here? Then we’d never know who’s to blame ... unless... unless—the license plate!
Still holding onto Philip’s gun, I climbed down the tree and edged around to the rear of the panel truck. I couldn’t see the numbers so I brailled it. Seven ... nine ... four ... two ... six ... five. Just as I began congratulating myself on the fact that I now had those crooks’ license number, I discovered that I couldn’t remember it. Excepting that it started with a five, or was it a six?
I looked back over to our house, which was as black as a coal stove’s innards. “Oh, Pa,” I said, making it sound more like a prayer than a request. “Where are you when I need you?”
Then I saw them pulling their now-filled canvas bags toward the gate. Like a chant, I kept saying the word, “Pa ... Pa ... Pa...” But our house slept on, dark as ever.
As a hand clicked the gate’s latch, I shouted, “Stay where you is!” While my own hand kept groping for the trigger. Where is that trigger?
“What!” shouted a duet of voices.
Finally I found it. “I said, stay where you are before I shoot you full of lead!”
“Pop, don’t let me be shot!” screamed one man, who turned out to be an overgrown boy.
“Shut your mouth, Calvin Junior.”
So that’s who it is. The Calvin Cooks. Junior and Senior.
“Well, well,” said the butcher, trying for a light note. “Why don’t you put that hunting rifle down before you go hurting yourself?”
In the moonlight he had mistaken the BB gun for a rifle.
“Look, we’re sorry we bothered you.” He touched the latch. “Well, we’ll be leaving now.”
I used my meanest voice. “First one touches that gate is the first one going to get shot.”
Then in the distance a door slammed and heavy feet began running my way, snapping branches and breaking twigs.
“Pa!” I called into the night. “Here! Over here!”
Within moments, he came to my side with a sudden sliding stop. His powerful hunting rifle was aimed directly at Calvin Cook Senior as he asked me, “You all right?”
My strength felt as though it had all been used up. Still I was able to manage, “I’m OK-K-K.”
When Luther, Ma, and Philip Hall came running up, Pa moved his rifle up and down at the Cooks saying, “Would you look what strange-looking birds Beth found in our turkey yard.”
“It’s the Cooks from the meat market,” I said as Philip flashed his flashlight on them. Neither one of them Cooks seemed to appreciate the spotlight.
Mr. Cook moved his hands into a let‘s-be-friends gesture. “Now there’s no harm done so you’d just better let us go now.”
“Don’t you go talking about no harm,” answered Pa. “You’ve been taking our hard-earned living away from us! What do you know or care about the harm you caused?”
One of the turkeys found its way out of a long canvas bag and with a good loud squawk ran off in the direction of the range shelter.
Mr. Cock forced a smile as he pulled out a thick wad of money and slid off one of the bills before handing it out toward Pa. “All right, I don’t blame you a bit for wanting something. So here’s five dollars for your trouble.”
Pa took the money. “Reckon this oughta pay me for one of my turkeys, but them’s forty-nine others needing to be paid for.”
“What!” shouted the butcher. “Your turkeys aren’t worth five dollars apiece. Why, I never sold a single one of them for more than four dollars—or maybe four-fifty apiece.”
“Mister, I reckon you better peel off another forty-nine of those five dollar bills.”
Mr. Cook pointed his finger at Pa. “Why, that’s highway robbery! ”
Pa nodded his head in agreement. “That’s just what we is talking about. You coming off that highway to rob me ... Luther, drive the truck over to Sheriff Miller’s house. Tell him to get right over here and arrest these low-down critters.”
“Wait up now. Wait up!” said the butcher, whose hands gave up their pointing to return to a more friendly motion. That being the motion of peeling off five dollar bills and handing them over to Pa. When the forty-ninth bill was counted, Mr. Cook reached for the latch.
“Stay put,” said Pa, jiggling his rifle before turning to Luther. “Didn’t I tell you to get the sheriff? Didn’t I tell you that?”
Almost at the moment that Luther said, “But I thought —” Mr. Cook screamed, “What!”
From down the highway came a speeding car with a flashing dome light and the long, low wail of a siren. A minute later Sheriff Nathan Miller snapped the steel handcuffs around the wrists of the Cooks. “Farmers here-about been complaining about missing livestock ever since you Cooks moved into town.”
Calvin Junior’s lower lip pouted forward as he spoke directly to me. “All this is your fault! My daddy’s a respectable businessman.”
“Respect don’t keep company with greed.”
Calvin Junior went on, “You oughta be ashamed of yourself, a girl carrying a dangerous rifle.”
“And that’s twice you is wrong,” I said, holding up the BB gun so he could get a better look. “Don’t reckon I could tell you which would be more painful, getting shot by this BB gun or running head on into a mosquito.”
It was then that the rest of the turkeys found their way out of the Cooks’ canvas bags and with squawks of victory ran off through the darkness.
I never asked for no allergy
February
Mr. Barnes stopped the school bus along the side of the highway just at that spot where the dirt road leading to our farm meets the blacktop. First Philip Hall got off. Then I jumped off in front of the faded black-and-white sign at the intersection which read:
As I took a flying leap across the frozen drainage ditch that separated the road from the field, I heard Philip calling me.
“Hey, Beth!” He was still standing on the blacktop just where the bus left him. “You oughtna be going through the field. You might step into an ice puddle.”
Of all days to have to stop and start explaining things to Philip Hall. But at any other time I’d be thinking that he wouldn’t be fretting about my feet if he didn’t really like me. Now would he? “Frosty feet ain’t nothing,” I told him. “When you have a spanking new puppy waiting to meet you.”
“What if Mr. Grant wouldn’t swap a collie dog for one of your pa’s turkeys?” asked Philip, grinning as though he hoped it was so.
“That’s all you know! When I left the house this morning, my pa was picking out six of our fattest turkeys for swapping.” I turned and began running across the field.
“Well, one collie dog is worth more than six of your old turkeys,” called Philip.
I kept on running, pretending not to hear. And, anyway, everybody loves to eat turkey. Don’t they?
When I reached the rise in the field, I could see our house a
nice pale green. It always surprised me a little to see the house painted because until last year the weathered boards had never ever seen a lick of paint.
That was the year Pa sold mite near three hundred turkeys not even speaking about the forty-two pigs. And that was when Pa asked Ma what it was she wanted most. And she said that all her life she had wanted to live in a painted house. Especially in a house that was painted green.
As I came closer, I could see the chocolate brownness of my mama against the paleness of the porch. She was hanging work-worn overalls across the porch clothesline. Ma used to always be finished with the laundry by this time of day, but she says that carrying a baby inside tends to slow a person down a mite.
I tiptoed up behind her and threw my arms as far as they would go, which was about half the distance around her ever-widening waist.
“Ohhh!” She jumped. “What you mean scaring me clear out of my wits, girl?”
“Where is he?” I asked. “Where’s the collie?”
She put on her I‘m-not-fixing-to-listen-to-any-nonsense face and said, “I don’t know nothing about no collie.”
“Did Pa make the swap? Did he?”
“Get out of here, girl. Go on into the kitchen.”
“Tell me if Pa got the collie,” I pleaded. “Now did he?”
Her mouth was still set into that no-nonsense way of hers, but it was different with her eyes. Her eyes were filled up with pure pleasure. “And I told you,” she said, “to get on into the kitchen, didn’t I?”
Suddenly I understood. I threw open the screen door and, without waiting to close it gently behind me, ran in a straight line through the living room and into the kitchen.
And then I saw him. There in a cardboard carton next to the cookstove was a reddish-brown puppy with a circle of white fluffy hair ringing his neck and spilling down to his chest. I dropped to my knees and showed my open palms. “Hi, puppy. Beautiful little collie puppy.”
“He’s beautiful, sure enough,” said Ma from behind.
The collie just looked at me for a few moments. Then he got to his feet and trotted over.
“And you’re friendly too,” I said, patting his back. “Hey, that would be a good name for you.”
“Friendly,” said Ma, smacking her lips like she was word tasting. “That’s a right good name.”
I gave Friendly a hug and a kiss. “I will now name you —ah-choo!” I tried again. “I will now name—AHHHH-hhhhh-choo!!”
Ma shook her head the way she does when she catches me at mischief. “You done gone and got yourself a cold, now, didn’t you?”
“AHHHHhhhhhh-ha-ha-ha-choo! I now name you Friendly,” I said at last.
By bedtime I was sneezing constantly and water kept pouring from my sore, itchy eyes. But, thank goodness, all my sneezing didn’t seem to bother Friendly, who slept peacefully in his cardboard carton at the foot of my bed.
I could hear my folks in the kitchen talking about what they were always talking about these days—names for our soon-to-be-born baby. When they finally tired of that topic, Ma said, “Beth got me worried. All them wheezing sounds coming from her chest.”
“I seen Doc Brenner in town this afternoon,” said Pa. “He asked me to kill and clean one of our twenty-pound birds. Said he’d stop by this evening to pick it up.”
“When he comes by,” said Ma, “ask him to kindly take a look at our Beth.”
I climbed out of bed to take off my raggedy tail of a nightgown and put on the one that Grandma had given me last Christmas. She had made it out of a sack of Fairy Flake flour, but she dyed it a bright, brilliant orange. It was nice.
Friendly started to bark.
“Don’t you be frightened, little Friendly, it’s only me, only Beth.”
While I patted my new pet, I told him how glad I was that he had come to live with us. “You’re going to like it here, you’ll see. I’m going to bring all my friends to meet you. Philip Hall, Susan, Bon—ahh-choo-whoo! Ahh choo! Bonnie, Ginny, Esther. You’re going to like all my friends, Friendly, but you’re going to like me best of all ... I reckon maybe.”
Ma called out, “Is you out of bed, Beth?”
I jumped back into bed before answering. “No m‘am, I’m right here. Right here in bed.”
I kept my eyes open, waiting for the doctor to come, but after a while my eyelids came together. Sleep stood by waiting for me to fall ... fall asleep ... sleep ... sleep.
“Let me take a look at my old friend, Beth,” said a big voice.
My cheeks were being patted. “Doctor’s here, Beth honey,” Ma was saying.
I pulled myself up to sitting and looked into the face of Dr. Brenner, who said, “This won’t hurt,” as he placed a freezing stethoscope to my chest.
I jumped. “It’s cold.”
He rubbed the stethoscope warm with his hands. “That doesn’t sound much like the Beth Lambert who caught those turkey-thieving Cooks with only a”—Doc Brenner commenced laughing—“with only a ...” But again his laughing interfered with his talking so I just said, “With only a BB gun,” while the doctor laughed all the harder.
After wiping away all the tears that his laughter shook loose, Doctor Bernard M. Brenner became fully professional. “Just breathe naturally,” he said as he put the warmed tube back to my chest. He listened quietly without saying a word. Then he took the stethoscope from his ears. “I heard some wheezing sounds coming from your chest. Tell me, how do your eyes feel?”
“They feel like I want to grab them out of their sockets and give them a good scratching. They’re so ... so itchy.”
“Uh-hun,” answered Dr. Brenner, as though he knew all about itchy eyes. “Beth, can you remember when all this sneezing and wheezing began?”
Across the room, my sister turned over in her bed and let out a groan without once opening her eyes. It was as if Anne was making a complaint that her sleep was being disturbed by inconsiderate folks.
“Yes, sir,” I told the doctor. “It all started when I met Friendly.”
Friendly must have heard his name called ‘cause he jumped out of his carton and jogged floppily on over.
“Hi, little Friendly, little dog.” I picked him up and gave him a hug and a kiss. “AHHHHhh—choo! Ah-choo!”
“Beth,” said Dr. Brenner, running his fingers through his silver hair. “I’m sorry to do this, but I’m going to have to tell you something. Something you’re not going to like hearing. I believe you have an allergy to Friendly.”
“Oh, no sir, I don‘t!” I cried. “I don’t have one, honest. I never asked for no allergy. Why, I don’t even know what that means.”
Dr. Brenner took my hand. “It simply means that Friendly’s dog hair is making you sick. And, furthermore, it means that he must be returned to wherever he came from.”
“But Friendly is my dog. He belongs to me. And he’s never never going to go back to that kennel!” I felt tears filling up my eyes. “I love Friendly; Friendly loves me.”
“I know you love one another,” agreed Dr. Brenner. “But all this sneezing, wheezing, and red eyes is your body’s way of telling you something.”
I shook my head no.
Doc Brenner nodded his head yes. “Bodies don’t need to say fancy words like allergic rhinitis—or any words at all, Beth. When your throat is dry, you don’t wait to hear the word water before taking a drink. And do you really need the school’s lunch bell to ring before you know when it’s time to eat? Well, now your body is saying something just as important. Listen to it!” he said, cupping his hand around his ear. But the only sound in the room was the hissing noise coming from my own chest.
When the morning sun came flooding through my bedroom window, my eyes opened and I remembered about the allergy. Was it real or only a dream?
“Friendly,” I called. “Come here, little Friendly.”
But Friendly didn’t come and I didn’t hear him either. I jumped to the foot of my bed. The cardboard box was empty. They’ve taken him back to Mr. Gra
nt’s kennel!
I was just about to shout out for Friendly when outside the kitchen window I heard Luther’s and Anne’s voices: “Get that ball, Friendly. Friendly, you going to get that ball?”
Ma laughed. “That dog ain’t fixing to do nothing he ain’t a mind to do.”
I went out the kitchen door still wearing my orange nightgown and sat down on the back steps next to her. She put her arm around me and gave me a quick squeeze. “How you feeling, honey babe?”
I thought about her question. My chest felt as though it was still filled up with old swamp water while my head carried around last night’s headache. Finally, I gave my answer, “I’m OK, Mama. I reckon.”
“After you come home from school, I want you to take a little nap. Never mind them chores, just put your head down on the pillow and nap. ‘Cause you spent half the night crying into your pillow.”
“About what the doctor said ... about taking Friendly back to the kennel. We’re not going to listen to that, are we?”
She looked past me, out to where Luther and Anne were playing with Friendly. “Life don’t always be the way we want it to be. Life be the way it is. Ain’t nothing we can do. ”
“You can’t take him back!” I shouted. “Besides, Mr. Grant probably’s eaten up all the turkeys.”
“If he did, he did,” answered Ma.
“You don’t understand,” I said, bringing my voice back down to size. “I need Friendly! Luther was three and Anne was two when I was born so they had me, but I never had nothing little and soft to—”
“And I told you,” she said, “that life be the way it be. Ain’t nothing we can do. But if you misses that school bus, there is something I can do. I can take a switch to you. So get!”
At school I felt better and worse. Better because I didn’t sneeze or wheeze and even my eyes stopped itching and watering. And worse because tonight, after supper, Friendly was going back to Mr. Grant’s kennel.
If only I had some magic. One time I remembered my teacher, Miss Johnson, pointing to shelves of books and saying that they held many secrets. Could one of her books hold the secret of making the allergy go and the dog stay?
