Philip Hall Likes Me, I Reckon Maybe

by Bette Greene

  “It sure must hurt,” I said, wishing I knew how we were going to get down this mountain. Philip’s half crippled and I’m half lost. Boy!

  “You ain’t got nothing to eat on you, have you?” asked Philip, looking around for a plate of pie and a bag of sandwiches.

  I dug into the pocket of my cut-off jeans to show that there wasn’t nothing there, but instead found two fruit-flavored Lifesavers and an unwrapped (but unchewed) Chiclet. “You didn’t eat no lunch,” I said.

  He took my offering. “Reckon I don’t need you to tell me that.”

  “Can you walk on that leg?”

  Philip shook his head no. “It even hurts when I’m not walking.”

  “Well, what if you put your weight on a crutch instead of on your bad foot?”

  His eyes now darted around for the crutch same way they had a moment ago darted around for the pie and sandwiches.

  “I didn’t bring it,” I explained. “I’m going to be it. So just flop your arm around my neck and lean on me.” And we started out, with him raising his bad left foot slightly off the ground. “One good step, one bad step, one good step, one ...”

  “Why do you keep saying that?” he asked.

  “Don’t exactly know... excepting it sounds like we’re making progress.” What I didn’t know was that Philip weighed so much. Once we reached the boulder I told him I had to sit and rest a spell.

  “You’re some fine crutch,” he said, managing a little laugh while giving me a poke with what had to be his good foot.

  “Reckon there are worse crutches,” I said, not really wanting to spend any more energy on talk. “ ‘Cause I don’t reckon you was doing much laughing before I came up here to fetch you.”

  Soon we were back, walking our strange three-legged walk, but we hadn’t been at it very long before my shoulder felt as though it was fixing to break off from under Philip’s weight. “Rest,” I called, letting him slowly bring himself down to sitting.

  “We don’t hardly get nowhere,” he complained, “before you’re ready to rest.”

  “Anyone ever tell you you weigh mite near a ton?” I answered, while thinking of other things I could have said. Things like, when was the last time you tried carrying some overgrown boy on your shoulders? Or this: It ain’t me that’s slowing me down. Reckon I could have said those things and more, but I didn’t have neither the strength nor the heart for it. Besides, all I wanted to do ... all I was able to do ... was just to lie here with my body resting against God’s good earth.

  Walking again, I got to remembering how Tarzan swung from tree to tree across the entire African continent without once touching ground. I looked overhead. But Arkansas pines weren’t growing no ropes. Not this season.

  From time to time Philip would show the way by ges turing to the right or to the left, but otherwise he, like me, didn’t have nothing to say.

  When we finally reached the mountain’s base, Philip and I celebrated by falling exhausted to the ground for still another rest. And this time our rest lasted longer and he didn’t seem any more anxious to get moving again than me.

  And when I finally got to my feet, I still felt tired as a toad, and the picnic area was a long way from being close. This time was different in another way too. All those other times I rose from my rest saying to myself that I had to go on... had to be Philip’s good strong crutch. But those were the other times. This time I can’t help anybody. My own back feels as crippled as Philip’s foot. Even without his weight hanging across my shoulders, I wouldn’t make it back for help.

  I pointed to the idle red tractor that had earlier been working this field. “Reckon you could drive that thing, Philip?”

  “Sure,” he said as though he’d never been surer of anything in his whole life.

  I thought about the pain that came with each step. “How many steps over to it?” I asked.

  “Not many.”

  “How many you reckon ain’t many?”

  This time he raised his head to make a more thoughtful appraisal. “Ohhh ... not many.”

  “Let’s go,” I said, helping him to his feet. As he flopped his arm across my shoulder I shouted out, “Ohh! ... two ... three ...” I expected his every breath to carry a complaint about my counting. “Eighteen ... nineteen... twenty ...” Maybe he understood that I had to keep my mind off the pain and on the progress. “Thirty-five ... thirty-six ... thirty-seven ...” But Philip didn’t say a word. “Forty-five ... forty-six ...” Then at the forty-seventh step we reached out and together touched tractor!

  Philip pulled himself up into the seat and began working the levers on the right side of the steering wheel. One of the levers he pushed up, saying, “Advance the sparks,” and the other lever he pushed down, saying, “Down the magneto.” Then he looked down at me and yelled, “Go give her the crank!”

  I went around in front and gave the old tractor a turn, but nothing happened. “Come on now, sweet thing,” I coaxed, giving her crank another turn or two. “Don’t you go acting up on us.” Then, with the last bit of energy that God gave me, I gave her a good turn or two or three, and glory be, the motor started.

  I crowded next to Philip on the driver’s seat and watched as he pushed the shift stick down and drove off toward the picnic grounds. “Yea!”

  As Philip drove into the grounds, the Reverend Ross looked about as surprised as if he was seeing one of them Bible miracles he’s always preaching about. “First Lazarus!” cried out the minister. “And now Phil Hall! Glory bee!”

  Farther on, Bonnie and Gordon were grass sitting, looking as though they had lost their dearest friend. “How-dy!” yelled Philip as he drove a wide circle around them. All four eyes pressed forward as though the center of gravity was Philip Hall.

  “What’s the matter with them?” Philip asked. “Haven’t they never seen no tractor before?” He headed the old ma chine down toward the river. At water’s edge, folks sat with their heads down between their hands while a few others dabbed at their eyes with soggy handkerchiefs.

  Philip pointed out his mother, who stood staring at the river, hands pressed against her heart. “How-dy, Ma!” he called out. “What you got good to eat?”

  Mrs. Hall stared at her son with unblinkable eyes before dropping to her knees. “Thank you, Lord! Oh, thank you, Lord!”

  Philip moved the levers together and the motor died. As I climbed down, Mrs. Hall caught me in a bear-smothering hug. “You brought him back, Beth! You brought my boy back!” Then she pointed a finger at her youngest son, saying, “You had us so worried we mite near lost our minds. I ain’t talking to you till, my heart calms down!” She walked away faster than I had ever seen her walk.

  While from the height of his tractor seat, Philip looked down at me like a little boy lost. “Can’t figger whether she is loving me or hating me.”

  “Well ...” I said, stalling till I got it straight in my own mind. “She hates the terrible scare you gave her, but we—I mean she—loves you, Philip Hall. I reckon maybe.”

  The calf-raising contest

  September

  We faced the green cloverleaf poster with the H on every leaf and with the strength of our fifteen voices recited:I pledge my head to clearer thinking my heart to greater loyalty my hands to greater service and my health to better living for my club, my community, and my country.

  Philip Hall struck the table with his gavel, which is pretty much the way the 4-H Club of Pocahontas, Arkansas, is always called to order. He asked everybody—one at a time—to tell how their project was coming along and if it was going to be ready for next Saturday’s county fair.

  Although my hand was the first raised, Philip was nodding toward Bonnie Blake, which was just as well, seeing as she had already begun talking. She told about the special problem of making a dress with a printed pattern, and then she explained with detail piled on top of boring detail how she overcame every single obstacle before concluding with: “But it’s all finished now and I’m ready for the judging.”
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  Waving my hand as hard as I could didn’t help none ‘cause our president had begun motioning toward Ginny, who got to her feet so slowly that you’d think she was the only one waiting to speak her piece. Then she did a powerful lot of explaining about all the trouble she went through getting a few garden vegetables into sealed jars before she finally said, “But my carrots, stewed tomatoes, and lima beans can’t hardly wait for the canning contest.”

  I thought for sure I was going to be next, but Gordon was being asked to report on what he was doing to get himself prepared for the tractor maintenance contest. “Through the mail I got me this little booklet called Maintaining Your John Deere Tractor and I read it, top to bottom.”

  For a long time now Gordon’s been working on Saturdays at the Randolph County Tractor Center and all us 4-H members think that if any one of us comes home with a blue ribbon (or even a red one) it is going to be him.

  Next thing I knew, the Jones boys—Jordan and Joshua —were standing up explaining their pig’s progress by weight and inches. Just when I got to thinking that that little pig is going to grow into a full-size hog before Jordan and Joshua finish up their explaining, the double Js did something truly amazing—they finished up their explaining.

  Philip Hall smiled like folks do when they have been saving the best for last. He was fixing to call upon me. Ain’t he a sweet thing? This time I didn’t wave my hands. ‘Cause when he tells the club about all the good work I’m doing with my calf Madeline, well, I’m going to act surprised and a little embarrassed.

  But he began: “I named my female calf Leonard because Leonard doesn’t act like no girl. Leonard’s as brave as any bull and smart—Ooooooeeeeee!”

  I couldn’t hardly believe what I was hearing from that low-down polecat! I told him, “When Leonard gets grown he’s going to be giving milk, more like a Leonora than a Leonard.”

  Everybody laughed except our president, who didn’t find my remarks the least bit amusing. He didn’t even wait for the laughing to end before going on with his talk. “Up to the time Leonard was ten days old he wouldn’t put nothing in his mouth but mother’s milk. So before feedings, I got to rubbing a little milk-soaked grain on his nose. Naturally enough, he’d lick it right off and that’s how I tricked Leonard into liking grain.”

  When Philip paused long enough to let it sink in on everybody just what a fine calf-raiser he is, I waved my hands while bouncing up and down in my chair. But our president only began talking on about the importance of bone meal in Leonard’s diet.

  I wasn’t listening. I was thinking back, remembering how he never ever let me say one word about my Madeline. And I know I tried explaining it to him that as long as our only cow, Maude, was calving, I might as well take care of her calf for my 4-H project. Even Pa remarked that it would be good learning for a future veterinarian.

  Part of the problem with Philip is that he doesn’t like the idea that our Old Maude with the sagging back could give birth to a calf good enough to compete with the very best from the Hall Dairy Farm. And another part of the problem has to do with boys and how they hate losing... especially how they hate losing to girls.

  When Philip paused, I jumped to my feet. “Mr. 4-H President,” I called out. “Reckon you is going to get around to calling upon me?”

  “Speak your piece,” said Philip, “if you have to.”

  “Well, Madeline is a Jersey cow and Jerseys, as any fool can tell you, don’t come as big as Holstein or Guernsey cows. She didn’t weigh but fifty pounds the day she was born and most Holsteins I know wouldn’t bother coming into this world less’n they weighed least a hundred.”

  “Is you going to talk about all the cows that ever lived?” asked Philip.

  “Reckon I can’t tell you nothing while you keep butting in.” I waited till I was right sure that Philip wasn’t going to backsass me before going on. “You can’t go around expecting a Jersey to weigh as much as a Holstein. It d be the same thing as expecting a pea to weigh as much as a pear. Well,” I said, making that a very long word, “according to the United States Department of Agriculture, it’s real good if a three-month-old calf weighs one hundred and thirty-eight pounds, but do you know how much my Madeline weighs?”

  “Nope!” answered Philip as though he didn’t know and didn’t care to know.

  “My Madeline’s weight is now”—I paused to let the suspense build—“one hundred and fifty pounds.”

  Ginny clapped and Bonnie said, “Twelve pounds to the good.”

  Philip waved everybody quiet. “Don’t go counting your blue ribbons before you win any, Miss Beth!”

  Did I have me a thing or two to tell him! “You’ve been acting plumb miserable ever since my Madeline is trying for the same prize that your Leonard is.”

  “You saying that Leonard and me is scared of Madeline and you?” Philip tried laughing. “Ha ha ha ha!” But it wasn’t what you’d call a real laugh.

  I stood tall in front of him and the rest of the 4-H members saying, “I thinks you is at least half-right,” before moving on toward the door. Our president’s face showed that he needed a mite more explaining so I gave it to him. “I don’t think your Leonard is one bit scared, but I think you, Mr. Philip Hall, is downright terrified.”

  During supper, my mama complained that I must have left my appetite at the 4-H Club ‘cause “You ain’t eating enough to feed a poult.” When I answered by saying that it was only Madeline on my mind, I caught her looking at me sideways. Like she does when she’s stopped believing.

  After sundown I carried the kerosene lamp quietly through the barn toward Madeline’s stall. “Hello, sweet thing,” I called, holding up a slab of cornbread. With a damp, sandpapery tongue, she pushed the treat off my hand into her waiting mouth.

  I told Madeline, “Don’t you be like Ma, thinking I’m upset just because that boy behaves the way he do!” I said, bringing my fist down upon her head. Madeline made what sounded like half of a moo before backing into the far corner of her pen.

  What have I done! “Oh, sweet Madeline, I wouldn’t hurt you for the world. It’s only that low-down polecat who’s got me steamed up with the mads.”

  The calf seemed to understand because she moved back toward me. For a while I stood stroking her head and thinking of another head I’d like to smack. The dumb bum! Where in the good book is it written that a girl’s calf can’t be in the same contest with a boy’s calf? Well, Mister Philip Hall, for too long I’ve worried that you wouldn’t like me if I became the number-one best student, ran faster in the relay race, or took the blue ribbon for calf-raising.

  Well, I reckon I’m still worried, but with a difference. Now I’m worried that I might not win and that would give you entirely too much satisfaction.

  By eight o‘clock Saturday morning, all of us Lamberts, especially including Madeline the calf, got aboard Pa’s pickup truck and headed for Mountain Village and the annual Randolph County Fair. In the back of the truck Luther and I stood on either side of Madeline and took turns building her confidence. I told her, “You’re bound to win, sweet Madeline.” And Luther contributed, “Madeline, you is a born blue-ribbon calf if ever I did see one.”

  Fifteen miles later Pa parked in front of a makeshift gate. Then with Luther shoving a reluctant Madeline from behind, I led her down the truck’s plank.

  Inside the early morning fair grounds everybody was busy rushing to set up their egg, vegetable, poultry, flower, or clothing exhibits. Folks with livestock were leading them toward the barn, so Madeline and I followed.

  A big man who wore the sign, WM. PAULSEN, CATTLE JUDGE, pointed to a long shed behind a circle of temporary fencing. “Take your calf in there, girlie, and start preparing for the judging.”

  One thing I never did like was being called “girlie.” About the only folks who do that are big fat men. How would they like it if we girlies got to calling them “man-lies”?

  I gave the rough old rope harness a pull, and Madeline followed me into the barn pa
st stalls filled with boys and their calves. At the first empty one, Madeline and I entered and then she looked at me with earth-colored eyes as if to ask, what’s next?

  “I’m going to make you beautiful for the judges,” I explained as I rubbed brown shoe polish across her hooves. “You really are beautiful, sure enough.” Those eyes looked as though they’d seen most all the problems under the heavens and after a mite more consideration, they’d be ready to offer up the solutions.

  After I buffed her hooves with a piece of an old flannel shirt, I got out Madeline’s hairbrush. Brushing is what really puts the shine on.

  I heard the fat voice of the manlie in the distance saying, “Nice animal you got there, son.” Walking with Mr. Paulsen was Philip Hall holding onto the polished leather bridle of a prettily spotted Holstein.

  I said, “Leonard!”

  Philip looked up.

  “Philip,” I said.

  And Leonard looked up.

  “Well, Philip,” I said, trying for another start, “your Leonard looks real good. You sure did fatten him up.” Considering the bad feeling between us, I silently congratulated myself on finding such a nice thing to say. But I’ve noticed that ever since my twelfth birthday last month I’ve been at times surprisingly grown-up.

  Philip smiled wide enough to show the world how proud he was. “You know this here Leonard wouldn’t eat a thing the first ten days of his life that wasn’t mother’s milk. Bet you wouldn’t know what to do with an animal like that.”

  He’s all the time forgetting that he told folks what he already told them. “Well ... ,” I said, pretending to be thinking. “Well ... reckon I might try soaking some grain with milk and rubbing it across the animal’s nose.”

  He looked at me as though I had taken something very important away from him. “How did you know?”

  I laughed at him. “ ‘Cause you told that to everybody at the 4-H Club, you old forgetful head.”