The Forgiving Kind

by Donna Everhart

  He said, “Sixty/forty and that’s more than fair. It’s a risk, and that’s the final offer.”

  There was that word again—risk. Mama didn’t answer right away, and neither one of them were really smiling. No, they looked more like they were trying to gauge who might win the negotiation. If this worked out, Ross sure was gonna be happy ’cause he’d been at his wit’s end, drifting around like he didn’t have a thing to do. Trent came around the corner of the house and when he saw Mr. Fowler, he came over and stood beside me, staring while Mr. Fowler kept talking.

  Trent said, “What’s going on?”

  I mumbled, “We might get to start planting, courtesy of him.”

  Trent frowned. “What? Why?”

  “Said he’d buy what we needed, and . . .”

  Mr. Fowler turned to look at us, so I quit talking.

  Mama said, “Let me talk about it with the kids tonight.”

  Mr. Fowler looked toward me and Trent, and I allowed a bit of a smile, like I’d done all those years ago. He offered nothing. Not even a blink. But boy when he looked back at Mama, he did that thing again I couldn’t quite call a smile, it was more of an expression that implied he was real easygoing about anything she said or did.

  He said, “Whatever makes you comfortable, but your decision ought to come pretty quick, as it’s already getting into May.”

  Mama said, “You’ll have it by tomorrow.”

  He spun on his heels and headed for his truck, while Mama went over to the clothesline and started taking clothes down, already moving on to the other things she had to do as if his visit were of no concern to her. What struck me was his expression when he’d turned away from her. The way his entire face flattened out, and everything from his eyebrows to his mouth went into a straight line, so different from how he’d looked when he’d faced her, appearing pleasing and friendly. I can’t say I’d ever seen someone look so different from one minute to the next, and I concluded he was pretty good at hiding what he was thinking.

  Chapter 5

  At the supper table Mama talked about Mr. Fowler financing our operation (that was how she put it), and Ross looked ready to hop on the tractor that minute. Trent did what Trent does, which was to raise a shoulder up in an “I don’t care” manner, while he kicked Ross under the table. Trent sure did hate to work the cotton.

  Mama turned to me. “Sonny, what do you think?”

  Trent spoke up. “Who cares what she thinks, she’s a girl.”

  Mama smacked her hand on the table, and the sound was sharp, like she’d actually hit his face. By the look on hers, she was tempted.

  “Trent Walters Creech. Don’t never let me hear you say such a hateful thing, ever. You understand?”

  Trent slumped in his chair, wearing that sullen look he’d had lately.

  Mama tapped his arm, like she wanted him to really understand she meant business. “I want to hear you understand me.”

  Trent mumbled, “Yes, ma’am.”

  She said, “Sonny?”

  I didn’t know exactly how to respond ’cause I could see the reason in it, while my doubts about Mr. Fowler stuck. Yet, I wanted to see cotton growing no matter how it got there. Empty fields didn’t seem right, and made me think about Daddy.

  I said, “Do I got to sell eggs if we plant?”

  Mama said, “You’ll keep helping in any way you can, as usual.”

  She stared around the table at us, her look saying she’d made up her mind and I went to bed that night knowing somehow, after tomorrow, everything was going to be different. In my room I listened for maybe the millionth time, the smooth velvety voice of Elvis and his declaration, “that’s all right, Mama,” hoping that was true.

  The next morning when Mama picked up the receiver and punched the buttons a few times to get Eunice, I watched with mixed feelings.

  “Eunice? Patch me over to Frank Fowler.” There was a pause, and she snapped, “Frank Fowler, yes, that’s exactly who I said.”

  She rolled her eyes. There was sure to be gossip over to Wells’ Grocery at the very idea of her calling him.

  After a few seconds she said, “This is Olivia Creech. I’ve thought about it, and I’ll accept your offer.”

  There was quiet on her end for a few seconds. “No. Sixty/forty.” More quiet. “Yes. Fine. Of course, we’ll do our best.”

  She hung up the phone, came back to the table, and sat down. “Guess we’re gonna find out how that might go.”

  For a while it was only the sound of forks scraping on plates as we finished up breakfast.

  When I was done, I wiped my mouth, sat back, and said, “What you reckon Daddy would think?”

  “He’d want us to do what we needed to do to get by.”

  It put me in a mood, something between relieved and troubled. I couldn’t explain my worry any more than I could describe how the dowsing stick worked. Some things just weren’t meant to make sense right away. My concern was as mystifying as the need I felt to march across the acres while waiting for some signal from Daddy in his heavenly home.

  At school, I was all keyed up. It didn’t help when “Lil” Roy Carter and Junior Odom started shooting spitballs out of their mouths at everyone’s heads until Mrs. Baker finally separated them. It was just my luck Billy Watson’s desk beside mine was empty ’cause he was out sick, and that’s where Mrs. Baker put Junior. I didn’t look at him even though he kept trying to get my attention by mumbling my name every few seconds.

  “Sonny. Sonny. Hey, Sonny. Pssst.”

  I stared at the clock over Mrs. Baker’s graying head, wishing the bell would ring. I wanted to finish my earlier conversation with Daniel. Junior got to making some wild moves the more I ignored him, first shifting one way and then the other. Daniel finally looked my way and mouthed, coming over today. Happy, I relaxed and sat back to listen to Mrs. Baker talk about nurses coming to our school to give out them newfangled polio vaccines the following week. She droned on and on while I stared down at my reddened cuticles, and jagged nails where I’d taken to chewing on them even more. Mama hadn’t noticed yet. I recalled her dipping my thumb into the pepper sauce when I was about two so I’d quit sucking on it, and thought she’d do the same thing again if she could see my fingertips.

  Finally the bell went off and there was the usual hectic scramble to the door with Mrs. Baker yelling at us to not forget to do our homework. I felt sorry for her sometimes. Daddy used to say she was old as Methuselah since she’d taught him too. Junior pushed his way in front of me, then stopped so I almost ran into his backside.

  “Move it, Junior, geez!”

  Daniel waited beside the door, and walked with me to the bus, while Junior tried to get under our skin.

  “Aw, look at the two lovey-dovey birds. Go on, Lassiter! Why don’t you kiss her? Sonny and Daniel sitting in a tree! K-i-s-s-i-n-g!”

  My face burned. I’d never considered Daniel in that way, although recently he’d grown lanky, and he was getting what Mama called peach fuzz on his upper lip. I didn’t want anything to change. I wanted things to stay like they’d always been, our ease together as comfortable as my oldest, worn-out dungarees. Daniel refused to look at Junior, who started squeaking like a mouse, although something flickered in his eyes when Junior bumped into me again.

  I said, “Quit, Junior Odom! You almost tripped me.”

  Junior’s look shifted to something hateful, but he moved away so at least I didn’t have to smell the liverwurst and cheese sandwich he’d wolfed down at lunch. Daniel did that thing I liked where he slung his arm over my shoulder like Daddy used to do, while Junior stayed on our heels. Some days I wished Daniel would stand up to him, give him one good solid whop. I bet he’d think twice about messing with us. Sarah sat in the parking lot waiting on him, the back end of their car smoking hard as she was. Daniel rode with her to and from school instead of the county bus like us.

  I said to him, “You might not be able to stay at our place long. Mr. Fowler’s supposed to be ther
e, and we got to get on with the planting pretty quick since we’re so far behind.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “He’s all right, I guess. He doesn’t talk much to us, but he’s real nice to Mama.”

  “Dang. I bet he’s making moves.”

  “Making moves?”

  “You know, on your mama. She’s all alone now, except for you and your brothers. Remember what went on with Mr. Earl and Mrs. Grissom.”

  That rumor had held the town captive for months until it became a fact. Mr. Grissom wasn’t dead six months hardly when next thing we know, Mrs. Grissom was becoming Mrs. Earl. I gave Daniel a doubtful look. He gave me a smug one, and then the thought of it sort of made me mad.

  I huffed at him. “Have you lost your marbles? Mama loved Daddy, and still does. She’ll always love him, and no one else. If he was up to something like that, she wouldn’t stand for it. She’d tell him to go to hell.”

  “Okay, calm down, I’m just saying.”

  I made my way toward the bus. “He’s more interested in our land, I think, which I don’t much like that either.”

  Daniel followed me, and he said, “Well, maybe that’s all it is.”

  Alarmed, I said, “All it is? Shoot, that’s everything!”

  I stewed over Mr. Fowler’s possible motives. The idea he might be interested in Mama was as bad as him wanting our land. Any consideration of either would be like turning our backs on Daddy, and his memory.

  I climbed the first step on the bus and Daniel said, “So, you want me to come over or not? I got a new scene we can practice.”

  We’d been doing bits and pieces from A Streetcar Named Desire for a year now, the same ones over and over, and I was getting sort a tired of it. Daniel got obsessed with stuff like that. He watched shows at his neighbor’s house, an elderly lady who gave him cookies and milk, and talked his ears off, while he sat in front of her set. He always took pencil and paper and scribbled details about different movies for us to reenact although we’d sometimes carry on off-the-cuff, saying what came to mind instead of what was really supposed to be said. Daniel said that was improvising.

  I stopped and faced him, which put us eye level, and said, “I guess.”

  He took my answer as a sign of disregard and said, “Ain’t got to if you don’t want me to.”

  “No. I do.”

  I stared at Daniel a second longer, his eyes like maple syrup, warm and golden, and my heart gave a strange, new little quiver. I hurried onto the bus without looking back at him again. I took a seat where I could watch him walking toward Sarah who kept an eye out on the other kids coming from the school. She didn’t wear what most girls her age wore, the poodle or circle skirts with matching sweater sets, bobby socks, and oxfords. She liked them tight-fitting pencil skirts, and flats. I couldn’t help but think she might have a “reputation.” Boys Ross’s age talked about girls like her, the ones who snuck behind the bleachers in the gymnasium or out on the baseball field and “made out” with them.

  The sort they called fast, a girl who goes all the way, or “puts out.”

  Mama had that discussion with me this past birthday. She needn’t have bothered. I’d had no inkling in that direction whatsoever. Sarah scanned the parking lot, and spotted Ross coming from his school across the street, his letter jacket and books slung over his shoulder, heading for the bus. She immediately tossed her cigarette aside and waved at him enthusiastically. He had to have seen her she was so animated, but he didn’t wave back. He looked past her, shouting and waving to Addie Simmons instead. Ross used to like to go to the Pavilion down to the beach now and then to dance, until Hurricane Hazel tore it all to pieces last year. He was good at Carolina shag, and had won a contest or two. Sometimes at night, I could make out the shuffle shuffle, swish swish noise of him practicing steps in his bedroom, his transistor radio tuned in to a station out of Carolina Beach.

  Sarah’s hand fell, and that happy look of hers dropped into a pout. I almost felt sorry for her, until she slapped Daniel as he went by, as if he was to blame for Ross not giving her a single glance. That ended any sympathy I might have had. Daniel only gave her an annoyed look and got in the car. He never stood up for himself, and between his mama and Sarah, I was certain he got shoved into the background a lot, as if their words and opinions were always more important than his.

  The bus lurched out of the parking lot, and I settled in beside my friend Becky Hill, a smart girl who liked to draw pictures of horses and had earned every single badge there was as a Girl Scout. I liked her quiet ways, and she could tell when I didn’t want to talk. I stared out the window at the countryside we passed, acres and acres filled with cotton, tobacco, and corn, fields filled with money, and all the good things that could be bought when a crop was successful. Ours was the third stop, and when the bus came to Turtle Pond Road, the land lay brown and empty, not one tiny little plant in sight. But that wasn’t what drew the attention of the busload of kids. No, after Ross, Trent, and I bailed out, the inevitable murmur began from those who still found it interesting to talk about how Daddy died when they thought we couldn’t hear.

  “Said he couldn’t breathe . . .”

  “Swolled up like a balloon . . .”

  “Mama said what them Creeches were doing was evil. Whoever heard tell of finding water with a damn stick.”

  “My daddy said it was a bunch of horseshit.”

  “Hey, water witch! Sonny Creech is a water witch!”

  They made me mad and didn’t even know it. I wanted to shout “shut up!” at the top of my lungs as the bus pulled away leaving us in the stench of its smoky exhaust. I held my books tight against my chest. Ross walked with me, knowing I’d heard the comments as they flowed out the open windows, words tossed like trash on the ground. My school shoes smacked against the dirt road, and my dress swung around my legs since I was walking fast like my feet were on fire. Trent lollygagged behind, stopping to investigate the stink of something dead in the ditch.

  “Don’t pay them no mind.”

  “I ain’t.”

  He reminded me more of Daddy every day, not only the way he walked, loose-jointed and relaxed, but even his expressions. Ross understood me, almost as good as Daddy had. We hurried along, anxious to get home. Mr. Fowler’s truck was visible soon as the house came into sight.

  Ross said, “Well, he wasn’t fooling.”

  Hearing Ross’s comment, Trent, who’d caught up to us, said, “I never thought he was. I knew he’d stick to his word.”

  Ross snorted, and I shook my head. Since when did Trent know anything about Mr. Fowler anyway? We went around to the back of the house. When we walked into the kitchen, Mr. Fowler was parked at the table, cup of coffee in front of him and a half-filled ashtray. The room smelled of cigarette smoke and his hair tonic.

  Mama said, “Mind your manners.”

  Ross stepped forward and shook his hand as did Trent. After Trent, I stuck my hand out, and Mr. Fowler grabbed it, and then stared at my fingertips.

  I pulled my hand back as he said, “Young ladies don’t bite their nails.”

  Mama frowned and reached for my hand, staring down at my chewed nails.

  She let my hand go and said, “We’re coping with what’s happened best as we can.”

  Mr. Fowler’s demeanor changed right away, and he said, “Oh, sure, sure. Didn’t meant nothing by it. Just commenting, and probably shouldn’t.”

  He sort of laughed, and then stopped abruptly, like it was something he wasn’t used to doing.

  Mama motioned to us. “Go on and get out of your school clothes.”

  We filed out of the kitchen, and headed down the dogtrot to our rooms. Ross mumbled, “Danged if he ain’t kind a strange.”

  Trent said, “I didn’t see nothing strange.”

  I said, “Wonder why he ain’t never been married.”

  Trent said, “Maybe he has, we don’t know.”

  I said, “I wonder if he’s going to be coming around here
all the time.”

  We went quiet as we took a moment to think about the implications of Frank Fowler in our lives.

  Then, Ross echoed my own thoughts. “I sure hope not.”

  Trent drew up his shoulders like it wouldn’t bother him none. In my room I quickly changed into a pair of clean dungarees, a T-shirt, and my work boots. My fingers worked to capture my hair in a braid as I stared at the soft pink walls Daddy had painted and the white curtains with ruffles Mama had made. My bed was what Mama called a spindle, with swirly posts of dark wood. Some had scratches ’cause it was old, and had been passed down from Mama. At the foot was a quilt made by Granny Walters and Mama when she was about my age. It was soft, and colorful, patches of worn materials from various dresses, and other pieces of clothing. Farther up, in the center, sat Dolly, a porcelain doll I’d been given once Mama decided I was old enough not to bust her head. She too had been Mama’s when she was little, brought back by Granddaddy Walters from Paris after WWI. She had real hair, blond like mine, and she wore a red dress and a velvet black collar. She was mighty fine to look at, even though one blue eye didn’t open all the way, giving her what Daddy had said was a “drunken look.”

  Mama had said, “How would you know?”

  Daddy winked at her and said, “That’s the exact look I had after I saw you.”

  I finished my hair, feeling nervous. I hoped by evening, I’d know enough about Mr. Fowler to ease my mind. He tended to come off in a prickly manner, like he was irritated, or found something not to his liking most of the time, but maybe once we got to know him, he’d be fine. I slapped my straw hat on my head and went back toward the kitchen.

  “Hey, Sonny!” came from across the yard.

  Daniel had decided to come after all and I ran up to him as he leaned his bike against the side of the house.

  “Hey there!”

  He wore dungarees like me, a striped T-shirt, and high-top Keds. I was glad he’d not shown up in a “costume” like he was prone to do, least not with Mr. Fowler here. Last time he’d come in one of his sister’s dresses, and he said a couple men tried to run him off the road, and had yelled something at him. I’d laughed till my sides hurt when I saw him. Paired with his high-top tennis shoes, he’d looked like some crazy old lady and claimed Blanche Dubois would be offended at my laughing.