Ross said, “Is she . . . drunk?”
Daniel said, “Yep.”
Without another word, he put the truck in reverse and we backed out of the driveway.
Mrs. Lassiter waved the bottle, and called out, “Mr. Langley wants you to staaaaay, Daaaaniel!”
Daniel said, “Hurry.”
Ross gave it some gas and we took off. I looked over my shoulder at Mrs. Lassiter stumbling out into the yard. I turned to face forward, sorry Daniel had to live like that.
Mama was sitting on the porch swing smoking a cigarette, the tip end showing in the darkness when we pulled up. She stood, but didn’t ask what was going on, intuitively knowing there must’ve been a problem.
She stubbed out her cigarette and said, “How about some more of that banana pudding?”
Daniel nodded. Mama fed you when things were going wrong, and if she’d been up to it after Daddy died, she’d of emptied the deep freeze, and cooked everything we had. She’d have fried chicken, fixed a meatloaf or three, and baked enough pies and cakes to feed the neighborhood. Mama put a second heaping bowl of banana pudding in front of Daniel again while I sat beside him, chin resting in the palm of my hand. I thought of Sarah, and speculated on whether she’d been in the house, in the middle of it all, sashaying around in front of everyone, mimicking her Mama, batting her eyes at whoever looked her way. I imagined the “things” that went on and probably shouldn’t.
After Daniel finished, Mama went to the linen closet and brought down a flat sheet. She fixed the living room couch, added a pillow, a light blanket, and as she smoothed the sheet out over the cushions, Daniel yawned. We said good night to one another and for me, there was something nice about knowing he was only a little ways down the hall. After I got in bed, I imagined myself walking down the hallway, and into the living room, sitting on the edge of the couch, and running my fingers through his long hair. That idea gave me that new, curious feeling I’d had lately around him. I went to sleep worried what he would think if he knew something had shifted inside me where he was concerned.
The next morning before the sun came up, Mr. Fowler’s truck was in the yard. Alarmed, I hurried to get dressed, wondering why he was already here. I made my way to the kitchen and found him at the table eating fried eggs with strips of brown, crispy fatback, biscuits piled high, and a steaming cup of coffee by his plate. Mama stood at the stove, still cooking, and that’s when Daniel came out of the living room looking eager for breakfast until he saw Mr. Fowler. He looked like he was about to retreat. Mr. Fowler barely glanced at him as he picked up a piece of fatback.
He said, “Look a there. Sissy boy finally decided it was time to get up.”
Mama motioned Daniel to the table while I sat beside him, frowning at that name Mr. Fowler called him.
Mama said, “Good morning, you two.”
“Morning, Mrs. Creech.”
“Morning, Mama.”
“Y’all want some eggs?”
Mr. Fowler slurped some coffee and said, “Sure he does. Even a little flit’s got to eat.”
Mama put a plate in front of Daniel, then handed me one too, only I didn’t start eating ’cause I’d seen her cut an evil eye at Mr. Fowler. I waited. She poured herself a cup of coffee, and sat down. She lit a cigarette and blew the smoke over our heads. I moved the egg around on my plate. She knocked her cigarette ash into the ashtray, then put her full attention on Mr. Fowler. She had that look she’d get if we sassed her, or did something she thought wasn’t called for.
She quietly asked, “Why’re you calling him that, Frank?”
I breathed out, and took a bite of egg. Mama would set him straight.
Mr. Fowler looked up, surprised. “Who? Him?” He pointed his fork at Daniel. “Hell, boy wears a dress, what else would he be?”
Mama actually laughed, but Daniel put his fork down.
Mama said, “Oh, Frank. Sonny tried to tell you Daniel wants to be a director. You know. Make movies? He and Sonny are always acting out little scenes. It’s just pretend. Ain’t no harm in it.”
Mr. Fowler wiped his mouth with a napkin, and leaned back. “Seems to me like he don’t need to put on a dress to do all that.”
Mama said, “I don’t see why it should matter to you what he does or doesn’t do.”
Trent and Ross came in and Mama got up to get their breakfast, while shaking her head. I peeked at Daniel, ready to let him know I didn’t care not a whit for Mr. Fowler’s name-calling. Daniel seemed to have got over his discomfort as he listened to Trent tell Ross about shooting his BB gun at some target, claiming he’d hit it fifty times in a row. Typical Trent talk. Daniel looked impressed, eyes alert as he watched Trent’s every move.
Mr. Fowler dipped his head toward Trent and made a general pronouncement, “That’s what a boy ought to be doing when he ain’t working. Shooting. Fishing. Hunting. Such as that.”
All Mama said was, “More coffee, Frank?”
Mr. Fowler held out his cup, and offered a soft, “Thank you,” as she filled it.
Thankfully he went on to a different topic. “Y’all ever think about irrigating this farm here?”
His question caught me by surprise.
Mama said, “Yes.”
“Seems to me y’all would a done it by now, considering. ’Sides, Farmer’s Almanac says there’s a drought coming this year.”
I could’ve reminded him he’d been wrong all those years ago.
Mama said, “Lloyd wanted to, but every year we had enough rain and the crops were fine. He always said, ain’t no sense wasting time or money on what ain’t necessary.”
Mr. Fowler scrutinized Daniel again, who was now eating his breakfast with enthusiasm, matching Ross and Trent, bite for bite.
He said, “Ain’t it the truth.”
Chapter 10
School was over and we poured into the hallways, then out into the stifling air. We took it as a sign it would only get worse as the summer months went on. I hated to admit that Mr. Fowler and his Almanac might be right ’cause rain sure had been scarce. We walked down Turtle Pond Road, and it felt like I was breathing through a wet burlap bag. Ross and Trent were just a little ways ahead and I’d dropped back since they were arguing about something stupid.Who cared who could pee off the back porch and aim accurate enough to hit the dandelion weed growing to the left of the steps? At least I knew where they were peeing so I wouldn’t walk there barefoot.
Trent said, “Hell, mine shoots piss like it’s coming right from out of a cannon.”
Ross said, “That’s a lie. You got to have a magnifying glass to see that little pecker of yours. Hell, you can’t get a stream past the tips of your toes.”
Trent shoved Ross and said, “Now, that’s a lie, and you know it.”
Ross pushed him back, “Damned if it is . . . mine can . . .”
I cut them both off. “Lord a mighty, I can hear you, you know. I wished y’all would quit peeing in the yard where people got to walk too.”
Ross said, “It don’t matter none. Rain’s gonna wash it away.”
I said, “It’s disgusting, and besides, it ain’t rained in a while and draws flies. I’m gonna tell Mama to take y’all back to the church quick as she can if you want to keep acting like a bunch a heathens.”
That settled them down, although the closer we got to home, talking tended to stop anyway. Sometimes he was in the yard, standing around smoking his Camels, as if waiting for us, but then he wouldn’t speak. Sometimes he was in the house, and I always deliberated on how long he’d been in there, especially if Mama looked a little harried, rushing around, which gave me the impression he’d been there a while. He’d stayed for supper most every night except that one night when Daniel came, and out of nowhere he’d decided, or Mama had, why not come eat breakfast too. He’d been to our house every morning just before seven o’clock.
I stopped to get the mail. There was the light bill, a copy of Farmer’s Digest, a magazine Daddy had subscribed to, the sight of i
t causing that familiar little pang, and last, a letter from Aunt Ruth. Maybe Aunt Ruth was wanting to see when she could come visit. She’d talk about what we called big city news, how Roanoke Rapids was growing, who was doing what, and what she thought about it. She’d make it interesting even though we didn’t know the people she spoke of. I took note of Mr. Fowler’s truck parked in its usual spot under one of the sugar maples like he now owned that area and slammed the mailbox closed. He was nowhere in sight. On my way to the house, the dazzling white of Daddy’s grave marker stood out like a beacon. It had been brought by a couple men on a flatbed truck after Mama decided since we now had a cotton crop, she could spare the money for it. I was glad it was there, for two reasons. It stood as a reminder to Mr. Fowler whose land he stood on, and on those moonlit nights I couldn’t sleep, it was like a watchful eye as I traversed the fields.
I hurried to my room to pull on a pair of dungarees, T-shirt, and slid my feet into my work boots. The ground was pretty dry, and our new little cotton plants, now about six inches high, were starting to droop, even them seedlings Mr. Fowler bought. Weeds don’t never let up no matter how little rain comes. They’d suck every drop of moisture from those tender little plants if we let them get out of hand, which meant I had to get to chopping. I got my dowsing stick too. I would start by the new grave marker, thinking, for some reason, it might could happen today. Mr. Fowler’s voice carried down the hall and just the sound of it put me on edge, especially when it was followed by that harsh laugh of his that sounded cruel, not amused.
As I made my way along the dogtrot, I saw Trent already in the backyard standing with Mr. Fowler, staring up into the oak tree. They each held a shotgun, scanning the branches. I could see what they were up to, and I wanted very much to stop it, and if it had only been Trent, I would have tried. I’d have had a hissy fit at him taking potshots at the birds, or squirrels, but today, I kept quiet. My usual pluck, as Daddy called it, vanished when Mr. Fowler was around. Without any warning, Trent snapped to the right and fired.
I slapped my hands over my ears, an instant reflex to the noise, along with an alarmed, “Oh!” as the birds, only seconds before quietly chirping and calling out to one another, scattered like fireworks on the Fourth of July. The collective sound of their wings made a loud fluttering noise, similar to the sound of a moth beating against a window, only amplified. Trent immediately pumped the slide on his gun back, then forward, loading another shell into it. Seconds later, Ross came from around the back of the barn, his hands greasy with oil, face sweaty and looking pissed off. He gave Trent an irritated look, and then carefully spoke to Mr. Fowler.
“Sir, we ain’t allowed to shoot them birds. Trent knows that. It’s against the law.”
Ross’s expression as he spoke to Mr. Fowler was arranged to look as careful as his words. Mr. Fowler cocked his head one way, and then the other way. It was such a peculiar reaction, it gave me the chills.
Then he said, “Who the hell’s gonna come out here and arrest us?”
He reached over to nudge Trent with his fist, laughing again, and Trent went right along with him and the word traitor come to mind.
Mr. Fowler said, “Hell, we’re just having us a little fun, ain’t that right, son? Ain’t no harm done.”
Trent grinned and said, “That’s right.” Ignoring Ross, he said, “Hey, look a there. I bet that’s the damn squirrel been chewing on wood above my bedroom window, waking me up. I’m gonna get that sumbitch.”
He put the gun to his shoulder and sighted on it.
I yelled, “Trent! Don’t!”
A large crow, part of the flock scattered from the tree earlier, sat at the top of a distant pine and called out a brisk, “Uh uh! Uh uh!” as if it too, was telling him no.
The squirrel somehow sensed it was trapped. It sat motionless, flattened out along the branch, trying its best to hide. It was startled from the earlier shot, and eyeballed the humans who’d caused it. Daniel said squirrels were smart, part of the prairie dog family. We’d been working on one, trying to get it to eat peanuts out of our hands. What if it was this very one? I slapped my hand over my mouth as Trent’s finger tightened.
BOOM!
It landed on the ground, the small gray body twitching once, scratching at the ground, and then it went still. I was so stunned, I couldn’t talk. Trent walked up to it and pushed it with the toe of his boot, while Mr. Fowler propped his gun against the tree and casually lit up a Camel.
I uncovered my mouth. “Trent! You’re just plain rotten!”
Mama came running from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel, her eyes frantic. She probably thought somebody had been shot.
She noticed the squirrel lying on the ground by Trent’s boot, and she said, “Trent Walters Creech! You know the rules about shooting guns near to the house and about hunting!”
She put her hands on her waist, her forehead developing a row of lines as she gave that look to Mr. Fowler. He lifted his shoulders in a manner that suggested he didn’t have a thing to do with anything that had happened in the past five minutes, quietly puffing on his cigarette, purely a bystander at this point.
She repeated what she’d said to Trent. “No shooting this close to the house.”
Mr. Fowler said, “Aw, well he wasn’t aiming toward the house exactly.”
Mama made a strangled noise, and ignoring him, she said, “Trent. Get that squirrel.”
Trent huffed, but bent down and grabbed it by its tail. The sight of it hanging limp from his hand, dripping blood made me queasy, but that didn’t count for how I felt over what he’d done. Anger overrode a sudden rush of nausea, but it was a useless anger. What’s done is done, is what Daddy would’ve said. He swung the squirrel back and forth, like it hadn’t been a living, breathing thing only seconds ago. Like it was trash. Daddy would have had a conniption fit at the way he looked at Mama, like he’d forgot about respect. He would’ve tanned his hide, and I wouldn’t be sorry about it one bit.
He said, “Should I put it in the burn pile?”
Incredulous, Mama said, “What? You know better than that! By God, no. You’re gonna clean it, and eat it for supper tonight. Hurry up ’less you want to eat it raw. I ain’t cooking it.”
Ross, Trent, and Daddy had taken in their share of squirrel eating, while Mama and I didn’t care for them a whit. We looked at them more like common backdrops to nature, intended for decorating tree branches—like birds.
Trent didn’t look none too happy, and stood defiant, swinging the squirrel by the tail. “What’re you cooking?”
Mama said, “Fried chicken, rice, and gravy, and if you do as I say, you’ll be lucky to get some. Now, quit waving it around.”
“I’d rather eat chicken.”
“Too bad. You chose your supper tonight.”
Mr. Fowler said, “That’s a good lesson to teach them boys. Makes’em think twice.”
Mama ignored that too, and went back to the house.
Mr. Fowler winked at Trent behind her back, whispering, “Unless they don’t get caught.”
Boy, I wished Mama had heard him say that. Her aggravation was evident by the sound of the pots and pans banging which we could hear clear out to here. Ross disappeared around to the back of the barn again, leaving me with Mr. Fowler and Trent.
Trent grumbled, “I ain’t in the mood for eating no damn squirrel,” as he stomped off to the sink on the back porch to clean it.
Mr. Fowler took one last puff on his cigarette, dropped it on the ground, and scraped some dirt over it. I looked toward Daddy’s grave, still holding tight to my dowsing stick with sweaty hands. There was an uncomfortable moment as I hesitated, wishing I could just walk away. I couldn’t think of a single thing to say to him. He looked like he couldn’t think of nothing to say to me either.
He finally said, “Them fields could use some chopping.”
The dowsing branch was colored dark at the ends where Daddy’s hands had held it for years. I placed mine in the same
spot, the slick wood a comfort, before I raised my eyes to meet his.
Mr. Fowler pointed at the cotton, his tone conversational, almost friendly. “Got to have some rain soon, or they’re gonna start dying. They’re calling for a drought.”
I held the willow branch up. “I could try and locate where the water is running. Maybe we could irrigate.”
“Shit. I ain’t ’bout to rely on no twelve-year-old girl for something important as that.”
He delivered the stinging dismissal as easy as a compliment and then walked away, leaving me feeling I mattered as much as that squirrel had to Trent. Trent came around the corner holding the pink, skinned body. It looked like one does when it’s first born. Innocent, defenseless. Mama appeared like magic at the back screen door, and Trent kicked at the ground at her motioning for him to come inside.
It was clear he thought she’d give in, letting him get by with what he’d done. “Aw, Mama!”
She said, “Get in here. Frank?”
“Yes, Vi?”
Vi?
“He ain’t to shoot near this house.”
Frank in that pleasant tone he used only with Mama, put his fingers up to his head, like he was tipping a hat, “Yes, ma’am, you got it,” and Mama actually smiled as she held the door open for Trent.
Frank went to mumbling, doing that talking to himself thing. “Got to see about pesticides for the boll weevils on the field closest to here.”
My eyes widened at the mention of boll weevils. We sure couldn’t afford that on top of everything else.
“Daddy used to call down to some place in Tallulah, Louisiana, about boll weevils. He tested an insecticide for them. It worked real good.”
“Your daddy knew it all, huh.”
I lifted my chin. “He knew about everything.”
His voice went low and soft. “Knew about everything, and then died from a snake bite. How ’bout that.”
He whistled as he went back to his truck, while I fumed. He was plain mean is what he was, except around Mama and sometimes Trent. As bad as I hated to admit it, I thought he’d taken a liking to her, while Trent was maybe a little like him. One kind recognizes another. Trent held a mean streak inside of him. He used to yank my hair so hard it brought tears to my eyes, or punch me hard enough to leave a bruise. He’d get this conniving look, and I’d be on pins and needles all day, nervous about what he might do to me. Sometimes it was hard to imagine the nice moments we’d shared. Like, last Christmas when he’d given me a leather headband he’d braided and a plaque inscribed with a poem he’d written himself, etching words into the wood with his wood burning kit.
The Forgiving Kind Page 10
