The Forgiving Kind

by Donna Everhart

  He said, “I told you, don’t laugh. Geez, I’m itching like crazy.”

  He rubbed on his arms hard and pieces of skin floated down to settle around his feet.

  I said, “Geez, Daniel. You’ll be like a whole new person when it’s all over with.”

  “Maybe that would be a good thing.”

  “Hmph.”

  He joked, “I bet if anyone was behind me, they thought it was snowing.”

  “Yuck.”

  “When was the last time you remember having it?”

  “The day I tried last. You know.”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s got to be around here, somewhere.”

  We left the porch, and began searching the toolshed, even pulling the shovels, rakes, and hoes from the hooks on the wall, just to be sure. We went into the barn, looked around our stage, in all the empty stalls, on the floor, and even up in the loft, although I’d not been up there this year.

  We came out, and there stood Mr. Fowler.

  “What are you two up to?” He did a double take, and said, “Mother of God, look at you. You just got yourself a new name. Flake any better?”

  Without a word, Daniel spun on his heels and started for his bike, intending to make good on his promise. He climbed on.

  I said, “Wait! Daniel, don’t go yet!”

  Mr. Fowler said, “What’s he doing here anyway? There’s work to be done.”

  Something boiled up in me, and I pictured it like an underground geyser, like the pictures of Old Faithful erupting I’d seen in the World Britannica Encyclopedia set my brothers and I got for Christmas a couple years ago.

  In a voice I’d never, ever considered using with an adult, I yelled, “He’s helping me, that’s what! I invited him! This is our house, not yours! This is our yard, and he’s my friend!”

  Mr. Fowler shoved his hat back on his head and his eyes went icy, and fixed on me like a crow’s would, black and beady and without depth. Daniel heard me and paused, and Mr. Fowler glanced at him, his expression something close to hatred. His mouth stretched thin, he turned back to me, almost poking his finger in my chest.

  He said, “I ain’t taking no sass from you, you hear me?”

  I looked at Daniel, my eyes begging him, don’t leave. What happened next was as odd as seeing that five-legged frog I’d found close to the pond one afternoon. Mr. Fowler appeared to reconsider. I was sure he was thinking about Mama’s words, and whatever she’d said to him on my behalf was working.

  He said, “You two got thirty minutes to waste time, and then you need to get on with your chores and he either needs to help, or go on home.”

  That wasn’t to my liking at all, but I gritted my teeth and said, “Daniel, please? Just for a bit.”

  He rolled his bike back over to the oak tree, and leaned it against the trunk, but he made no move to come closer.

  To my surprise, Mr. Fowler asked, “What were you two looking for?”

  I wasn’t sure if he was going to make fun, or if he was planning to say something mean. He still had no expression, the features of his face as lifeless as my doll. He did that funny thing with his head, tilted it one way, then the other, and again.

  It really was such a creepy habit, I averted my eyes and mumbled, “I can’t find my willow branch.”

  He said, “That old thing? Hell, it was probably about half-rotten anyway. It sure as hell wasn’t any good to you the other day, now was it?”

  “It was my daddy’s, he gave it to me.”

  He said, “Yeah? So?” He picked at something in his teeth, then said, “Hey, I know what to do. Stay right there.”

  He sauntered over to one of the sugar maples and snapped off a smaller branch near the bottom. I had no idea what he was up to, but then, he closed his eyes and began to act like he was in a swoon. Trent came out of the barn in time to see him fluttering his eyes, and staggering about the yard, mimicking me. He weaved one way, and then the other.

  Suddenly, he snapped his eyes open, opened his mouth wide while pointing the stick at the ground. “Ah ha! Here. And here. And here. And there! Waaaattter! It’s everywhere!”

  Daniel narrowed his eyes. Trent thought it was hilarious and slapped his leg and hooted. He and Mr. Fowler were still carrying on when a curious noise came from Daniel.

  He suddenly charged Mr. Fowler, his arms stretched out in front of him, shouting, “Leave her alone!”

  Mr. Fowler simply waited until he was close enough, then he made a backhanded motion, hitting him hard as he could with the stick. It hit Daniel’s chin, and went down and across his chest.

  I yelled, “You can’t hit him!”

  Daniel folded over. Mr. Fowler grabbed him by the front of his shirt, and all Daniel could do was grip Mr. Fowler’s wrists as he was picked up so his feet barely skimmed the ground.

  Mr. Fowler shook him and screamed in his face, “You fucking little flit! Who the hell do you think you are? I’ll beat your little ass you mess with me!”

  Ross came running out of the barn, wild-eyed, unable to grasp what was going on. Mr. Fowler tossed Daniel aside like he was a sack of potatoes.

  I shouted, and pointed. “Help him, help Daniel!”

  Trent was stuck in place like I was and it was Ross who charged at Mr. Fowler, lowering his shoulder the way he would when he played football. He took Mr. Fowler’s feet right out from under him, and Mr. Fowler landed with a solid thud on his back. This was the scene Mama came up the drive and saw.

  The car jerked to a stop and she jumped out, yelling in that way she would when she was confounded by what she saw. “What in God’s name is going on?”

  Daniel and Mr. Fowler were both still on the ground, and Ross looked guilty while Trent stood stone-faced. Mr. Fowler’s elbow was scraped and he looked a bit dazed. Daniel got up, and his chin had an ugly stripe across it. Mama didn’t know who to go to first, Daniel or Mr. Fowler.

  Her breath came rapidly, her eyes darting around to each of us. “What has happened here?”

  I was so upset, I couldn’t get any words out except, “He . . . he . . . he . . .”

  Ross said, “He hit Daniel!”

  Mama looked at Mr. Fowler and said, “You hit him?”

  He rolled over onto his knees, pushed himself up. He brushed dirt off of his pants carefully, taking his time. When he straightened up, his mouth was bloody, like he’d bit his tongue or something. He worked his mouth a little, then spit. He pointed a finger at me, Daniel, and then Ross, like he was targeting us and I began to think about everything that happened. In hindsight, I could see how my side might sound from Mama’s perspective, especially when Mr. Fowler got to telling his version.

  “This whole thing”—and he jerked his thumb at me—“happened when I says to them two, her and that boy there, there’s work to be done, and she goes off half-cocked, yelling how this ain’t my house or yard. Even then, I was still nice about it, and I allowed they could take some time to look for that stick a hers she done lost. Couldn’t a been so important you go and lose the thing, you ask me. I said they needed to get on with the work, and that he could work too, or go home. I was only fooling around, having a little fun, and there wasn’t any call for her to behave like she did. Him neither. That’s when he came at me, trying to hit me.”

  I shuffled my feet. “That ain’t exactly the way it happened.”

  Mama spoke my full name, indicating how upset she was. “Martha Simpson Creech.”

  “Mama . . .”

  “Martha. Did you raise your voice to Mr. Fowler?”

  Her calling him Mr. Fowler told me whose side she was on. I hesitated. There wasn’t much I could do but answer truthfully.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mr. Fowler coughed. “Downright disrespectful is what it was.”

  Mama gave me a disappointed look, a tightening of her mouth and eyes, and then she looked at Daniel.

  “Daniel, were you going to hit him?”

  Daniel had nothing to lose, I suppose.<
br />
  He said, “Yes, ma’am. I sure was. It ain’t right for him to poke fun at her like he was doing. It ain’t right he keeps on calling me them names.”

  Mama stared at Daniel like she was considering what he’d said.

  She turned to Ross. “Is that what happened?”

  He scrubbed his hand over his hair, and said, “I didn’t see all of it. I came out at all the yelling, and when I did, he . . .” He gave Mr. Fowler a distrustful look, his eyes narrowed. “He had Daniel jacked up by his shirt collar. Sonny was screaming at me, and I didn’t really think . . . I just tackled him.”

  Mama shook her head, and last she faced Trent. “Trent?”

  He lifted his hands, and said, “I didn’t do nothing.”

  Mama gave him a hard look, and Mr. Fowler said, “He’s the only one who didn’t.”

  Mama put her hand up to her forehead. “Jesus,” she whispered as she shot a furious look at Ross and me. “Haven’t all of you been taught better than this? Didn’t your daddy teach you better?”

  Mr. Fowler, sounding a bit smug, said, “Look. If an apology from me helps, then I’m real sorry. I sure didn’t know they would get so doggone upset over a little bit of funning. Damnation, I believe I got a loose tooth.”

  Mama said, “All of you, apologize immediately. Martha, you first.”

  “Mama . . .”

  “Martha! Now.”

  I was sure to choke on those two bitter words, yet I managed a strangled, “I’m sorry.”

  She looked expectantly at Ross, and like me, he could barely get the words clear of his mouth.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She turned to Daniel last. He returned Mama’s look and the red streak striped down his chin was bleeding, and it traveled across his neck. There was a tear in his shirt, and it was apparent Mr. Fowler had not held back at all.

  Daniel said, “I ain’t apologizing.”

  Mama said, “Daniel, what you did is wrong, don’t you think?”

  Daniel said nothing.

  I was proud of him for standing his ground until Mama said, “If you won’t apologize, you can’t come visit until I say so.”

  “Mama! It’s not fair!”

  I shouldn’t have ever said anything to the sumbitch. I shouldn’t have let my anger get in the way. Mama ignored me.

  She turned her back on Daniel and said to Mr. Fowler, “Let’s get some ice on that.”

  He followed Mama into the house, holding his lower back.

  Sick, I went to Daniel and said, “What’re we gonna do?”

  He delivered a sad look in my direction before he went and got on his bike. I noticed another whelp on his arm. I wanted to take those hurts away, only they went deeper than whelps, and it showed in his eyes when he’d looked at me seconds ago. He pedaled down our drive, and I half-heartedly trotted after him.

  I called out to him, “Call me, okay?”

  If he heard me, he didn’t react. He turned onto Turtle Pond Road, and his shirt began to flap the faster he went. He stood up on the pedals, and not once did he look back at me. It was as if the sun had gone behind a dark cloud, and would never come out again. Unsettled by what happened, resentful toward Mama taking Mr. Fowler’s side, I moped about in the kitchen garden, picking at the weeds sporadically. Ross and Trent had crept away silently, disappearing somewhere. It was quiet after all the commotion, and the afternoon took on a strangeness where familiar things weren’t any comfort, only a reminder I was out of sorts with all that was around me.

  I went to the chicken coop, and the hens came and stood expectantly by the wire fence staring at me like little convicts. It was too early to feed them, but I scooped corn out of the sack into a pan, and opened the gate. I stepped in and scattered it around, taking my time. They followed after me, heads bobbing, and turning so they could watch as I dropped the corn, some of them bickering over a kernel. There was a jockeying for position, a hierarchy amongst them that was quickly decided with a determined peck or two.

  If only it could be so simple with people.

  I put the pan away and left the coop. The screen door banged, and Mr. Fowler came out of the house. I ducked behind the toolshed, not wanting to see him. I felt too raw, too stung by what had transpired. The last thing I wanted was to have to face him so soon after what had taken place. Mama followed right after him, and I could see them talking rather intently. She nodded, eyes on the ground, but I was too far away to hear. Mr. Fowler ticked off on his fingers, a this, this, and this gesture. I could imagine what he might be saying, most likely reminding her of all he’d done. Mama stared after him as he got in his truck and left. It was only about five o’clock in the afternoon, and his early exit gave me hope he wouldn’t be back.

  I came out from behind the shed, and took a chance. “What was he talking about just now?”

  Mama waved a hand and said, “About the generator, a pump, the hoses needed.”

  More ways for us to remain indebted to him.

  “He ain’t got to spend it. He . . .”

  “Martha.”

  She was still mad ’cause she was using my formal name. She went inside and I went and sat on the porch swing. I stared at the sky, willing the few clouds there to come together and bring us rain. The more I thought about what happened, the angrier I felt. Not knowing what else to do, I walked out to Daddy’s grave. I sat on the ground, the mound now covered by grass. I leaned against the stone, and sent my confused thoughts out to him.

  As usual, there was no response.

  Chapter 15

  It was out of character for us to behave the way we had earlier, so everyone was subdued at supper. Soon as we’d finished, Ross and Trent went to their room, leaving me with Mama.

  Bothered by her demand we apologize, I said, “It all started when he got to making fun of my dowsing. Daniel stuck up for me. Mr. Fowler’s different when you’re not around. He doesn’t like us, but he especially doesn’t like Daniel.”

  Mama kept rinsing a plate, and minutes went by until I gave up on her talking any more about it.

  Finally, she said, “He’s never had young’uns. He’s treating you like adults is all, or trying to.”

  Shoot. If he was treating us like adults, why wasn’t he acting like one?

  Mama said, “Even when you believe someone else might be in the wrong, sometimes the best way is to simply forgive them. Don’t you think?”

  I wasn’t sure about this, not when it came to him, but I said, “I reckon.”

  She could tell I wasn’t satisfied. “What’s the matter?”

  “It ain’t fair about Daniel.”

  Mama shook her head, and sighed heavy.

  I persisted and repeated my earlier statement. “He was only sticking up for me.”

  “He let his temper get in the way of his better judgment.”

  “But Daniel doesn’t have a temper, Mama. You know how he is, you can’t hardly get him riled up over nothing.”

  “It seems to me whenever he’s been around lately, is when trouble starts.”

  “It ain’t true! Daniel’s been coming here a long time, and ain’t never been no trouble until now. He ain’t causing it. It’s him!”

  I could tell Mama was tired of it when she swiped at her forehead in an agitated manner.

  “We ain’t got time for this, not when everyone is worrying about that crop out there. That’s all I’m going to say about it.”

  * * *

  A couple of days went by without any sign of him, though he called Mama to talk. Her voice would get lower, and I hated knowing it was him, and couldn’t figure what they had to talk about outside of the farm. His absence reminded me of how it used to be, how it could be, and I relished when cold weather would come, the cotton would be picked and there would be no reason for him to be around. My sense of peace ended on the third morning when I spotted his truck back in its usual spot. The sun crept over the horizon and with it came the promise of another hot day. Sniffing the morning air as I walked along
the dogtrot, I caught a different scent that overrode everything else, a sharp, spicy odor that wasn’t unpleasant but wasn’t Mama’s gardenias or hyacinth. I entered the kitchen and found the source. His dark hair was slick and wet looking, every hair in place. The smell was his aftershave and it overrode the heavy odor of the fatback Mama fried.

  And Mama? She had on lipstick.

  She set a cup in front of him and filled it with coffee. She slid the creamer and sugar bowl over to him too. He watched her every move, and this too was another routine too much like how it had been with Daddy.

  Agitated, but determined not to show it, I said, “Morning,” to no one in general, and got a greeting from Mama.

  “Morning, you hungry?”

  “Not really.”

  They were smoking and drinking coffee, and I had the distinct impression I’d interrupted something. After a minute or so, he cleared his throat, and tapped the long papery looking ash into the ashtray.

  He said, “We could irrigate that section over near to the pond. I’ll do whatever you want me to do.”

  I stopped buttering my bread for a second and looked at Mama. She looked nice with her hair curled under like Bettie Page. She blew a puff of smoke toward the ceiling. I was torn. I wanted the cotton to have a chance, even if only a small portion of it, and at the same time, I realized we’d be indebted to him even more. I slid the bread into the oven and set the broiler on high.

  She said, “How much would it cost?”

  “Thinking about five grand for fifty acres. On the other hand, this drought’s liable to break any day now.”

  Mama said nothing. She smoked the rest of her cigarette. He kept glancing at her, and fiddling with the handle on his cup.

  He repeated what he’d said before. “Whatever you think is best.”

  She got up, refilled his cup, and then she said, “It’s a lot of money, but irrigation equipment can come in handy no matter what. I reckon we ought to just go on and get it. Lloyd was planning on doing it at some point anyway. Just add to what I owe you.”

  Mr. Fowler shifted in his chair at the mention of Daddy’s name, but he only said, “All right.”

  I smelled my toast and yanked the oven door open, grabbed the pan, and set it on the stovetop. It was burnt. I got a knife and scraped it to remove the burnt part and the noise brought his eyes my way.