Mr. Fowler turned to her and in a soft sort of voice like he would maybe use in those moments of love, he said, “Now, you hush, darlin’, it’s gonna be all right. Can’t nobody talk about my wife, if I got any say in it. I’m just gonna give’em a little talking to.”
Mama pleaded. “Frank, don’t.”
He only pulled her to him, and hugged her, his chin resting on the top of her head. That soft voice of his was as menacing as a gas leak with some unknowing person about to strike a match. Yet I saw with my own eyes, heard with my own ears, and concluded that if nothing else, Frank Fowler truly loved our mama.
Or, so I thought.
Chapter 25
Going to sleep was impossible, knowing Mr. Fowler was out there, likely doing someone some kind a hurt. Needing something to do, Mama baked cornbread. Then we started cleaning a whole mess a greens, pulling leaves off the huge stalk, and pushing them under the sink filled with cold water, as if we were trying to drown them. Mr. Fowler didn’t have an outside work sink like we did at our old house. Here, in his kitchen, with its long row of pale yellow metal cabinets and fruity wallpaper, made me realize Thanksgiving was in two days, yet it didn’t seem like the holiday at all.
She didn’t talk much, and neither did I. When we did, it was about the food we were fixing. Should we stuff the bird or not. How much poultry seasoning to use. How much sage. Would this be enough collard greens, and should it be pecan pie, or pumpkin. She decided both, and casually mentioned she’d forgot to get some Karo syrup, her voice quivery and low. I didn’t offer much to her comments. I still carried the embarrassment of overhearing what they’d done in here. I was upset at her for saying she loved him. It wasn’t possible. I hadn’t seen the same things between her and him I’d seen between her and Daddy. Lots of hugging. Lots of hand-holding. I reckoned Mr. Fowler showed his love to her in different ways, like going after someone bad-mouthing her.
She said, “You know, I overheard a few things myself when I went into Flatland the other day. Ain’t no sense in him thinking he can stop it.”
“You did?”
She nodded. “I had to buy stamps down to the post office. People ought to mind their own business. What do they know of our situation?”
I stripped leaves from a stem. Strip. Strip. Strip. Eventually, curiosity forced a question out.
“What’d they say?”
Mama shook her head. “It don’t matter none.” She changed the subject. “I hope he doesn’t get the boys involved. It ain’t the way to do things. It ain’t proper like. He ought to know better.”
This was the first small criticism I’d heard against Mr. Fowler out of Mama’s mouth. She rested her palms on the edge of the sink, leaning forward to look out the window at the blackness blanketing what lay beyond the house, save for the little round light over the barn doors. It cast a small circular area of yellow on the ground right in front. She straightened up, and stuck her hands in the water again, the cold making them look chafed and rough. Our reflections in the window, me beside her, resembled a distorted photo, her brown and my blond hair, the muted color of clothing. I was almost as tall, but not quite. She shook her head, like she didn’t want to think about what could be happening. Something scurried by in the shadows near the barn. Maybe a possum. Or a fox. My gaze went back to Mama’s reflection.
She said, “I sure hope he ain’t gone and done nothing crazy.”
Mama’s hoping was a little too late in that regard, since I considered the fact that Mr. Fowler was about as crazy as they come. She ripped at a collard leaf rather viciously.
She said, “Happiness is such a fickle little thing. It comes for one reason and goes just as quick for another.”
I quit tearing up the greens for a second. “Ain’t you happy, Mama?”
“My happiness ain’t important. You kids, that’s what’s important.”
“We could’ve done fine without him.”
She stared straight ahead again, her hands gone still. “You know, your daddy was one to always talk about being prepared. It ain’t until he’s gone I realize we were about as prepared as a newborn babe left to fend for itself.”
She sloshed her hands about in the sink, and held up the final leaf.
She stripped it, then waved the stem under my nose. “We’d have been down to nothing, just like this, if it weren’t for Frank.”
While Mama justified things, I remained quiet. She prepared the turkey next, and after we put it in the refrigerator, along with the pan of cornbread dressing, and she’d set the collards in a big pot of cold salted water on the stove, we sat down to wait. I drank a Pepsi, while she smoked a bunch of cigarettes and drank cup after cup of coffee. I laid my head on my arm and wrestled with her reasoning.
Next thing I knew, she was nudging me awake, saying “They’re back.”
I was instantly alert. She went out the back door, and I followed. We watched Mr. Fowler’s truck ease up the drive. It was almost midnight. He parked in front of the barn and we went out into a night as dark as I felt right then. Stars shimmered, clearer than usual, as if the cold snap had sharpened the air around us. I shivered, but it was more from dread. The driver’s side door opened and Mama gasped as Mr. Fowler stepped into the faint glow of the barn light. A big stain adorned the front of his shirt.
He said, “Aw, darlin’, don’t you worry ’bout ole Frank. It sure as shit ain’t mine.”
He laughed in a weird sort of hacking way, the sound wet and croupy. Mama pressed her fingertips to her lips as she stared at him and my brothers. Mr. Fowler leaned against his truck, lifted a hand, and let it drop. He suddenly threw his head back, and laughed again, like someone told him a joke, which made him cough some more.
Mama said, “Frank! What’s the matter with you?”
Ross and Trent’s faces were pale white ovals.
They moved away from him, closer to us, and Ross said, “He’s had a bit to drink.”
Trent said, “Yeah, we had some too.”
Ross whipped around and said, “Shut up, geez, Trent!”
Mama leaned in, sniffed near Ross, and wrinkled her nose.
She raised her voice and said, “Frank, what’s wrong with you, what have you . . .”
Mr. Fowler cut her off.
He said, “Ain’t a goddamn thing wrong now. A little correction has been made, is all.”
“Frank . . .”
Mr. Fowler made an abrupt movement, standing straight and tall, no longer leaning on the truck. Mama fell silent. His face was partially hidden, and he wasn’t smiling.
His eyes glittered as he put his finger up to his lips and said, “Shhh.”
Mama stared, her arms folded.
Mr. Fowler said, “I’m going to bed.”
Mama said, “Frank, what happened?”
He shoved his hands into his pockets, and sauntered over to stand at her side.
He said, “I made damn sure we’ll be respected, that’s what happened, Vi.”
Ross looked like he wanted to punch him as Mr. Fowler stumbled across the yard, into the house, and disappeared inside.
Mama waited until he was gone and she turned to Ross. “What’s he gone and done?”
Ross raised his chin. “You shouldn’t ever have married him, Mama.”
She put her hand to her throat, and stared at him, her face shifting from worry to anger.
She said, “And you ain’t old enough to tell me what I should or shouldn’t do.”
“I reckon I was old enough to see what happened tonight, ain’t I?”
She said, “It ain’t on account of me not trying to stop it.” Frustrated, she said, “Don’t you forget yourself, Ross Creech. Don’t you forget who it is you’re talking to.”
Ross gave her a pointed look and said, “I ain’t forgetting a thing.”
Mama said, “Neither am I. You ought to know if I could’ve stopped this, I would have.”
She turned and went inside.
I wasn’t sure he’d tell me, b
ut I took a chance and said, “What happened?”
Ross shook his head and started walking to the house, and Trent followed.
“Why can’t you tell me?”
My brothers ignored me. After they were gone, I crept over to the truck, peeked through the open window. There was a bloody white cloth laying on the front seat. I reached in, took it, and held it up. It had two holes in it, a place for eyes. I recognized what it was, and I threw it back on the seat and rubbed my hands down the front of my pant legs. Disturbed, I backed away and hurried inside. I could already hear Mr. Fowler’s loud snoring. Feeling safe knowing he was passed out, I tapped on Ross’s door. There was no sound from his room. I opened the door, and he was sitting on the side of the bed, his head in his hands.
I said, “I saw it. What was on his front seat. That hood thing.”
Ross motioned at me. “Don’t talk about it out there.”
I went into the room and softly closed the door. I waited for him to confirm what I already knew.
He finally looked at me and said, “Klan.”
Even the word. That word. I felt contaminated, and wiped my hands on my pants again. I realized then that sometimes people talked ’cause it was truth, not gossip or lies. Ross laid back on his bed, arms folded under his head. He stared at the ceiling.
He whispered, “He went clear off his rocker.”
“What do you mean?”
He turned on his side and the look on his face was like he was seeing what happened all over again.
He said, “He took us down the road to some shack out in the middle of nowhere, a weird place. It was hidden in a patch of woods. There were a couple other cars there already. I saw three men standing around a fire, passing around a bottle. He told us to wait. He went over to them, and there was a lot a backslapping and all. He drank some, and then one a them men, he followed us over to Mr. Wells’ house.”
“What did they do?” I gasped, “Did they hurt him bad?”
Ross said, “Bad enough. He won’t standing when we left.”
“Did you and Trent do anything?”
“Hell no. He couldn’t have made me, neither. He put that hood on and when he got out, he made us get out too. They banged on Mr. Wells’ front door, and when he answered, they dragged him outside and beat him up. We weren’t but about ten feet away. Then, he says to Mr. Wells, he says, ‘You best keep your mouth shut, and anyone else working for you, they best do the same. Nobody, but nobody better say a goddamn thing about Frank Fowler, or his wife.’ Mr. Wells, he couldn’t even answer. I think all his teeth got knocked out. I wished I’d kept my own mouth shut.”
“Ain’t you gonna tell Mama?”
“What good would it do? She knows by the way he looked, all that blood. We’re still here ain’t we?”
“I heard at school he killed somebody.”
“I can believe it, after tonight.”
We both froze at a noise outside a Ross’s door. He put a finger to his mouth. My heart beat loud as I imagined the door flying open and Mr. Fowler busting through to beat us up like he’d done Mr. Wells, just for talking. It opened with a slight creak, and I near about collapsed to the floor when I saw Trent.
In a loud whisper, he said, “What’re y’all talking about?”
Ross sat up and muttered at him, “What do you think, dope head.”
Trent’s eyes were big, and even he looked scared. He came in, and shut the door.
He said, “I ain’t ever seen nothing like it.”
Ross shook his head. “Me neither.”
I said, “I’m glad I didn’t see it.”
We sat for a few minutes, each of us having our own thoughts. Eventually, I left and went back to my room. I climbed up into the bed, but it was no surprise when dawn broke, I saw it. Now we knew what Mr. Fowler was capable of, Ross, Trent, and I crept around, expecting some irrational act out of him at any moment. He’d gone back to being his usual way around Mama, all soft-spoken and constantly hugging on her.
He told her time and again, “You’re my everything, darlin’. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
It was pretty disgusting if you asked me. Mama appeared to barely tolerate it, as if she was having difficulty with this new show of neediness and clinging.
Thanksgiving Day, Mr. Fowler loaded his plate with turkey, dressing, gravy, and everything else she’d cooked. He started eating without waiting for a blessing, and I wondered how somebody who’d done what he’d done could eat, much less not ask God to have mercy on his soul. Mama motioned for us to go on and fill our plates up too. Oftentimes the sharp edge of caution can be dulled by even a small amount of time passing, and I, without thinking, took a moment to bow my head for a few seconds, offering up a prayer.
I was almost to the Amen, when Mr. Fowler said, “What’re you doing?”
I raised my head and encountered impenetrable, opaque eyes. He shoved his hair back off his forehead, and my eyes fastened on his hand. There was a fresh scratch, a vivid red streak I didn’t remember. I looked at Mama, who was extra subdued. Was that a faint mark on her neck?
I returned his gaze and said, “I’m saying a blessing.”
“Eat.”
I nodded, but bowed my head again to say “Amen” when his hand smacked the table hard again, his favorite way to get our attention.
“I said eat!”
His sharp tone startled me and I dropped my fork.
Mama rose, and Mr. Fowler said, “Vi. Sit. If she’d done what I told her, she’d have a fork. She can do without.”
Mama tried to placate him with a mild tone, and a hint of softness. “Frank, honey, she’s got to have a fork to eat with. With mashed potatoes and gravy, and all.”
She went into the kitchen and got me a clean one, then sat back down as if nothing had happened. Mr. Fowler carefully put his own fork down, and looked at her, then me, then her. Trent, forgetting how the slightest thing might start to snowball, was no help.
He said, “As usual, Sonny gets her way.”
Mr. Fowler said, “Give it here.”
By now, I didn’t care if I ate or not. I handed him the fork and put my hands in my lap.
Mama’s voice was disappointed when she said, “Oh, Frank. You said you wanted this to be nice. Let’s try and have us a nice meal. I worked so hard on it.”
Mr. Fowler ignored her, and said to me, “Eat. Like I done told you.”
I picked up a piece of turkey, the easiest thing to eat without a fork. I bit into it and started chewing, and chewing, and chewing. The meat seemed to swell, like I’d taken two, then three bites, and on and on. I tried to swallow it down and gagged.
Mr. Fowler watched me the entire time, and when I made that noise, he said, “Swallow that goddamn piece of meat, or else.”
Mama said, “Frank!”
Mr. Fowler said, “She’s got to learn.”
“Learn what, for God’s sake!”
Again, he acted like he hadn’t heard her. He started that crazy talking to himself thing. “She ain’t so sassy and full a herself now, is she? I’m gonna see to it, yessiree. Things are gonna be different here in my house.”
Mama’s mouth went into a straight line. She said nothing more. I could see her trembling.
He said, “Swallow, or else.”
The bite of turkey continued to swell, and I gagged again. He jumped up, came around to where I sat, grabbed my jaws, and held them shut. I squeezed my eyes tight so I wouldn’t have to look at him, look at that awful face above me.
“Swallow.”
Mama’s chair scraped the floor and hit the wall hard enough to cause the small decorative shelf with fancy plates setting on it to rattle. Mr. Fowler didn’t loosen his grip.
She came around the table, and pulled on his arm. “Frank. I said stop it. What are you doing?”
Ross, his voice a growl, said, “Let her go.”
Mr. Fowler got to breathing real hard, like he was having trouble getting air in and out.
&
nbsp; His voice had gone hoarse, and he puffed, “She’s gonna do as I say.”
I was about to be sick. Tears squirted out of the corners of my eyes, and ran down into my ears. The turkey wasn’t going down, no matter what. It was a grotesque wad of meat. I gagged again and it fell out, and I had no idea where it went, and didn’t care. The pressure on my jaws was gone suddenly as Mr. Fowler got to huffing even harder, like he was having trouble breathing. His face turned a funny shade, pale with a flush underneath, like a tomato having trouble ripening. Suddenly, it was Mr. Fowler in distress, not me.
Mama said, “Frank?”
He bent over, put his hands on his knees, and wheezed.
Mama said it again, more alarm in her tone. “Frank? What’s wrong?”
A few seconds passed and his breathing grew clearer. He stayed bent over. Finally, his wheezing quieted. None of us moved, or hardly dared to breathe ourselves. There was the ticking of a clock on the mantel. Mama put a hand out, and touched Mr. Fowler’s arm. Even Trent was speechless and looking sorry for once.
Mama said, “Frank, you all right?”
He straightened, wiped his forehead off, and the first thing out of his mouth was, “I knew Thanksgiving would be ruined.”
Mama’s concerned face smoothed out, and she went back to her place at the table, sat and put her head in her hands.
I slid my chair back as Mr. Fowler held onto the dining room table, and made his way back to his own chair. He didn’t look so good. It was like something weak in him broke, something we’d not seen before had revealed itself. I couldn’t feel a tinge sorry for him though.
When I got to the dining room door, I turned and said, “I hate . . . I hate it here.”
I was sure Mr. Fowler knew what I really meant.
Chapter 26
Mama brought me a turkey sandwich and a glass of milk later on in the evening, but I didn’t want it. She sat in the chair at the desk, and motioned for me to sit on the floor between her knees. She pulled a brush from her apron pocket. She used it, and her fingers to work over my scalp, and made it tingle. She talked while she brushed, and smoothed my hair, saying things meant to ease my mind, but it did just the opposite. What I wanted to hear her say was she’d made a mistake and that we didn’t need to live like this, that we could make do somehow.
The Forgiving Kind Page 24
