The Forgiving Kind

by Donna Everhart

  “Nitpicking.”

  “I don’t want to argue.”

  “This is your fault. I say what’s what.”

  Mama waved a hand like she was done with it. “Okay, Frank, you’re the boss of everyone.”

  He looked like he was about to explode. His neck bulged, and I could actually hear his teeth grinding. He turned that off color again. Not one of us saw it coming. His open hand smacked her across the face so hard she stumbled backward, and the only reason she didn’t fall was Ross catching her.

  I screamed, “Mama!”

  Mr. Fowler instantly realized he’d gone too far. All the tiny little signs of his overreacting flared bright and hot as a noonday sun in August. His mouth turned down like a baby about to cry. He rubbed his hands like he was washing them, like they were dirty.

  “Vi, darlin’, I’m sorry. Don’t be mad. You know I can’t take it when you get mad at me. I don’t know what come over me. Darlin’, it’s just . . . I love you so much.”

  Ross gripped Mama, who was gasping for breath while the side of her face displayed a perfect handprint. Ross gave Mr. Fowler a deadly look, one that said if he didn’t have a hold of Mama, he’d beat the crap out of him.

  Trent yelled, “You ought not hit our mama!”

  Mr. Fowler, still agitated, yelled back, “Boy! Don’t you be back-sassing me!”

  Mama put her hand over her cheek and closed her eyes.

  She said, “I need to go lie down. Now.”

  Mr. Fowler moved forward, saying, “Darlin’, let me help you.”

  Mama put a hand out and said, “Don’t touch me.”

  Mr. Fowler spoke anxiously, and I could see he was very disturbed by this. “But, darlin’ . . .”

  Mama shook her head. “No.”

  He backed down, but trailed after her as she left the kitchen with Ross helping her.

  When it was just Trent and me, he said, “Whoa.”

  I said, “He scares me. He’s done that before, I bet.”

  “I think so too.”

  Ross came back into the kitchen a few seconds later.

  I said, “Where’s he?”

  He said, “I have no idea. After I came out of Mama’s room, I didn’t see him.”

  We were going to miss the bus, if we didn’t hurry. We grabbed our books and went out the back door, half-running down the drive as the squash-colored bus showed up. When I got on and got a seat, I looked back at the house. Mama stared from her bedroom window and then she turned away quick, like somebody came in the room. Ross got a seat behind me, and Trent slid in with me.

  I said, “I hope she’ll be all right.”

  Ross said, “Mama can handle him.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. It ain’t possible to reason with somebody who’s gone off their rocker.”

  I worried about her all day, anxious to get home and look for the signs he’d made her pay some more for what she’d said. While at school, I was also on the lookout for Daniel too. He’d not been in some time, and he was running the risk of being turned in to social services or his mama fined for nonattendance. We’d seen that happen with Buddy Crandon, who finally dropped out altogether when he turned sixteen.

  I tried to listen to what Miss Young said, while the hands on the clock above the blackboard got more of my attention than anything. The last bell rang finally, but instead of hurrying out, all of the sudden I dreaded going back to that house. I walked to the bus slowly, and ended up having to sit in the short seat, right behind the bus driver, which I hated. Ross and Trent were already on, sitting together. Junior and Lil Roy got on, making stupid faces at me before working their way to the back. The bus jolted into gear, and I spent the entire ride staring at my hands.

  After we were dropped off, we looked for Mr. Fowler’s truck, or some sign of work being done in the fields. It was quiet as a Sunday afternoon. We went inside and I half-expected him to pop out of some room like a ghost. Usually we’d smell whatever Mama was fixing for supper, but the only scent I caught was the usual stuffiness. With Ross leading the way, we went up the stairs and stood outside of their bedroom door. Ross knocked, but there was no reply, no “Come in,” not a thing.

  I said, “Wonder where they’re at?”

  Ross sighed and said, “I don’t know, but I got to go to work.”

  Trent said, “I’m gonna go to my room.”

  I went to mine too, but I couldn’t concentrate on homework. I grabbed Dolly off my bed, and hugged on her some, but she offered about as much comfort as hugging on a loaf of bread. I stood by my window, and considered getting my bike and riding to Daniel’s house. I wanted to talk to him, tell him I was sorry. I wasn’t sure he wanted to stay friends with me. He’d never trust me again, of that I was certain. And, selfishly, I wanted to talk to somebody about what was happening, and I’d always been able to talk to him.

  Worried and restless, I ventured across the hall to Mama’s bedroom door. I tapped on it, knowing good and well she wasn’t in there, yet caution made me act accordingly. I pushed the door open and the pink rose wallpaper mixed with the scent of Mama’s powder drew me in. This room was filled with old, but nice furniture. I went to Mama’s side of the bed and picked up her brush setting on the nightstand. I sniffed the bristles, smelling her lemony shampoo. I went to his side, and feeling incredibly brave, I opened the drawer of the nightstand. There was a handgun. I was used to guns, but the sight of this one gave me a chill. There was a watch, and an old wallet. The wallet was curious, and I picked it up. Before I opened it, I went to the window and looked out. They were still gone.

  I unfolded it, and saw an old driver’s license of a younger Mr. Fowler. A military ID of some sort. Some foreign money, and that was it. I put it back and as I went to shut the drawer, it went crooked. I pushed hard, and it jammed. Panicking, I yanked it back out. As I went to set it back on the wooden track, I spotted what looked like a newspaper article taped to the side. This was a time when I wished I had fingernails. I picked at the edges, starting to sweat. Finally, one side came loose so I could partially unfold it. It was a picture of a woman, an obituary for a Delores Fowler. I wanted to read the whole thing, only I was afraid they’d come back any minute. I retaped the side, and fixed the drawer, then hurried from the room, curious about who she was.

  I hurried down the stairs and outside to find Trent sitting on the rail of the back porch, pitching rocks into a bucket. The noise was nerve-wracking.

  I said, “He knew someone named Delores Fowler.”

  Trent said, “How do you know?”

  “I found an obituary. In their room.”

  Trent raised an eyebrow. “What were you doing in there? Snooping?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Geez, Sonny. That’s either brave or dumb. I ain’t sure which.”

  He pinged and ponged rocks while I went to pacing and chewing my nails. Leaving him to his rock throwing, I went around to the front of the house, and sat on the front porch steps, watching the road. Off to the left, the top of the Lucky Strike tower poked above the pines. It gave me chills thinking about Daniel sitting way up there. Alone. Thinking how he might be thinking. As the sun set, losing its final grip on the edge of earth, the countryside looked as if it was on fire, and it was easy to see spring was around the corner as shadows of the barn and sheds changed and lengthened. A few minutes later, Mr. Fowler’s car eased along the drive. Mama stared from the passenger side window, and that one side of her face looked horrible. She wasn’t smiling, even though Mr. Fowler was. I rose from the steps, and followed the car as it went around to the back. As he hurried around the front to help her out, she waved at me to come over.

  Her voice was tight, and careful when she asked, “Sonny, how was school?”

  “It was a long day.”

  She smiled, then winced.

  She said, “Yes.”

  Now Mr. Fowler strutted to the trunk of the car and opened it. I couldn’t understand how he kept that pride when he’d left such m
arks on my mama.

  He said, “Help me get this stuff.”

  No please, just do. Inside were all sorts of baby things. All of it blue. If a girl came out instead, what would he do?

  He said, “Don’t you drop none of it.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Put it in that extra room. That’ll be the nursery.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He watched me lift out several bags, and then he went back to Mama. She was leaning against the side of the car.

  He said, “Come on, darlin’.”

  Mama said, “Leave me be, Frank.”

  That told me a lot about the kind of day they’d had.

  * * *

  The rest of that week at school, there was still no sign of Daniel, and I finally broke down and asked Miss Young about him. Teachers talked. She might know something. My hands grew sweaty as I approached her when the lunch bell rang.

  I said, “Miss Young? My friend, Daniel Lassiter, he was in Mrs. Driver’s class, and I haven’t seen him in a while. Has he been sick?”

  She hesitated, and then she said, “No, Daniel probably won’t be back this year.”

  I was so stunned, I only nodded and walked away.

  She called me back, and when I stood beside her again, she said, “It’s for the best, don’t you think?”

  I didn’t know what she meant until she said in a low voice, “Don’t misunderstand. Daniel’s very nice, but he’s a troubled boy.”

  “Why, did he do something bad?”

  Miss Young said, “No, but look you’re such a pretty girl, you can make new friends, the kind you should have. Now, go on to lunch, and don’t worry about him, okay?”

  March came, and went, and with it, my thirteenth birthday passed and so did his. They were only a week apart and we’d always done something together. Mama managed to bake a cake for me, but other than that, the day came and went like any other day.

  I kept trying to call, time and again, to wish him a happy birthday, until finally, Operator Eunice said, “Honey, call him all you want, but take it from me. If he ain’t called you back by now, he ain’t gonna.”

  Embarrassed, I hung up, and sat with my hands clenched in my lap, unaware I was scowling. Mr. Fowler went by carrying a glass of ginger ale for Mama. She wasn’t holding up so well, each day more sickly and weak.

  He said, “What’s the matter with you?”

  I said, “Nothing.”

  “You best not be using that phone for what I think. I can find out, you know. Do I need to find out?”

  He had a way of making threats that loosened everything up inside me, like if I tried to walk, my legs wouldn’t work.

  I said, “No, sir,” and prayed he wouldn’t.

  I was spared when Mama called from the bedroom, but he shot me a warning look before he went to her.

  One unseasonably balmy Saturday morning in early April, Ross said, “You know, I’ve been saving just about every dime I’ve made. What if I go to Slater’s and we plant a few acres on our farm? In honor of Daddy.”

  I nodded vigorously, and even Trent agreed, as much as he hated field work. I thought about Mama, and it almost made me guilty to think of leaving her every afternoon after school. When I mentioned this to Ross, I was shocked at his reply.

  He said, “It’s her fault. She shouldn’t have married him.”

  Ross was spitfire mad at Mama, and this said how much.

  I said, “Maybe if we tell what he did to Daniel, she’d want to leave.”

  Trent said, “Yeah.”

  Ross said, “You go and do that, all hell’s gonna break loose. He made it clear what he’d do, him and his so-called friends.”

  I said, “What if he gets mad at us working over there.”

  Ross said, “We’ll deal with it.”

  When we went to work in our old fields, I couldn’t speak for my brothers, but I felt like a different person, the weight of worry temporarily gone. I was happier there. The familiar land lay before us, and it became a ritual for me to bring my old dowsing branch, and to take a turn or two up and down the rows. Without fail, the message was clear, and I celebrated those little tiny victories each time it signaled water. Even Trent no longer poked fun. I came to cherish those early spring afternoons away from Mr. Fowler’s while I was still very much aware of Mama’s ever increasing weakness, and ever growing belly.

  Chapter 31

  A thump came from their bedroom, along with raised voices. I hurried out of my own room knowing Ross was already gone to our farm, and maybe Trent too. I heard it again, and crept toward their door. I hesitated and then put my ear to it.

  Mama said, “Frank, please, stop now. I’m not up to it.”

  He said, “You ain’t never up to it lately.”

  Mama said, “Would you be, considering?”

  I could picture her pointing to the small swelling one might consider more of a holiday weight gain than a baby just yet.

  Mr. Fowler mumbled something, and I heard Mama repeat, “No,” like she was gritting her teeth.

  I jerked when I heard sharp slaps. It got quiet until that horrible noise he made told me the thing between a husband and wife was happening again. I backed away from the door, considered what made him so damn mean as I rushed downstairs, my face hot as a firecracker. I grabbed two slices of bread, some bologna, and made a quick sandwich. I stood at the counter eating it, but not tasting anything. I moved to the screen door, and breathed deep, noticing how spring made everything smell different. The sweet scent of pollen and flowers poking up through the ground usually would’ve made me happy ’cause it was my favorite time of year, except we were here. I finished eating and brushed my hands off. I wanted to check on her, but didn’t care to hear what was going on behind those closed doors.

  I went outside, down the back steps, and made it across the yard to the edge of the woods, when out of nowhere, Mama’s voice higher pitched than I’d ever heard before, shouted, “Sonny!”

  She stood in the kitchen doorway, clutching her stomach. Even from that distance, the red streak on the front of her gown stood out as bold as a splash of red paint would on this white house. Shocked, I ran toward her as she sagged against the doorframe, her legs giving way until she sort of slid down it. He was behind her, a big looming figure shadowed by the interior of the house, like a phantom hovering, or the devil, about to snatch her back into that hell he’d created.

  He bent down, and I yelled at him, “You leave her alone!”

  He yanked her to her feet, gripping her upper arms as he stared down at her nightgown. Despite the hold he had on her, she tried to double over, as if the act of standing straight were too painful to bear.

  I ran up the steps, crying, “Mama! Mama!”

  Mr. Fowler was saying, “Goddammit, Vi!”

  She struggled to get away from him, reaching for me. The sweat glistened on her brow, and the sickly gray of her face was alarming. He let her go as I grabbed her hands and pulled her away from him. She gasped, holding her stomach like she was cradling it.

  She panted, “The baby. The baby.”

  Mr. Fowler’s hands were bloody, and he looked at them like they weren’t his, like they belonged to someone else.

  I said, “Get the doctor!”

  He wiped them down the front of his pants, and he looked furious about what was happening. He lowered his voice, and spoke so quiet, it was almost a whisper.

  He said, “She better not lose that baby. She just better not.” He took a step closer, pointed at Mama like she could magically stop what was happening, and then his voice turned eerie as he said, “Ain’t a thing wrong. It’s just a little blood.”

  I stared at him like he was insane.

  I said, “I’m gonna get Ross.”

  Mr. Fowler said, “Hell no you ain’t.”

  Mama’s body spasmed like it had a mind of its own. She leaned to the side, away from me, panting with pain. Tears coursed down my own cheeks as she doubled over. Mr. Fowler grabbed unde
r her arms and hauled her up. She cried out as a rush of blood poured down her legs and I was sure she was gonna die.

  I cried out, “She’s losing the baby!”

  Mr. Fowler looked over at me and said, “Shut up! She ain’t doing no such thing!” He held Mama upright and said, “Now, Vi, you got to stop this. Don’t you let it happen!”

  Mama could only cry. He would blame her for this, he might even kill her for it. I looked toward the woods, frantic, wishing Ross or Trent would appear. I was afraid to leave her alone with him, but she needed help, and quick. Her face went from gray to white. He let her go like she disgusted him, and she collapsed to her knees on the porch, rolled over, and balled up onto her side. Mr. Fowler took off down the back steps, cussing a blue streak. He jumped in his truck, tore down the driveway, the back end fishtailing, and causing gravel to shoot out from under the tires. I heard them screech when he hit asphalt. Mama gazed up at me, eyes dulled by the pain.

  She said, “Oh, Sonny. I prayed and prayed . . .”

  “It’s okay, Mama, he’s gone to get the doctor.”

  Her eyelids sort of fluttered, then closed, and in that instant, it was like I’d jumped into the pond in the middle of winter. I bent down and put my ear to her mouth. A single puff of air. Then another. I stroked her arm, thankful she was still with me, if barely. I waited for Mr. Fowler to come back, to bring some help. Minutes went by. A half hour. Finally, I jumped up and ran into the house and dialed zero.

  Eunice sighed and said, “Four, two, eight, nine?”

  “No! No! Doctor Meade, quick!”

  For once she didn’t prattle on about the weather, or give me advice about calling boys. I heard her sharp intake of breath.

  “Hold the line.”

  The clicks in my ear were loud, going on forever until Doctor Meade came on. I told him what was happening, and I was sure Eunice was listening in too, but I didn’t care.

  I said, “Hurry! It’s bad!”

  He said, “I’m on my way.”

  I hung up the phone and went back to Mama, rubbing on her back, doing anything I could to let her know I was there. A few minutes later, Ross and Trent found me, holding her hand, and sort of humming an off-tune song. I kept fanning her face to keep the flies away. She’d not woke up, and neither one of them seemed to understand what they saw. Blood pooled in a large sticky puddle by the back door, the smell of it a steely, metallic odor.