Ross had lost all the color in his face, and it made him look sickly as Mama. Trent was clenching and unclenching his fists, like he was looking for an opportunity to punch the man.
Ross repeated what Big Boy told him to say. “I’m dumb. Dumb as a rock.”
Sheriff Big Boy moved closer, smelling of old frying grease and another underlying rank odor. I wanted to pinch my nose against it, only I was afraid to move.
He said, “Again.”
Ross repeated it.
Sheriff Big Boy looked over at Trent. “Ain’t you right pretty, yourself. Didn’t notice that when we were having our little bit of fun, but I see it now. Hm.”
Her soft voice came from behind us through the screen door, her words muffled sounding ’cause Mr. Fowler had loosened a couple of her teeth. “Sonny, what’s the sheriff doing here?”
She held the towel she’d used to wrap ice in, her black eye and cheek standing out in contrast to the white of her skin. She looked like she was dead. I looked at Ross, and then the sheriff. Even he had trouble looking at Mama’s face.
I said, “It ain’t nothing, Mama. Sheriff was just about to go. He was only telling us to be careful. There’s a rabid fox in the area.”
Sheriff Big Boy said, “That’s right, ma’am. No cause for alarm. I’ll just be on my way. Give my best to your husband. He and I go way back.”
Sheriff Big Boy strolled to his car, and as he went to get in, he said, “Don’t forget what I told you.”
Nobody said a word. Nobody moved until the car was out of sight.
Chapter 33
There was a pattern when it came to Mr. Fowler’s tirades. After he’d beat Mama black and blue, he’d mellow out for days on end. It was as if he’d expelled a badness in him, and we were safe until it boiled over once again. A couple days after Sheriff Big Boy showed up, Mama approached me early in the morning with the idea of baking them blackberry pies Mr. Fowler favored, as if she thought it was a way to soothe his temper.
She said, “Let’s go to the patch off Turtle Pond Road. It’ll be like old times, won’t it?”
I agreed. “Yes, ma’am.”
We got a couple of buckets from the root cellar, and took the path through the woods. In another time and place, I could have held onto this moment as a happy one, but with her looking like she was, I could only worry if she felt well enough to pick.
I said, “We don’t have to get a lot. Just enough for a pie.”
She said, “I want to bake two. If I’m gonna bake, I might as well make sure it’s worth it. Besides, Frank will eat one almost by himself.”
I’d seen him do that, so Mama was right.
I said, “Well, there ought to be plenty. We’ll be able to pick-’em fast.”
She smiled, which made her flinch in pain.
She lifted her face to the sun and said, “I’m fine, don’t worry. I declare, if it don’t feel good to be outside again.”
I nodded and smiled when she pointed out a butterfly, or some wildflower growing along the way. If Mama could put what he’d done behind her, then I had to try too. When we got to the blackberry patch, the briars were loaded, and in various stages of ripening. It was right pretty, the red and blackish-purple berries set against the bright green leaves. We were right out in the sun, and though it was hot, once we started picking, I didn’t even notice. We were quiet, and the only sound was the occasional clink of a bucket as we set them down, and a few crows ca-cawing overhead.
After a while, Mama said, “I’m going over there, Sonny.”
“Okay.”
She went across the road to where Daniel and I had stood eating them, while I kept picking where I was ’cause there were so many. I was eating them too, and despite the fact we were doing this for him, I couldn’t help but appreciate it was a nice day, and Mama and I were doing something together like old times. I would occasionally glance her way and a time or two, she wasn’t picking at all, but simply staring into her bucket. That was okay, her resting and all. I still thought of her as strong, no doubt about it. After all she’d been through, and here she was picking blackberries in the hot sun.
She eventually came back over to me and said, “I think we have enough, don’t you think?”
My own bucket was over half-full.
She said, “I have the same as you. We’ll have enough for a few jars of jam too. Let’s go.”
I nodded. “Okay.”
Back at the house, Mama said, “You measure out the flour, get the lard and all together, while I’ll wash these up real quick.”
I nodded and set about getting what we needed. I put cubes of ice in water like Mama had showed me, and set it on the table for when she was ready to assemble the crusts. All the while she hummed and washed, washed and hummed. My mouth watered at the memory of how a warm blackberry pie tasted. It was the only thing Mr. Fowler and I might have in common, our love for them. I went into the pantry and measured out flour, and set that on the table and when I went back into the pantry, I was in such a hurry I dropped the bag, and flour went everywhere.
“Oh! Darn it!”
Mama said, “What is it?”
“I made a mess.”
Mama poked her head in and said, “Well, get the broom, and then you’ll have to get the rest up with a mop. Get it good and clean. You know how he is.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I spent a while getting it up ’cause every time I thought I was done, I found something with flour on it. I wiped and swiped at everything and by the time I came out of the pantry, she was just about done, already busy scoring the tops of the pies. She put star shapes on one, and cross marks like Xs on the other.
She stood back to survey her work and said, “I did it like that since I put more sugar in that one there. That’s how Frank likes it.”
I said, “I like mine with less, like Daddy.”
She smiled and said, “Ross and Trent too.”
I spent the rest of the day helping her cook Mr. Fowler’s favorite things. Mama was trying to stay on his good side, so she fixed that buttermilk chicken he liked, mashed potatoes, corn, and okra.
When he came in from work, all he had to say was, “Well, I’m glad to see you finally got out of the bed to cook for a change.”
Mama didn’t say a word, like she’d developed a callous when it came to his way of talking to her. I wasn’t sure she even heard him. She put the food on his plate and set it in front of him.
She said, “Boys, Sonny, y’all go on and get your plates. Don’t let this food get cold.”
Mr. Fowler said, “Like your mama.”
It was hard to enjoy eating when he seemed to want to make it unpleasant, but like Mama asked, we did our best to not waste it. Mr. Fowler had no problem emptying his own plate.
When he was done, she said, “I made blackberry pie.”
He said, “Well? What’re you waiting for?”
She went into the kitchen and brought out several slices, giving him his first. He attacked it like it might get away. We began to eat the pie, and I decided it might be the best she’d ever made. Ross and Trent agreed, eating theirs like Mr. Fowler, barely breathing between bites.
He finished and said, “I don’t know. Lemme have another. It might be close to my own mama’s, but I ain’t sure yet.”
Mama got him another slice.
He ate it, and like he was playing with her, he said, “Um, not yet. Lemme have another one, just to be sure.”
Mama smiled graciously, and went and got it.
He ate that one too, and when he was done, he finally sat back, wiped his mouth, and said, “Nope. Not as good.”
Mama said, “I followed my own recipe this time. I couldn’t find your mother’s.”
Mr. Fowler tossed his napkin on the table, and stood up, holding his stomach like it was bothering him and I reckoned so, considering.
He said, “Whew. I probably shouldn’t have eaten that last piece.”
Mama said, “Go sit down and I�
�ll bring you some seltzer after I get this cleaned up.”
Mr. Fowler burped loud and gave her no argument. I could hear him in the study as he settled into a favorite chair with a groan. I helped Mama, and maybe it was her general feeling of weakness or soreness, but it took us a long time to get the kitchen clean. She placed towels over the leftover pies. The one I liked with less sugar was only half-gone, but holy cow, Mr. Fowler had just about eat all of one by himself. No wonder he was miserable.
Ross and Trent disappeared to their rooms, avoiding any further contact with him. I looked at Mama as she rinsed and rinsed a glass until I figured she’d used a gallon of water on it.
Mr. Fowler called out, “Vi! You getting me that seltzer?”
Mama said, “In a minute, I’m almost done!”
I wiped the dishes dry and thought about Daniel, wondering what he was doing at this very moment, if he even missed me, or was he spending his days and nights at the water tower planning his escape from Jones County. Maybe he’d take a chance on Sarah and that man down in Georgia. At this point, it would be better than here. Maybe if I got brave enough, I’d ride out to the water tower and find out for myself. I could apologize properly, and give him a way to try and forgive me. I finished wiping the last plate and put it up and looked to see Mama sorting out the utensil drawer.
I said, “Mama, don’t you reckon Mr. Fowler wants that seltzer you mentioned?”
She cocked her head, listening, and said, “He ain’t yelling no more for it. He’s probably asleep after eating like he did. I been wanting to do this, and now I’m into it, I’ll just finish this up and go check on him.”
She sorted, and sorted. She talked while she did so, reminiscing about Daddy. It had been a long time since she’d mentioned him. It was probably too painful for her, and she’d buried her feelings. Tonight, they’d resurfaced and what was odd was she’d always acted like she had to look over her shoulder when talking about certain things and now, she talked openly, and freely, like she didn’t care. After sorting the utensil drawer, she sat down to smoke a cigarette. A couple hours had passed since we ate and I was surprised Mr. Fowler hadn’t demanded she wait on him. I paused to listen when an unexpected noise came from the study, an odd spongy sound I couldn’t figure out.
I said, “What’s that?”
Mama frowned and said, “I don’t know.”
She left the kitchen, and seconds later, called out, “Sonny, get Ross.”
I went into the hallway and said, “Is everything okay?”
Her voice was sharp. “Just do as I say!”
I took the stairs two at a time and banged on Ross’s door, then stuck my head in. He’d been practicing camel hops with a towel tied to his closet door handle, and looked a bit aggravated at the interruption.
“What?”
“Hurry. I think something’s wrong with Mr. Fowler.”
He rushed out of the room, with me on his heels. Mama was still by Mr. Fowler, shaking his arm, and calling his name. He continued making that strange sucking noise, his tongue protruding like he was trying to throw up. I developed an odd sensation of wanting to breathe for him.
Ross knelt beside Mama and said, “He’s having some sort of an attack.”
She said, “Jesus, Lord, God, yes he is.” She put a hand on his chest and said, “Frank?”
Mr. Fowler’s eyes widened, and to our horror, he went rigid as a board and his own face turned that horrid color it had before and then, if it was possible, it went even darker, almost like Mama’s eggplant-colored bruising.
She drew back and whispered, “He ain’t gonna make it.”
It was horrible to see, and despite how I felt about him, I had a moment of compassion and said, “Help him!”
As soon as the words came out of me, Mr. Fowler seized up once more and his chest collapsed as the air went out of him. It didn’t rise again. He stared straight up while Mama, her hand on her mouth, stared down at him. Mr. Fowler was beyond helping.
Mama said, “I will be damned.”
* * *
There was talk it had been his way of living. Mr. Fowler had a reputation for being high-strung, while some said it was his heavy smoking and drinking.
At his funeral, Doc Meade told Mama, “He’s had health problems for some time now. I figured after he got married, he’d eat better, drink less. Course, y’all weren’t married long enough to do him any good.” Doc Meade looked close at Mama, leaned in, and said, “I reckon he hadn’t done you much good neither.”
Mama shook her head, her expression partially obscured by the black veil.
She said, “Frank had his ways, that’s for sure.”
He said, “Lots to think about, what with two properties.”
Mama said, “I’ll call my sister Ruth, see if she ain’t interested in a new career.”
That made me so happy, I quivered with excitement.
Acquaintances, and I think maybe even a few strangers came from all over Jones County to see him laid out in his coffin. I had the distinct impression many were glad about his death, although what business he’d had or done with them, well, I could’ve cared less. Three that didn’t attend were Stem, Rufus, and Big Boy. Maybe they didn’t dare. I’d never considered before that death could make a person feel happy. Maybe it’s a sin to say or think it, but if I’m being truthful, I was glad he was gone, out of our lives.
Yes, his death had made me happy.
Chapter 34
Quick as Mr. Fowler had moved us in, we left the big, ugly house even faster. There were no good memories there. Not a one I could count. We got our things, packed the truck and the station wagon with as much as we could carry, and still have room to sit. There were no tears. My feelings, though I tried to keep them tamped down out of simple respect for death, were in direct contrast to when we’d moved to his place. Giddy comes to mind. Soon we’d settled back at the old house as if we’d never left. Despite my relief and happiness, for some reason, Mama couldn’t completely let go of Mr. Fowler. Every now and then she’d bring up something he’d done in the early days, when he’d been a nicer person—at least to her. It could have been her way of getting past the awfulness, a way to paint a prettier picture, or to justify why she’d even considered getting mixed up with someone like him. I didn’t mind her talking about him now. He was gone, and it was just words.
We worked the small bit of cotton on our own land, and one day, while on that side of Turtle Pond Road closest to his property, we noticed his cotton needed tending pretty bad. The workers he’d hired had drifted off to who knew where. Ross wasn’t necessarily inclined to labor on his land, but he couldn’t see a crop going to waste either. When he brought it up to Mama, it was understood it was more than even the four of us could do.
Mama said, “We’ll get enough in to get by on. It’ll be fine.”
I didn’t care none too much being over there and if I never set foot on any part of that man’s property again, I’d have been all right, but there we were, working his fields, his presence seeming to hover over us. I did the spot where Daniel and I had run underneath the irrigation’s sprinkler system. It seemed like it had been ten years ago instead of only last summer. I felt embarrassed when I recollected how I’d kissed him, and his reaction. We’d been completely unaware of the event about to happen that would change us, who we were, forever. The echo of Daniel’s voice came as the sun beat down on me. It renewed my sadness over him, being in that place, and so I left, and didn’t look back.
It was late August when Aunt Ruth finally came, and Mama, who hadn’t looked herself in ages, was transformed. Aunt Ruth’s presence filled an empty spot left by Daddy, albeit in a different way. Ross and Trent looked as happy as I felt. When we sat down to eat supper the first night she was there, Mama shared some news.
She said, “County sent me this deed. What you reckon we ought to do?”
She and Aunt Ruth sipped on glasses of sweet tea, a curl of smoke circling Mama’s head, like a halo. The de
ed was for Mr. Fowler’s property.
Ross said, “It ain’t no reason to ever want to set foot there again.”
Trent said, “Nope.”
I was suddenly consumed by the notion Mama might be thinking about cutting down the woods, like he’d wanted to do, and combining properties.
I said, “I hate that place.”
Mama said, “I can’t blame you kids. I’ve been thinking on this idea a while. What if we donate it to your daddy’s college, let them use it in whatever way they want. That would give us a little peace of mind, using it in his memory.”
Aunt Ruth said, “Perfect.”
We agreed, and over the next few days Mama stayed on the phone, talking to people at the college, and then to the Register of Deeds for Jones County. The college was more than happy to accept such a generous gift and Mama’s only request was for it to carry Daddy’s name. During one of the phone calls I heard her repeat what it would eventually become, The Lloyd Simpson Creech Cooperative Extension. Mama’s decision would turn the property and all the bad memories into something good, so that whenever we rode by, we’d no longer think of it like before. Eventually signs would be put up pointing to the different work studies being done there, from horticulture to specialty crops to pest management. Knowing it would soon be filled with people doing the sort of work Daddy had been interested in was like plowing weeds under.
It was right before school was going to start, when I went to Daddy’s grave, sat, and leaned my back against the sun-warmed stone. There was something at the back of my mind bothering me, something I could only share with him.
Daddy, I sure do miss you. I wish you were here, but you already know that. I reckon you know by now about Mr. Fowler, and there’s something I can’t stop thinking about. That day Mama and I picked blackberries, and she made them blackberry pies, she marked them different. She mentioned the sugar, and it wasn’t nothing really since she’s scored pies different before. Only, when I went into the kitchen the next morning, I couldn’t find the leftovers. The pie plates had been washed and were in the sink drain. I looked outside in the burn barrel, and there wasn’t anything there. It was like we’d never made them. And then, there’s where she’d been picking that day, the spot where Daniel showed me them pokeberries. I don’t know. Maybe it doesn’t mean anything. Mama is better now, Daddy, and I guess that’s all that matters. Well, I got to go in. I love you. See you later.
The Forgiving Kind Page 31
