Gone Crazy in Alabama

by Rita Williams-Garcia

  Ma Charles shook her head, amused and surprised by Fern’s question. “If that don’t beat all.”

  Then Fern finished her thought. “As long as the cow says, ‘Mooo,’ I’ll drink it tooo.”

  “All this talk about where milk comes from,” Ma Charles said. “Milk comes from a cow. Maybe a goat. In all my eighty-two years I never drank a drop of factory milk and I won’t start now. Never had an egg come out of a carton or a loaf of bread that didn’t rise up in my oven, and furthermore, it’s a sin to throw a nickel on a head of cabbage or a bunch of carrots that already grows up out of my own dirt.”

  “Thank you, Claretha Darrow,” Big Ma said. Claretha must have been Aretha Franklin’s pulpit-preaching twin, for all we knew: Big Ma, like Ma Charles, was on a roll. She was funniest when she didn’t mean to make us laugh. “You all haven’t been down home a full minute and you’re already raising Mama’s pressure and mine along with hers.”

  Ma Charles tsk-tsked about how lean and undernourished JimmyTrotter looked and then told him to sit down. “Your old great-granny is in such poor health she can’t rise up from her death bed to feed you.”

  JimmyTrotter winked at me and said to Ma Charles, “Miss Trotter’s far from her deathbed, Auntie. She gets around and cooks plenty. I know because I eat plenty.”

  “I doubt she gets around, as old and sickly as she is,” Ma Charles insisted.

  “Mama!” Big Ma scolded. “You two are the same age.”

  “Twins!” Vonetta exclaimed. “You’re twin sisters. I hope twins run in the family. I’m having twins.”

  “You’re having breakfast,” is what Big Ma said. “Never mind no twins.”

  “Twins nothing,” Ma Charles said, truly riled by the thought. “My mama had me first. Her mama had her second. You tell her that,” she ordered. JimmyTrotter gave her a “Yes’m, Auntie,” and threw me another sly wink.

  “Do you hear this?” Big Ma said. “Stop telling the family business.”

  “Aren’t we the family?” Fern asked.

  JimmyTrotter said, “Don’t worry about Miss Trotter. Great-granny goes out with her deer rifle. Can still pick off a rabbit every now and then.”

  “What’s that to me?” Ma Charles said, but she was now ruffled at being contradicted. “I fish the wide end of the creek and tend that garden.”

  “Ma, you haven’t gone—”

  But Ma Charles waved her hand to tell Big Ma to hush and continued to speak over her. “You tell her I said there’s no shame in using that cane I sent her. Pride goeth before the fall.” I caught my great-grandmother half rolling her eyes.

  “Miss Trotter’s just fine, Auntie,” he said, although she was his great-aunt. “And she wants to know if your rheumatism’s any better. If you need another bottle of ginger and goldenseal.”

  “Ma don’t need any Indian roots and berries,” Big Ma said. “She needs to see about her sister.”

  “I know about my half sister, all right,” Ma Charles snapped real fast. “I know all about her.”

  Fern whispered in a weak voice, “She hunts deer? And rabbits?”

  Vonetta held up her fork as if it had a trigger and a barrel. I slapped the fork down and dared Vonetta to do something about it.

  Then Uncle Darnell came into the kitchen and said, “Ma, you packed my lunchbox? My thermos?” Big Ma was especially happy to fuss over her son. When Uncle Darnell looked toward Vonetta, she turned her face away and chomped on her cereal as hard as she could.

  Far from Net-Net and Unc

  You would think that having all of us together would heal old wounds. After three nights of gathering around Ma Charles’s table for supper, Vonetta wouldn’t soften. Uncle Darnell stopped looking her way while he told stories about his job at the textile mill over in Prattville. He stopped waiting for her to chuckle at the funny parts or give him the smallest forgiving sign. He finally said as he passed the biscuit platter, “Vonetta, I’ve already apologized. I was a different man then. But as far as I’m concerned I’ve made amends. That’s all you get.” And when he passed the gravy boat her way, he could have been passing it to anyone but his favorite niece.

  “Vonetta.” Fern and I ganged up on her before nighttime reading, prayer, and lights-out. Vonetta rolled cow eyes up at us in place of answering as we stood over her.

  “You make me sick,” I told her.

  “You make me sicker,” she snapped back.

  The quickness of her reply made Fern go, “Oooh.”

  “Uncle was sick. He’s better now. Or he’s getting better.”

  “And he’s sorry,” Fern said.

  Vonetta fired off another one. “He broke my jar and stole my money.” From the shine in her eyes, it might as well have still been the Sunday afternoon that we had come home from church and found the jar broken and all the concert money gone, except for a few coins. “I didn’t get to see Michael, Marlon, Jermaine, Tito, or Jackie at Madison Square Garden.” She pointed a finger on one hand for each Jackson and was breathing hard when she’d stopped naming and pointing.

  The disappointment and loss of not going to the concert suddenly overwhelmed Fern. “Yeah. We didn’t see Michael.”

  “It wasn’t just your money,” I told Vonetta’s stubborn lip. “It was ours. All of ours. And we didn’t get to see the Jackson Five. We.”

  “We surely didn’t.” Fern slid back to my side. I knew I could count on her for support.

  “You weren’t the only one who missed the Jackson Five,” I told her.

  “Surely weren’t.”

  “Uncle said he was sorry, Vonetta. And he means it. He’s better.”

  Vonetta’s neck went rolling along with her cow eyes. “If you want to accept his sorry, then go ahead, you sorry, sorry sisters.” And then she stood up to me like she was going to slug me. Vonetta had grown taller but not tall enough to stand eye to eye with me. She still had to look up.

  “You’ll be sorry in a minute,” I warned her.

  She stepped even closer. “Oh yeah?”

  She pushed me with all her might and I tottered back a step but not much. I gave her a hard, swift push and she fell onto the bed. Then she let out her war cry, just like she did when she hollered in her crib. That only told me she was fueling up to spring back, so I met her fast and shoved her back down onto the bed. Uncle charged into in the room and pulled me off of her.

  “What are you two fighting about?”

  Big Ma was right behind him. “Don’t let me get my strap. Carrying on like hopping mad kangaroos in a boxing match. Delphine, you know better than to jump on your baby sister.”

  Fern took offense. “I’m the baby sister. She’s the old middle.”

  Before Vonetta could answer to being called the old middle, Uncle said louder, “I asked you, what were you two fighting about?”

  I didn’t say anything and neither did Vonetta. But that didn’t stop Fern.

  “Vonetta said she—”

  Uncle Darnell held up his hand. “Didn’t ask you, Li’l Bit. I asked them.”

  We both said in almost one voice, “Nothing.”

  “Wild,” Big Ma scolded. “Just wild. Send them to Oakland to see their mother and they come back wild. Your father brings Miss Women’s Lib into the house spouting her nonsense and my grands they think they’re wild and free. No one knows how to be a young lady. No sir. No one knows how to be a young lady.”

  “At least you still know how to be an old lady, Big Ma.” I do believe Fern meant to say something nice.

  Uncle laughed and Big Ma swatted Fern’s backside, but not really. Not like a whipping. I felt myself easing up but Vonetta stayed tight-lipped with arms crossed.

  “Shake,” Uncle told us. “Go on.”

  “You can’t tell me what to do,” Vonetta sniped.

  Then Big Ma, who’d been jollied out of her fussing, was once again sharp and angry. “You’re asking for my strap but my backhand will do just fine,” she told Vonetta.

  Uncle said to Vonetta, “I�
��m your uncle, not your equal. Don’t you ever mouth off to me. Do you hear me, girl?” All I could think was how far from “Net-Net and Unc” they’d become. Now Uncle Darnell was more like Papa than Papa.

  Vonetta nodded, but Uncle Darnell wouldn’t take her nod like he might have done before. Back when he was young with a face full of dimples and danced the Watusi even when that dance had been long out of style. He said, “What was that?”

  “Yes.” The word dragged and hissed out of her mouth.

  “Yes, what?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  I knew Vonetta was hurt to have to “sir” Uncle Darnell when Papa had only made us “sir” him once that I could remember. Neither Vonetta, Fern, nor I liked saying “Yes, sir.” “Yes, sir” was how Big Ma told us we’d better answer a white man, no matter how young or old he was.

  “Now, shake,” Uncle Darnell said again.

  Vonetta stuck her hand out to me and I shook it. Then we pulled our hands apart.

  Chicken Run

  I loved my view, holed up in the woodsy Y of our pecan tree’s branches surrounded by nothing but pointed green leaves and pecan clusters still shelled in green husks. It was so peaceful I didn’t even bother to swat flies or gnats. The pecan tree made the perfect reading spot, with its far-reaching arms and its cradle high enough to keep me above fighting sisters or Big Ma when wash day came around. As long as my sisters couldn’t climb its trunk to get to the cradle, I’d always have a place to go.

  I decided I was done with Things Fall Apart for now. No one had to know I’d grown tired of reading it. Instead, I followed The Soul Brothers and Sister Lou on their way to becoming a singing group in Philadelphia. That was more my speed. And Sister Lou? I might as well be inside her skin.

  After sailing through a few chapters of my book, I took a break to slow the story a bit. I didn’t mean to spy on Fern but I couldn’t help watch her down below in the chicken run with her new friends. Ma Charles gave her the job of gathering up chicken poop for the garden, and Fern went right to work with a garden spade and a dust pan.

  Between the pecking hens and the chicken-poop smell, I couldn’t get Fern to go near the henhouse when she was five—let alone inside the chicken run. Now she spoke to the chickens, expecting them to understand her. So when Big Ma had announced she’d be baking chicken for tonight’s supper, I saw the gears turning in Fern’s mind. She was up to something.

  She left the run to grab a twig that had fallen from the pecan tree. I watched her poke her hand with its tip to test its sharpness. She marched back inside the run like she had been a chicken feeder and egg collector all her life. The hens paid her no mind, seeing that she came with a crooked stick and no feed. They let her do what was on her mind to do.

  Fern pushed the straw aside in the center of the run to reveal patches of grass but mostly dirt. She bent down with her twig in hand and began to write in the dirt, all the while shooing her hens away. I couldn’t tell what she wrote but whatever it was, she took a second to admire it and clunked her turtle head, congratulating herself. Now, I had to know. I inched out farther and leaned over. From what I could see, Fern had scratched out chicken feet. Big chicken feet. I wanted to tell her that chicken feet aren’t that big, but she seemed proud of her work so I said nothing.

  She talked to her hens. “Now, Henny Pennies,” she said, “I’m doing this for your own good. When Big Ma comes out here, just look smart.”

  The hens clucked back.

  Then she called out, “Big Ma! Big Ma! Come quick!”

  Big Ma didn’t post herself up in the door frame immediately, so Fern left the run, but not without warning her chickens, “Look smart, Henny Pennies. Extra smart!” She framed hand goggles around her eyes and pressed her face against the back door screen. “Big Ma! Come here! Come here! I have something stupendous to show you. Unbelievably stupendous.”

  Finally Big Ma appeared, her hands caked with flour, her face puzzled. “What?”

  Fern pointed to the chicken run with one hand and motioned, Come on, come on, with the other. She jumped away from the door. “You have to come out and see, Big Ma!”

  Big Ma cracked the screen door but remained inside. She had no time to fool with Fern, but Fern stamped her foot, confounded by the effort it took to get Big Ma near the chicken run. She pointed to her chicken-feet drawing, and waited for Big Ma to be unbelievably astounded.

  “Fern Gaither, what are you trying to show me?”

  There was a commotion in the chicken run, but not the spectacle that Fern had in mind. Some insect, maybe a grasshopper or worm, found its way to the center of the chicken run and all the chickens went crazy pecking, flapping, and scratching to get at it. Fern’s chicken-feet etching had all but eroded in the pecking frenzy. Still, Fern pointed to what was left of the twig scratchings like the drawing was as clear as day.

  “Free Hens!” she cried.

  Big Ma’s face scrunched in on itself. “What?”

  “Free Hens! Like ‘Free Huey!’”

  “Don’t start up that Black Panther mess down here. Not today. Not any day.”

  “No, Big Ma,” Fern said. “You’re not seeing it.”

  “Seeing what, child?”

  By now, Fern’s arms were crossed, and that was not the right way to get Big Ma to see anything, especially when Big Ma had other things to do. “Like in Charlotte’s Web. These are some chickens,” she said, expecting Big Ma to have read Charlotte’s Web and to get her meaning.

  “I know they’re some chickens,” Big Ma said. “There’s going be one less chicken after supper.”

  “No, Big Ma. You can’t. You can’t.”

  I expected Big Ma to shoo Fern off to play. But Big Ma marched around to the door of the wire chicken run and snatched up a plump, light brown hen. If I had been inside, instead of up in my tree, Big Ma would have sent me out to the run to get a good-size pullet and bring it to her—lifeless, still warm, and ready for plucking. This was how I knew not to name a chicken, even the ones that strutted around the run as if they had a name. But Big Ma pushed past Fern, grabbed “Bertha,” snapped her neck while her light-brown-feathered body fussed about before stopping cold, and brought supper into the house. The screen door slammed.

  Fern stood there. Arms crossed. Then arms down at her side. Fists balled. She wound herself up and marched to the screen door, put her face against the screen, and yelled, “Chicken killer! Chicken killer!”

  I didn’t bother with climbing. I jumped out of the tree. The Soul Brothers and Sister Lou lay somewhere in the dirt. I ran and dragged my baby sister from the door.

  As sure as I knew she would be, Big Ma was in the door frame in nothing flat. “Delphine. Go get me a switch.”

  The nearest switch was the twig Fern used to scratch the message that was supposed to save her hens.

  I never disobeyed Big Ma but I wasn’t about to bring her any switch. Fern was beat down enough after seeing that hen’s neck snapped clean while its body did a dying funky-chicken dance. Wasn’t that punishment enough? Even when I was nine and Big Ma had told me to bring her a chicken for supper I knew better than to do it in front of my sisters. I waited until Vonetta and Fern were inside taking a nap before I did my chicken killing.

  At supper Fern ate bread and corn but she wouldn’t touch the gravy-coated drumstick Big Ma put on her plate.

  “If you don’t eat that chicken you don’t get any ’nana pudding.”

  Fern lifted her little turtle head higher instead of saying “So?” to her grandmother.

  Ma Charles laughed at this war between the two. She lifted her arms. “Come on, give your great-grand a hug, you rascal.”

  Fern leaped out of her chair, ran around to Ma Charles, and buried her face in her neck and chest.

  Big Ma wasn’t pleased. “See how you do, repaying the wicked? That’s not right, Ma.”

  “Oh, hush,” Ma Charles said, burying Fern in all that love.

  “Look at the baby,” Vonetta said. She s
tabbed her fork into the thigh on her plate and took a big bite. “Mm. Mm. Mm. Tasty.”

  Tears rolled down Fern’s face.

  “If you’re pleased to make a spectacle of yourself over chicken you been eating since you had teeth, go on to your room. You know better than to be crying at the table while hungry people are trying to take in the good Lord’s bounty. All them starving children in Africa going to bed hungry. You get in your bed and have a taste of hungry along with them.”

  Vonetta found religion. “Amen. Tasty. Tasty.”

  Fern marched off to our room, her turtle head high, her fists clenched.

  “It’s that wife of his’ doing,” Big Ma said. “Women’s liberation and can’t boil a turnip. That woman’s going to turn my girls into useless jaw-jerkers.”

  I expected to find Fern tummy-down, spread out on the bed and fast asleep after a bout of crying. Instead we found her sitting up with her arms folded and her neck still high. She had gone from twig-and-dirt writing to a blue fountain pen on lily wallpaper. Like our mother used to.

  Books lie.

  Lie. Lie. Lie.

  Charlotte lied.

  Webs lie.

  Web of lies.

  What is a word for a lie?

  A story.

  It was signed “Afua,” the African name our mother had tried to give Fern when she was born, but Pa wouldn’t let her. Now Fern was trying to be like our mother. If Cecile could have a poet’s name—Nzila—then so could Fern.

  I’d read her words but all I could see was blue ink over Big Ma’s wallpaper.

  “Ooh!” Vonetta cooed, her eyes bright with glee. “Ooh! You’re gonna get it.”

  “Fern. You’re asking for it,” I said.

  “So.”

  “You have to wash that off.”

  “That’s my poem.”

  “That’s not a poem,” Vonetta said. “All the lines end in ‘lie’ except for the one that ends in ‘story.’ You call that a poem?”

  Fern was most proud of that. All those “lies.”

  “It needs a rhyme with something like ‘pecan pie,’” Vonetta said. “And you’re gonna need a beating once Big Ma sees that ink on her wallpaper.”