Pixie Pushes On

by Tamara Bundy

  Miss Meany-Beany smiled. Yes, she really did smile that time. “He helps with some of the janitorial work,” she said. “Washes the desks, cleans the floor, stuff like that.”

  That sounded about as much fun as being stuck in that hot closet. “What’s he wanna do that for?”

  The corners of her mouth turned downward, and she looked like she was studying the road for the answer. Grandma is always telling me I ask a lot of questions, and I figured that last question of mine was one too many. But before I could say anything else, Miss Meany-Beany decided to talk after all. “Working at the school helps his family. He works for his lunch and a little extra. Lots of people were hit hard during the Depression. Some never bounced back.”

  She didn’t have to tell me that.

  * * *

  * * *

  Daddy, Mama, Charlotte, and I didn’t use to live on the farm. We had our own little house in Kentucky, about two hours away from Grandma and Granddaddy. If people looked at our house, they might not think it was anything special. But they’d be wrong.

  It was everything special.

  There was only one bedroom, where we all slept until Mama got the cough. I had that blasted cough first, but I got better with Mama’s care. But when my poor mama got it, there was no rest for her, until she rested in peace forever.

  That’s when I first suspected I was bad luck for the people I loved.

  * * *

  * * *

  In our old town, Daddy was the undertaker, taking care of folks after they passed away. But after Mama died, Daddy said he just couldn’t do it anymore.

  Grandma never liked the fact that we lived in that house. She was all the time pointing out it was drafty and one of us would catch our death of cold.

  Guess she was right.

  She told Daddy she didn’t like her daughter and granddaughters living as poor as a church mouse. But after Daddy quit his undertaking job, a person could argue that a church mouse had it better than we did.

  I felt bad for Daddy. He said nobody wanted him. He couldn’t even fight in the war, what with him being responsible for Charlotte and me, and Mama being gone. Said he felt “less than”—but I never understood what he meant. Less than what?

  I don’t remember there ever being an agreement about us moving to Grandma and Granddaddy’s farm, but one day last winter there was such a fierce storm and the wind was singing so loud, we could barely hear each other talk. Granddaddy came to our house, looked Daddy in the eye, and spoke like he’d been practicing it. “I’m not losing another.”

  Me and Charlotte moved that night. Daddy came a week later, packing our few belongings in two old coffin boxes.

  * * *

  * * *

  I concentrated on the thump-thump-thump sound of Miss Meany-Beany’s car until she cleared her throat and began speaking again. “I have to ask, why’d you go after him like that? And why’d you throw a spit wad at me today?”

  And for some reason, right there, traveling down Elm Street, it all came pouring out of me—to a teacher! Starting with the spit wad aimed at me—the same spit wad not ever aimed at her. I told her everything.

  By the time my telling was done, she was turning into the lane that leads to the farm. I heard the splatter of dirt and gravel being kicked up on her car before she spoke, her voice choking a bit. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  I looked out the window. “Why didn’t you ask me?”

  Daddy was in the field with the horse and cart, harvesting summer crops. Most farms used a tractor, but Granddaddy says if a horse and cart worked for his daddy, it would work for him.

  We don’t get much company, so a car pulling into the lane might as well have been a parade coming down Main Street.

  Before the car came to a stop, Grandma was walking out the back door, drying her hands on a dish towel, Granddaddy was peeking out of the barn, and Daddy was heading toward the car.

  “How do you do, ma’am?” Daddy nodded as he removed his hat. Then his eyes met mine in the passenger seat. “Prudence Ann, mind telling me what’s going on?”

  Fortunately, Miss Meany-Beany began to explain. “Hello, Mr. Davidson. Remember me, Adelaide Beany?”

  “Of course I remember, Miss Beany. Nice of you to escort my daughter home from school today—but if she’s been any trouble, I promise to deal with it.”

  I lowered my head.

  “Oh, um . . .” Out the corner of my eye, I saw her turn toward me and then back to Daddy. “Prudence was just, um, getting some extra help today after school—to catch up from when she was absent. Since she missed the bus, I . . . I brought her home.”

  Well, butter my biscuit! Right then, I’d be surprised if my eyes weren’t bugging out bigger than the headlights on Miss Meany-Beany’s car. A teacher fibbing? For me?

  Daddy seemed surprised too. “Well, I’ll be. That’s good to hear. And I thank you kindly, Miss Beany, for both the extra help and for bringing her home.” And probably because I just sat there in the passenger seat, staring with my mouth open, Daddy turned to me next. “Well, Prudence, don’t make Miss Beany any later than you’ve made her already. Thank her and get on into the house. Your grandma’s waitin’ for you to do your chores.”

  I opened the door and somehow managed to say, “Thank you . . . Miss . . . Beany.”

  And I stood there watching her drive back down the long dirt lane, still not understanding why she did what she did, till the sound of dirt hitting her car was replaced with the sound of Grandma hollering that the eggs weren’t gonna gather themselves.

  CHAPTER 5

  Of all the chores on the farm, the one I hate the most is gathering eggs. I can deal with squawking hens flying in my face even though I don’t like it, but there’s one rotten hen that’s worse. She won’t move, and pecks if you try to get near her, as if she’s guarding gold.

  Before Charlotte got sick, I used to trade her any chore she had in place of gathering those eggs. I’d even choose mucking out the stinky barn if it meant no more egg gathering. But with Charlotte gone, I have to take care of those chickens. Every day. I understand it’s fit punishment for what I’ve done, but that doesn’t make it any easier to take.

  I stopped first at the water pump and cranked the lever a few times to get the water flowing. After trying to be as ladylike as Grandma tells me I should be by drinking from the tin cup that sits on top of the pump, I decided to forget about being a lady and stuck my whole head under the pump.

  The cool water washing over my skin felt like a little bit of heaven. For a few minutes, I forgot everything. Didn’t even notice Granddaddy watching me till he spoke up, his voice like a song sung low and slow.

  “Grandma gonna tan your hide if ya don’t get to those eggs soon, young lady.”

  While he tried to sound as serious as he could, his winking eye told me he wouldn’t tell. I sat there with the water and the events of the day dripping over me as I mustered up a dramatic sigh.

  “Tough day, Pixie?”

  Only Granddaddy and Charlotte call me Pixie. And not hearing Charlotte say it lately makes the sound of it coming from Granddaddy’s mouth sound extra sweet.

  And then, like the water that wouldn’t stop dripping from my soaking-wet hair, my words started dripping from my mouth again, telling Granddaddy the story of my terrible day.

  Granddaddy squatted down to be more on my level.

  “And then, Miss Meany—”

  He bunched up his eyebrows into a frown, his eyes telling me to be respectful so his mouth didn’t have to.

  “Sorry. So then, Miss Beany tells Daddy that I stayed after school to get help from her. Why’d she go and do that? Why’d she fib for me?”

  “Do you think, Pixie, that maybe Miss Beany figured you’d had enough bad luck for one day—maybe for one month—one year?” he said, chewing on a piece of wheat that moved when he tal
ked. “Do you think just maybe she felt bad about adding to your bad luck by forgettin’ you in that closet?”

  I wasn’t sure if Granddaddy wanted me to answer his questions or not, so I stayed quiet.

  “You know,” he added, “sometimes we decide who someone is long before they have a chance to show us who they really are. Do you think maybe she’s just a nice lady?”

  Now, I’ve been told I have a good imagination. It’s easy for me to imagine conversations between animals. It’s easy for me to imagine I can sprout wings and fly. And of course, it’s easy for me to imagine funny names for people. But asking me to imagine Miss Meany-Beany actually being nice, after all this time spent believing she was mean, was too much. But before I could answer, Granddaddy and I both heard the screen door creak open, and out walked Grandma with her arms folded across her chest.

  “Now, if you want to see what mean looks like”— Granddaddy chuckled—“make your grandma wait a little longer for those eggs.”

  I got up and brushed the dirt off my backside and then reached for the basket.

  “It’s all gonna be okay, Pixie.” Granddaddy said that like he was talking about more than just Miss Beany.

  I gave Granddaddy a smile so he wouldn’t worry about me, but any hint of a smile disappeared when I opened the double doors of the henhouse.

  “Twinkle, twinkle, little star . . .” I sang as loud as I could to scare the darn chickens as I waved the empty egg basket in the air. Most of the fifty hens flew off their perches. Not wasting a second, I ran to their empty spots and started collecting the eggs as fast as I could.

  And then I looked at her: the old fat hen I’d named Teacher, since she always acted like she was in charge of me. She stared at me with her beady eyes and puffed up her feathery chest, daring me to try to get her egg.

  I decided I wasn’t going to let her win this one. Especially not after the day I’d had.

  I knew Charlotte was never afraid of Teacher. She’d march right up to her, put one firm hand on Teacher’s head, and reach under that old hen with her other hand, grabbing the egg like it was nothing at all.

  That was one of the many reasons I wanted to be like Charlotte. But all that was just a painful reminder I wasn’t at all like my sissy. And it was extra painful when I reached under that old hen as fast as I could to try and grab that egg only to have that dang bird start pecking my hand like it was her dinner.

  I pulled my hand back, but not before one of the pecks drew a pinpoint of blood. That was it! She could keep that rotten egg for all I cared. I wasn’t going to have my hand used for chicken feed. I gathered the rest of the warm eggs and headed back to the house, knowing good and well I deserved all these bad things and so much more.

  CHAPTER 6

  When Sunday morning rolled around, I woke up and smiled, remembering today was the day I was going to finally get to visit Charlotte!

  Right after church, Grandma packed a lunch for Granddaddy, Daddy, and me to take with us on our trip. She claimed she had too many chores to join us, but I suspected she didn’t like being in a car for that long.

  There’s one main road that runs between the farm and the hospital. Granddaddy warned it wasn’t just a stone’s throw away, the distance he gives most things, but even knowing that, it seemed like we were never going to get there.

  I watched out my car window, seeing leaves blowing everywhere and thinking how fast the weather had changed from blazin’ hot to downright cool in only a couple of days. Beside me was a brown bag full of Charlotte’s favorite oatmeal cookies, and I tried to picture her eating one.

  These days, I would often close my eyes to picture Charlotte doing things. I did that same thing to remember Mama, but each time it got harder and harder, and I wasn’t going to let that happen with my sissy.

  I closed my eyes tight and held my breath even tighter, hoping that might make it easier to see her.

  It worked! I let my breath out, sounding like I’d sprung a leak.

  I still remembered.

  But I needed to see my sissy soon. “Are we there yet?”

  “Yep. We’re here,” Granddaddy joked. “Don’t ya see Charlotte standing on the side of the road right there?”

  I didn’t laugh. “Why is the hospital so far?”

  Daddy spoke this time. “Riley Hospital is one of the best in the nation for treating polio. When the county hospital realized that’s what she had, they moved her to Riley, where she can get the best treatment. We’re lucky.”

  Lucky isn’t a word I’d use to describe any of this. Still, I could imagine Charlotte saying the same thing. She acted like every day was a wrapped-up present just waiting for her to open and see what was inside.

  Finally, the empty, endless road began to show signs of civilization. There was a sign for Indianapolis, and soon we started passing what had to be some of the most beautiful houses I ever did see.

  And then I saw the sign saying “Riley Hospital for Children.” It was the prettiest building yet. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was a castle, covered in more windows than I’d ever seen in my life.

  Daddy parked the car and told Granddaddy and me to have our lunch while he went in to talk to the nurses.

  I had just swallowed my last bite of fried chicken when Daddy came back with a look on his face that couldn’t hide how upset he was. Truth be told, Daddy’s never been able to hide it when he’s not happy. And since Mama died, that’s pretty near every day.

  “What’s wrong, Daddy?” I asked.

  “I guess . . . Charlotte’s not up for visitors just yet.”

  I gasped. “So we drove all this way and can’t see her?”

  Daddy tried to smile. “No—I mean . . . yes . . . we can see her—just not face-to-face. We’re going to go over by the Family Center area, where there’s floor-to-ceiling windows. We have to stay outside, but we can at least wave at her through the window. Won’t that be nice?” His voice cracked a bit when he said that.

  Waving at Charlotte through a window wasn’t at all what I’d been dreaming of, and it sure didn’t sound like much of a reunion. The thought of one more day of not being with my sissy made my eyes sting. But blinking those tears away, I reminded myself I was closer to my sissy than I had been for a long time. I took a little bit of comfort in that.

  We walked over to an area full of empty benches and sat down. Then we stared up at the long window like we were in a movie theater, waiting for a picture show to start. ’Course, lately all the movie theaters had closed down, because everybody was worried about getting polio. Some people say you get it from dark places like the theater, but that’s not where Charlotte got her polio. Some people say you can’t know for certain where anybody catches it, but I do.

  I know exactly where Charlotte got it. And I know exactly whose fault it is.

  Just as I was stewing in my thoughts, a gust of wind blew on my legs, making me wish I had on my overalls instead of my church dress. But before I could rub my goose bumps away, a nurse in a white uniform and a white cap appeared at the window. She waved to us and then gestured at someone else coming into the room.

  And then I saw her. I saw Charlotte!

  She sat in a wheelchair with her yellow hair pulled back off her face, and was wearing a sweater and a blanket over her lap. She waved at us, and I leaped off the bench and waved back, with both my arms over my head. Then I jumped up and down for her, and even somersaulted in the grass. I heard Granddaddy chuckle and imagined Charlotte chuckling too.

  Then I stopped and really looked at her. My sissy. My Charlotte.

  She looked at me and raised her hand to the glass and rested it there.

  How could she be so close to me but feel so far away?

  I reached out my hand like there was even a smidge of a chance I could feel her palm. I don’t know how long I stood there like that, but my arm was getting stiff
when I heard Daddy announce, “We probably should be headin’ back.”

  After blowing more kisses than I could count and catching a couple kisses that Charlotte managed to blow, we got back in the car.

  “Wait—we can’t go!” I yelled.

  “Pixie, it’s no use.” Granddaddy sounded sad when he spoke. “We can’t be with her today, no matter how much we want to.”

  “Not that.” I shook my head as I held up the brown bag. “We forgot her cookies.”

  Daddy nodded. “Can’t forget the best medicine, can we?” He took the bag and headed back into the hospital while me and Granddaddy waited in the car, pretending our sniffling was only due to the cold weather.

  CHAPTER 7

  When Daddy returned, he started the car for the long trip home. But before putting it in gear, he looked at me in the back seat and handed me an envelope with my name written on it. In Charlotte’s handwriting!

  She wrote me a letter!

  I didn’t want to open my letter yet. I wanted to be by myself when I did, and Daddy and Granddaddy must’ve understood, since they didn’t question me.

  Holding it close, I noticed something odd about it. “Why does it feel a little wet?”

  “As a precaution,” Daddy told me, “they steam everything that comes from a patient’s room, gettin’ rid of any possible germs.”

  Even though the damp letter felt strange to my touch, I held it gentle on my lap the whole way home, as if I was holding a newborn baby.

  As soon as we got home, I jumped out of the car. Tearing through the porch door, I let it slam behind me. All I cared about was getting to my room to read my letter.

  I heard Grandma calling—probably to lecture me—but her calling stopped after the sound of Granddaddy’s voice. I sat on my bottom bunk, but something didn’t feel right, so I climbed up to Charlotte’s bunk.

  Even without a mattress, it felt right to be on her bed.