Dinah
Coleman poked at a few boxes, but we needed knives to open ‘em. “Stinks in here,” Coleman said, wrinkling her nose.
Miss Ida coughed again. “Smells bad, honey, not stinks,” she said in a hoarse voice. “But I agree. It’s damp and moldy, and I think a mouse died.”
“Let’s us go home,” Coleman said.
Aunt Polly frowned. “Coleman, this is your house, and these are your belongings. We have to decide what to do with everything, so they can sell the house.”
“Mr. Sherrill said we could move things to our house. Let’s us move everything,” Coleman said.
Aunt Polly looked shocked. “But Coleman, that will be a terrible extravagance. A lot of this stuff is probably trash, and after we look at it, we’ll have to pay to have it taken away. No need to move it first and pay twice. There could be two or three big van loads of things here, and the movers will have to come from Wilmington—that will be very expensive. We’ll need to have a yard sale, and we shouldn’t waste money moving things we’re going to sell—the sale should be here outside the house. But we’ll have to get some help with the yard—” She broke off. She sounded tired just talkin’ about all there was to do.
“This place is makin’ Miss Ida sick. Listen to her coughin’. And look at Dinah. She’s pale as a ha’nt,” Coleman said.
Aunt Polly turned to look at me. “Haunt or ghost,” she said to Coleman, but I could tell from her face I must have looked as bad as I felt. I was sick to my stomach from the smell, and like Miss Ida, havin’ trouble breathing. I wanted to leave mighty bad, but Aunt Polly was right: we had work to do.
“We’ll ask Mr. Sherrill to get all this stuff packed up and sent to our house,” Coleman said, with that stubborn look she gets. “We won’t have any movers and trucks comin’ out here from Wilmington, either. I’ve figured out just how to do it.”
My heart, which had sunk down to my toes when I thought about spending weeks clearing this house, jumped back up to my chest, then settled down. That’s exactly what Coleman said about the produce stand: she’d figured out just how to do it. I believed her, too. She was always comin’ up with things I never would have thought of. That child is some smart, and good as gold with it.
“I’ve seen lots of farmers ‘round here with mules and wagons. They can pack us and move us—it won’t cost much. No sense payin’ big-city movers to do it,” Coleman said.
“But Coleman, they’re busy farming,” Aunt Polly protested.
“They can work here nights when it’s cool. Their families can help, and with a bunch of folks workin’, it won’t take long. The money for the move will stay around here, not go off to Wilmington. We’ll have the sale at our house, where people come to buy from the stand, and to see you and Miss Ida, and where the yard is shady and cool, and looks nice. Our place don’t look haunted or smell terrible. Nobody will want to come to this house. Let’s us go home,” Coleman said.
“Not don’t, doesn’t,” Aunt Polly said, but she stopped arguing. I could tell she wanted to get away from that house as much as Miss Ida and Coleman and I did. Anyway, Coleman was right: the money for movin’ should stay in the county, and a sale would go a whole lot better at Four Oaks than here. And the people packin’ us up would tell the world about the yard sale. They’d be better than ads in the paper or on the radio.
Everybody had to talk it over, and Miss Ida had to ask Aunt Mary Louise what she thought, but I knew Aunt Mary Louise would agree with Coleman, and she did. Coleman asked if she could call Mr. Sherrill about it, and Miss Ida said she could. I don’t know what either one of ‘em said, but Coleman came back smiling. It was settled.
Sarah Ann volunteered to organize the move, and she got it goin’ quick. We sat on the porch evenings, watching the wagons roll empty on their way to Fairways and coming back crammed full. The lightnin’ bugs flashed all around us, copyin’ the stars in the dark sky, while men and boys stored the furniture in the barn and the boxes in our empty rooms upstairs. The night smells—the river, the piney woods, the honeysuckle—and the night sounds—frogs and owls and a splash in the river now and then when some critter caught a late supper—were all around us.
Everybody workin’ stopped in for a glass of tea or lemonade before they went home. They all came again every evening until the job was finished. After five nights, Fairways was empty, and the boxes and furniture were where we could get at ‘em and breathe clean air while we unpacked.
Miss Olivia’s good china and silver were long gone, but the kitchen cupboards were stuffed with old dishes and pots and pans and such. All of them will go in the yard sale with most of the furniture. We’re movin’ a few of Miss Olivia’s things to our room: a white-painted desk and chair that belonged to Coleman’s mother for Coleman to use for schoolwork, a beat-up bookcase where we’ll keep our books (Miss Ida said we can paint it and the other old furniture white, including the table I’ve been usin’ as a desk), night stands for either side of the bed, and a pair of china lamps with pink roses on ‘em. The lamps don’t work, but the big Atkins boys are electricians—they have a shop downtown—and they can fix ‘em. The lamp shades are dirty, but Aunt Polly says she’ll show me how to clean ‘em.
Most of the boxes are full up with fabric Aunt Olivia put away to make clothes and slipcovers an’ all—there’s so much, we could open a store. She’d packed up lots of clothes, too; she must have kept everything she ever owned. Dresses and coats and suits and nightgowns and robes and slacks and sweaters, and I don’t know what all, and hundreds of books.
We dusted the books and put them on the shelves in the room the Judge—that’s what everybody calls my granddaddy—used as his office. Aunt Polly said he kept his law books on the shelves when he worked in there, but they went to my daddy when the Judge died and were sold to help pay bills after Daddy was killed. Miss Ida said the Judge’s office was the library in the olden days, and she likes seein’ it full of books again. She’s already calling it “the library.”
Mr. Sherrill came out and looked at the books. He said some were valuable, and after discussin’ ‘em with Miss Ida and Aunt Polly, he took some away to sell. He and Coleman talked a long time, and after he left, she said Mr. Sherrill was arrangin’ to have Aunt Olivia’s freezer put in our kitchen and our old one in the produce stand so we can sell frozen food. Aunt Olivia’s sewing machine is comin’ to our house, ‘cause Coleman wants it for her own, and to learn how to use it. The other Fairways appliances will be installed in our kitchen—we’ll sell ours at the yard sale—and he’s sendin’ somebody over to hook up the TV in the library. Aunt Polly shook her head and said it was an extravagance, but Miss Ida is happy over it. I thought maybe she was looking forward to seein’ the news and such, but she told me it was about watchin’ picture shows—she used to go to the shows, and she loved ‘em, but she hasn’t been to see one in years. I’m so excited I can hardly stand it. I’ve seen a few picture shows at school, and now we can watch ‘em on TV, and we’ll look in the paper every day to see what’s playing.
When Aunt Polly and Coleman unpacked the clothes, they looked like Christmas morning after Santa’s been. They shook things out, unfolded some, hung some up, and folded others. They laid things aside for the yard sale, but a lot of it they kept for us. I think we’re all about to get new clothes. I can hardly wait.
Coleman talked to Aunt Mary Louise about Aunt Polly’s sewing room, and two big Byrd boys came over, knocked down a wall between the sewing room and the bedroom next door, and doubled the size of the room. They put in shelves to store the fabric and painted the walls cream color. With two machines and a lot of space and everything handy, Coleman and Aunt Polly can sew together and have the best time, like Miss Ida and me in the kitchen. They’re making curtains for the room, and the boys hung two big ol’ mirrors—kinda shadowy, but good enough—from the Fairways attic for when people come for fittings. It looks real nice.
Mr. Sherrill brought Coleman a box full of pictures of her grann
y and granddaddy, and her Mama and Daddy when they were children, and when they were in school, and when they got married. He said there are some family letters and papers in the box, too, and best of all, he brought her a big Bible with all her family names in it. He showed where Aunt Olivia had written Coleman’s name when she was born.
Coleman put her finger on her name and looked up all big-eyed at Mr. Sherrill. “This is my birthday? December twenty?”
We all stared at her. Mr. Sherrill spoke first. “You didn’t know, Coleman?”
“No, sir. That Gloria told me how old I am, but she didn’t know my birthday. I guess nobody did, ‘cept Daddy, an’ he never said. When people asked me, like at Head Start, I made up a birthday.”
I nearly cried. Five years old and never had a birthday party. Never even had a birthday. I didn’t know what to say, but Aunt Ida spoke up. “Honey, I wish I’d known you didn’t know. I’d have told you. Your birthday is in our Bible, too. Well, never mind. You’ll be six on December twentieth, and we’ll have a big party.”
Coleman clapped her hands. “Oh, yes, let’s us do that. You’ll come, won’t you, Mr. Sherrill?”
He laughed and said he wouldn’t miss it for the world. I believe he’d do anything for Coleman. You can tell he likes her a lot, and she likes him, too.
It was good to see the last of the cartons and trash go out with Mr. Joseph, the garbage man; he’ll take it in his cart to the county dump. We aired out the house to get rid of the nasty mold smell that came in with some of the Fairways stuff and turned to cleanin’ up and making sure the house smelled good again. I cut roses and honeysuckle and magnolias—everything I could find that smelled good—to put in jars and bowls around the house. The Herb Lady must have heard about our smell problem, ‘cause she dropped off some of her potpourri that Miss Ida loves, and some scented candles. Pretty soon the downstairs smelled good again, not just the kitchen, which is always full of delicious cookin’ odors. What with soap and flowers and all, every room, even the ghost’y ones, smells good.
Miss Ida and Aunt Polly picked out a sofa and a pair of stuffed chairs from Fairways to make a sitting area in the library where we’ll watch TV. Aunt Polly and Coleman are making slipcovers and curtains out of dark red fabric from one of Miss Olivia’s boxes. That room’s going to look beautiful. The new kitchen things, and Coleman’s and my room fixed up, and now a brand-new sitting room—it’s like havin’ a whole new house! Every night and most mornings, I thank God for our many blessings, ‘specially for Coleman’s comin’ home.
Mr. Sherrill told us to go ahead with the yard sale, so we picked a Saturday, and some of the children in the neighborhood came over, and we made posters. We put ‘em up everywhere—all along the road and at all the stores. Sarah Ann and her friends are arrangin’ and pricin’ stuff. Sarah Ann says we should make sure we have plenty to eat at the produce stand on the day, so the last three days before the sale, Miss Ida and I cooked and baked from dark till dark—cookies, cakes, pies. Real early on the day of the sale, we made chicken salad and ham sandwiches. I never saw so much food. I thought we might have fixed too much, but Sarah Ann said not. “They’ll eat every bite,” she promised. “You’ll think a swarm of locusts has been through here.”
The big Byrd boys built an add-on at the back of the produce stand for our old freezer and refrigerator, and put Aunt Olivia’s nicer things in our kitchen. Wilbur and Jay Atkins, the electricians, hooked up everything. We froze chunks of ice and on Saturday mornin’ put it in washtubs for watermelons. We stuffed the freezer with frozen corn and peaches and strawberries and all kinds of vegetables and got throwaway freezer bags so people could take the food home without it thawin’. We fixed iced tea and lemonade and put that in the fridge, too, and some more in the fridge in the house.
The day of the sale was sunny and real hot; the radio said it would be in the nineties by noon. The cars started pullin’ up before we were ready, and they parked all up and down the road, and all the way into the drive and yard at Fairways. Sarah Ann had rounded up a bunch of boys to help with the parkin’, and they ran around like chickens with their heads chopped off. Peter got so excited and barked so much we had to shut him in the bedroom for a “time out.”
We worked like beavers all day, and we sold every single thing! At four thirty, Sarah Ann and her friends cut the prices on everything that hadn’t sold, and the last rags, tags, and bobtails went. The parking boys picked up all the trash, and by six, the yard was clean as a whistle. The produce stand was empty, even with folks runnin’ home and fetching stuff from their pantries and freezers all day. I’d never been so tired, and Coleman said she was, too. Aunt Polly helped us bathe and heard our prayers. I went to sleep so quick, I didn’t even get to listen to the frogs.
Polly
I haven’t been to a movie since Dinah’s father died, nearly seven years ago. The nearest theatre is miles away, we don’t have a car, and we’ve never had any money to spare. But we can watch movies at home now, and I’m as excited as the children.
The first picture show we watched was called The Water of Life. It sounded religious, and it was. It certainly confirmed everything Coleman’s said about the demon drink. It was about a man who’s an alcoholic. He ruins his life and his family’s lives with his drinking. When he has a car wreck and nearly kills someone, he repents, joins Alcoholics Anonymous, and turns to the church for healing and salvation.
Coleman never took her eyes off that screen. I’m sure it brought up painful memories, but what fascinated her most was the man’s baptism. In the film, the preacher immerses him in a tub behind the altar in the church—that’s how the show ended.
When it was over, Coleman looked puzzled. “They don’t do that duckin’ in water in the Methodist Church,” she said. “Do they do it in the Presbyterian Church, Miss Ida?”
Ida shook her head. “No, I don’t think we ever did. But some churches still do.”
“Why do they do it?”
“Some people believe that Jesus wanted his children to go through that ceremony — immersion — to wash all his or her sins away. But other churches just sprinkle water on a person’s head to symbolize baptism,” Ida explained.
Coleman seemed satisfied, but she looked serious. I wondered what she was thinking. I didn’t have long to wait for an answer.
Before we had time to settle down after the sale, or to get used to watching TV, or got the sewing room organized, or anything we’d planned, we had an upset. Coleman had a disagreement with Clara Hatley, who runs the children’s choir at the Methodist Church. Coleman wanted to sing in the choir, and Clara turned her down—she said Coleman doesn’t sing well enough. Apparently Coleman had something to say about that, and Clara is coming over tomorrow to talk to Miss Ida. She says Coleman sassed her.
I don’t like Clara—never have. She has the tongue of a viper and acts like she thinks she’s Queen Victoria—but if Coleman sassed her, Coleman will have to apologize, and I guess we’ll have to punish her. Drat Clara Hatley, anyway. Why couldn’t she have let the child sing? The Lord won’t mind if a child is a little off-key.
Dinah
I kept my fingers crossed that Miss Ida would see Miss Hatley in the sittin’ room or the kitchen because the big chimney in the center of the house goes right through our room, and if Coleman and I go up there and stay real quiet, we can hear what they’re sayin’ downstairs. We can’t hear a word if they sit on the screened porch, which they might, ‘cause it’s so hot.
When Miss Hatley rang the bell, I answered the door. She was wearin’ a dark blue church dress and a matchin’ hat. She must be real mad at Coleman, dressin’ up like that on a hot Tuesday mornin’. She has permed hair, and it stuck out funny-like under the hat, and she wears perfume that smells like Juicy Fruit chewin’ gum. We’re not allowed to chew gum—Miss Ida says it makes even the prettiest woman look like a cow chewin’ a cud—but I’d know that icky smell anywhere, because children at school chew it at recess, and in class, too, if
they don’t get caught.
Coleman told me she doesn’t know why Miss Hatley took against her. She promises she didn’t sass her. “I don’t like Miss Hatley, but I wouldn’t shame Miss Ida and Aunt Polly and you by talkin’ back to her,” she said. Nobody likes Miss Hatley. She’s mean as a ‘gator and has hissy fits over nothing. She looks like a duck that’s mad about something. She has a long neck and a big nose and beady little eyes. She even waddles instead of walking like a person. But if she was nice, nobody’d care how she looks. There’s people living around here, plain as can be, maybe even ugly, and people love ‘em, ‘cause they’re so nice. That’s what Aunt Polly means when she says “pretty is as pretty does.” I believe it, too.
Miss Ida and Aunt Polly received her in the sitting room, not in the kitchen or on the porch, where they visit with friends, and they didn’t offer her anything but coffee or iced tea. If Miss Ida felt friendly toward her, she’d have served cake or cookies.
Coleman and I listened hard, but Miss Hatley only repeated what she’d told Miss Ida on the phone: she said she’d told Coleman that she couldn’t sing well enough for the choir, and Coleman had talked back.
“I’m surprised to hear that. Coleman is usually very polite. What exactly did Coleman say?” Miss Ida asked. She sounded sweet as pie, but I could tell she was annoyed.
“I don’t recall her exact words, but she was very rude,” Miss Hatley said, snippy-like.
We heard Miss Ida get up and come toward the door. She called up the stairs. “Coleman? Honey, would you come in here a minute?”
“Yes, ma’am, I’m comin’,” Coleman said, running down the stairs.
“Honey, come on in here. Say hello to Miss Hatley, Coleman, and then tell me what you said to her about singing in the choir.”
Angels Page 5
