Color the Sidewalk for Me

by Brandilyn Collins

  “Are you sure it’s okay?”

  “Why shouldn’t it be okay?” he said sharply.

  Suddenly it was the same old Danny, with a challenge in his eye and a chip on his shoulder. It startled me, his acting like that now. Not that our hug meant we liked each other or anything, but I certainly didn’t deserve his school-yard-fight cockiness. I opened my mouth to retort, but he looked away, neck stiffened, and in a flash I was back on the school playground in fifth grade, gaping with my friends at his balled fists and blood-spattered shirt.

  “This is a stinkin’ town,” Danny had leered at me that day, “and when I’m old enough, I’m gittin’ out of it.”

  “It’s not this town that’s stinkin’, Danny Cander!” Gerald Henley had huffed. “It’s the smell a your daddy, ’cause he’s always drunk!”

  Gerald was short and stout and known for his clumsiness. He was an idiot to spout off to Danny like that, and the minute he shouted the words, his pasty face blanched with fear. Like a bolt of lightning Danny’s fist shot out and smashed him in the nose. Gerald yelled in pain, blood spurting through his splayed fingers. Danny stood his ground, glaring down at him.

  “Don’t you ever say a word about my daddy again.”

  It was the tone of his voice—quiet, shaking—that caused me to ignore Gerald’s howls and gaze wide-eyed at Danny. Suddenly I saw him differently. It wasn’t hatred or anger that had made him hit sissy Gerald, I realized; it was shame.

  That same expression was now narrowing his mouth and eyes. If you didn’t recognize its essence, you’d think he was angry. I supposed in a way he was—angry that for all his life he’d had to battle for the honor of a drunken father. Guilt flushed through me as I realized how hard it was for Danny to invite us to his house. I wasn’t thrilled about going, either, but I would never let him know that.

  Brushing wet dirt off my shorts, I said, “Let’s get started, then.”

  Kevy protested having to move but I pushed him to his feet. “Danny, can you get under his other arm? I don’t think he’s good for much, are you, Kevy?”

  “N–no.” He managed a teeth-chattering smile. “Not m–much.”

  It’s amazing how long a half mile can seem under such circumstances. Danny offered to carry Kevy, but I said, “No, you’re already exhausted; if you fall over, what am I supposed to do, carry you both?” I spoke lightly, smiling at him, hoping he understood the message beneath my words. He shrugged but I saw in his eyes that he’d heard me.

  We moved on either side of Kevy, Danny’s arm around my brother’s back, brushing against my side as we began to half drag him along.

  “Just go upriver,” Danny pointed with his chin, “back to where we were fishin’. There’s a path there that cuts through the field to my house.”

  In a few minutes we reached the spot where Kevy had fallen from Jake’s Rock. “What about our stuff?” I asked, spotting the tackle box, bucket, and poles.

  “I’ll git it later.” Danny urged us toward the path through the daisy-covered field. It seemed to stretch endlessly.

  All those years, I marveled, I’d been fishing near the path that led to Danny Cander’s house. I couldn’t explain why that made me feel so strange. Maybe it was because our worlds had always seemed so far apart, when they really weren’t at all. Yet in one sense they would always be far apart, Danny’s daddy being the target of town gossip while my family was respected. What did it matter that I was Thomas Bradley’s grandgirl and Danny was a Cander? Shouldn’t people be judged by their own actions? And didn’t God tell us not to judge at all?

  We trudged in silence for another ten minutes, the path leading us toward a grove of trees. “My house isn’t too far from the other side,” Danny told Kevy. My brother was panting hard but at least his lungs were working. My hands ached from supporting him, and I knew Danny’s arms must be terribly tired after his hard swimming. Finally we reached the cool shade of the trees. When we emerged on the other side, Danny announced, “See, Kevin, there it is.”

  It was still a hundred feet away, but Kevy’s spirits picked up at the sight of the ramshackle white wood house. To its left rose an old red barn, paint peeling, separating the yard from a cornfield and pasture. In the barn’s shadow chickens clucked in a lean-to henhouse. As we approached Danny’s house, I could see that its long front porch was scattered with dozens of tools, a wound-up rope, battered shoes, a couple of sweat-stained hats, and three rusted, saggy-bottomed iron chairs, their cushions a faded red. The front door was open. We reached the porch steps, and through the screen door I could just make out a bare hallway and staircase, its banister scratched and worn. Exhaling my relief, I felt a rush of sympathy for Danny.

  “Just sit here for a second. I’ll get Mama.” Gently Danny pushed Kevy into a chair, his eyes drifting nervously through the door. I sank wearily next to my brother, unsure if my worry about seeing Danny’s daddy was for my sake or Danny’s. “Thank you so much,” I said, my eyes closing.

  Not a minute later Danny’s mama was hustling toward us, worry lines in her forehead, her brown hair falling astray from a bun as she wrapped her arms around Kevy. Her voice was soft as a cotton ball as she murmured his name, her face sun-weathered, cheeks gently rounded. Full of concern, her large eyes were green like Danny’s. Something within me twinged as I imagined Mama looking at me the way she fussed over my brother. Efficiently she helped him to a front bedroom and began to undress him. I followed, wondering where her husband was and jumping when Danny appeared, carrying a cup of hot chicken broth.

  “Thank you, honey.” Mrs. Cander had fluffed three pillows for Kevy to lie against, his face pale against their dark blue cases. “Drink this, Kevin; it’ll warm you up.” She glanced at me. “You better call your mama. The phone’s in the kitchen.”

  I held her eyes for a moment, my insides stirring. I wanted to capture the scene as she turned back to Kevy, one roughened hand sliding gently under his neck, the other holding the dirt brown mug, a small chip showing white at its base. She was wearing a green-and-white checked, long nubby skirt with a plain blouse half untucked. “Come now, Kevin, take a drink,” she urged.

  If I’d had any doubts about my brother’s welfare, they spun away as I watched her nurse him. Quietly I slipped from the room.

  I As I reached for the phone on the yellowed counter, I was struck by what I was about to do. Perched in a metal chair with a green vinyl cushion gaping at the seam, Danny watched me pensively. He hadn’t changed from his still-damp jeans, although he’d obeyed his mama’s hurried whisper to “be proper and get a shirt on.”

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  I met his gaze, my hand on the receiver. How to answer him, when I was unsure of my own thoughts? It was . . . awkward, our two families about to mix like this. I was afraid of what Mama would say. Would she ask what Danny Cander had been doing with us at the river? Trekking through that daisy-laden field, I’d begun to question Bradleyville’s seeming prejudice. God was loving and forgiving, judging each person individually. At least that’s what I’d come to understand, from teachings both at home and in our church. No one had a right to judge Danny just because he’d been a troublemaker as a young kid. Who wouldn’t be, in his situation?

  And there was another problem. I fretted about Mama blaming me for Kevy’s accident. Would she carry her anger to Danny’s house, its blaze licking around the long skirt of Danny’s mama, who was so tenderly taking care of my brother? I dreaded Mama’s comparison with Mrs. Cander, didn’t want Danny to know what was lacking in my own home. And then I realized I was cringing at the smallest inkling of what he must have felt all these years about his daddy.

  “I’m afraid she’ll blame me.”

  His look was quizzical. “You helped save him.”

  “Yes, but Mama . . . loves Kevy a lot. And she and I don’t get along so well.”

  He searched my face. “That’s not really why, is it?”

  That weight on his shoulder was more than a chip.
“Danny,” I said, “don’t.”

  Firmly I picked up the receiver.

  Daddy’s car scattered gravel as it scratched to a stop in Danny’s driveway. Mama spilled out of it first to hasten up the porch steps, followed by Daddy and Granddad. In her arms was a bundle of dry clothing for Kevy. “Where is he?” she demanded breathlessly as Danny opened the door.

  “In there with Mama.” He pointed toward the bedroom, sliding me a look as she brushed past.

  Mrs. Cander stood aside as Mama sank down on the edge of the bed, leaning over to hug Kevy, fingers smoothing his forehead. Granddad clasped Mrs. Cander’s hand, thanking her profusely and proclaiming Danny’s bravery. I had made it very clear during my phone call that it was Danny who had saved Kevy from the rapids, with my help only at the end. Daddy started to shake Danny’s hand, then embraced him awkwardly, mumbling that God himself had placed him at the river in time. Mama gently began helping Kevy into his dry clothes.

  After a few minutes Dr. Richardson’s long gray car slid behind ours in the driveway, throwing up dust. Mama hovered at the foot of the bed, hands pressed against her lips, as Doc Richardson listened to Kevy’s chest. Putting a cheek to Mama’s, Mrs. Cander murmured how glad she was that Kevy seemed all right, and slipped from the room. Danny turned to leave as well but Granddad laid a hand on his arm.

  “I think he’ll be fine, Estelle,” the doctor said quietly, removing the stethoscope. “But I want to keep him in the hospital for a day or two just to make sure his lungs stay clear. Otherwise pneumonia could set in.”

  I stood back and watched it all, stealing glances at Danny, imagining the feel of Mama’s caresses upon Kevy as she motioned for Daddy to pick him up. We all followed as Kevy was carried to our car, Mama finally thanking Danny. She could not find the words, she breathed, to tell him of her gratitude. He had saved her son’s life and she would never forget it. Danny accepted her thanks humbly, repeating, as he had to Granddad and Daddy, that he could not have done it alone. They’d have both died, he declared, if I hadn’t rescued them at the last minute. Only then—and after Kevy had been tenderly deposited in the backseat of the car—did Mama turn to me.

  “Celia,” she said, her hands alighting on my shoulders, “you did a brave, wonderful thing today. . . .” The words trailed away, her chin quivering.

  My throat tightened. I could not remember feeling so close to her. I wanted to throw my arms around her, wanted us to bask in each other’s relieved comfort. But all I could manage was the smallest of nods. Abruptly her hands pulled away, leaving spots of warmth on my shoulders.

  “We need to be going.” Her voice was gruff. “We’ll be followin’ Doc Richardson to the hospital.”

  Climbing into the backseat, she put an arm around Kevy and drew his head to her chest.

  chapter 10

  By Sunday the whole town was chattering about Kevy’s near drowning, no doubt fueled by magpie Eva Bellingham, who ran the post office and knew everything about everybody. Mrs. B. was known in town as a godly “prayer warrior,” but I harbored my own opinions of her. Unfortunately—and inexplicably—she was Mama’s closest friend, even though Mrs. B. was a good twenty years older. Worse, she had an indirect connection with Danny. Miss Jessie, the orphaned niece whom Mr. and Mrs. B. had raised, was married to Lee Harding. Miss Jessie owned a sewing shop down by Tull’s, and everyone loved her. I often baby-sat her three kids.

  Monday morning Danny and I were the talk of school. Kevy was still in the hospital; we hoped he would be released that afternoon. Daddy had taken a rare day off his accounting job at Sledges’ Farm Equipment in Albertsville to stay with him and Mama at the hospital.

  Students and teachers alike inquired about Kevy’s health, all saying that they were praying for his full recovery. Then my friends’ expressions would change, announcing a new path of thought. Depending upon how close our friendship, the questions varied somewhat. On the way to school Melissa had demanded every titillating detail, assuming that being my best friend gave her the right. Melissa was still very much the same as when we were six—small for her age, constantly moving, fun-loving, bubbly. She often made me laugh yet was the first person I’d turn to if I needed a good cry. My fights with Mama were a repeated topic of our conversations. Melissa in turn would mourn about her worries over being so short and small-figured. “The boys look at me like I’m their little sister,” she’d breathe in disgust, tossing brown hair out of her eyes. Then she’d laugh, lest she sound too morose.

  But that morning her giggling invitation to gossip, her pixie face tilted toward me, was suddenly irritating. Just last Friday she’d whispered in similar stance about Bobby, her eyebrows arched, and I’d responded, breathless with feigned rapture. Then we’d laughed and laughed, delight sailing over our shoulders toward Randy and Bobby walking behind us. But I had no desire to giggle about Danny with anyone; what had happened between us was too personal, too real.

  Mona Tesch caught me at my locker between classes. “Goodness, Celia, Danny Cander,” she said, brown eyes round behind thick lenses. Because of her short, squat figure, the boys called her Stump behind her back. Her report cards were always full of A’s, and she prided herself on an extensive vocabulary. “What was it like pullin’ him out of the water? You must have been apoplectic.”

  I slid my math book onto the shelf and took out a history text. “He pulled himself out, Mona; he’s the one who rescued Kevy.”

  “Yeah, but I heard he was so exhausted, you had to save them both.”

  Mona tended to stick out her tongue like a panting dog when she was excited. That and her curly white-blond head reminded me more of a distressed poodle than a stump.

  “Did you have to do mouth-to-mouth on Danny too?”

  I was getting tired of these conversations. Banging shut my locker door, I tried to keep my voice neutral. “No. He was fine. I just took care of Kevy.”

  “So nothin’ happened?”

  “Nothin’ happened? Danny saved my brother’s life. I don’t call that nothin’.”

  “I know, but—”

  “I gotta get to class, Mona.”

  Not five minutes later, before history started, a hawkeyed Miss Fleming was remarking, “Isn’t it wonderful that Danny happened to come along at just the right time.” She was much relieved when I said, “Yes, it is.” Heaven forbid, Miss Fleming, that Danny and I had actually been talking on the riverbank before Kevy needed our help.

  The boys in my class—Lyle, Randy, Kenneth, and especially Gerald, with his pudgy cheeks and know-it-all attitude—were looking at me askance, mouths twisted as they shared their viewpoints in low tones. Bobby was so jealous that he wouldn’t talk to me, knitting his thick eyebrows and staring woodenly at the floor when I walked by.

  By third hour it was hard to concentrate as Mr. Leam diagrammed sentences on the board. Doodling flower petals on my paper, I worried about Danny. If I was catching this much flak, what about him? Were teachers praising him with their mouths while their eyes accused, “Just why were you hangin’ around the river, watchin’ Celia Matthews?” When the bell finally rang, I hurried for the door, intent on talking to Danny even if it meant appearing obvious.

  My math teacher, Mr. Rose, stopped me in the hall, students chattering as they flowed around us. “Hey, Celia, I heard about Kevin. Hope he’s all right.”

  “Thank you. He’ll be fine. Probably come home soon.”

  “That’s good news.”

  I waited for the inevitable question, clasping my books and peering up at Mr. Rose, who was well over six feet. He had worked at the school as long as I could remember, his hair turning gray in the process. Amid the slamming of locker doors and thumping of feet, I flashed again to that playground scene five years ago when Gerald Henley’s blood sprayed across Danny’s white shirt. Mr. Rose had broken up the fight and was gunning for Danny when I heard myself protest, “It wasn’t all his fault; Gerald called his daddy a drunk.” Compassion had flicked across Mr. Rose’s face, and he�
�d hauled both boys into the office for three-day suspensions. My friends had been incensed at me.

  “It’s only because of Danny,” I blurted now. “Kevy would’ve gone through the rapids if it hadn’t been for him.” My cheeks flushed as the defensive remark rang in my ears, and I knew Mr. Rose understood more than I’d uttered. But he only smiled.

  “God used him. I’m glad he was there,” he said simply and was gone.

  It was too late to find Danny.

  I Carrying my lunch tray, I spied Danny across the cafeteria, watching me as he stood in line. I threw him an experimental smile and he smiled back. With the warm plastic in my fingers and the smell of meat loaf in the clatter-filled room, I felt a wash of relief. He seemed okay. For a moment I actually entertained the notion of inviting him to sit with me.

  “Celia,” Miss Hemington called as I passed her third-grade tables. “Tell Kevy we miss him and we hope he’s back soon.”

  Kevy’s best friend, Reid, gave me a rueful smile, nodding his agreement. “He’ll be okay,” I reassured him. I knew he and Kevy were two of Miss Hemington’s favorites, partially due to their good grades. Kevy’s studious attitude in school earned him as much fondness from teachers as his loyalty earned him friends. “Thanks,” I responded to Miss Hemington. “We hope this afternoon.”

  “That’s wonderful.” Her lips spread wide beneath her upturned nose. “And how fortunate Danny appeared just in time.”

  Over her shoulder I could see Barbara Dawson, Shirley Clangerlee, and Melissa at our table gesturing at me, overflowing with more pesky questions. Melissa and Shirley were like David next to Goliath, Melissa’s dainty ballerina hands fluttering against Shirley’s meaty shoulder. The Clangerlees ran the town’s IGA grocery store, and Shirley’s entire family was big-boned and overweight. Gerald was mean enough to say that was because they ate half the produce on their shelves. Barbara appeared polished as always, her thick brown hair meticulously brushed, a crisp white blouse tucked smoothly into her pleated navy skirt. While Shirley beckoned with abandon, Barbara was raising one eyebrow as if to say, “My, my, aren’t we slow.” Fingers tightening around my tray, I felt indignation bubble up in my throat. Except for Mr. Rose, I’d had it with everyone.