Color the Sidewalk for Me

by Brandilyn Collins

  “Aagh!” Mr. Lewellyn banged the table with his cane. “Never mind, then; I’ll just take it on home. You can forgit the whole thing.” His jowls sprayed pink.

  Unable to read in the midst of their arguing, I headed for the kitchen, wincing as Granddad pronounced his friend jealous and yellow-bellied—remaining behind in two wars while Granddad had volunteered to fight.

  “Well, somebody had to stay here and protect the town, not to mention your wife and daughter, while you ran around makin’ a monkey a yourself!”

  “Monkey! You think that’s what those medals I got’re for? You gone teched in the head, Jake Lewellyn!”

  I plopped into a kitchen chair, set the newspaper article in front of me, and stuck a finger in each ear. “Governor Honors War Heroes,” the title read.

  Lexington—On Veteran’s Day in November, the Lexington Herald, aided by Governor Julian Carroll, will honor medal-bearing veterans now living in Kentucky, in a special ceremony on the steps of the governor’s Frankfort mansion.

  “There are many heroes living in our state,” Governor Carroll said, “and I’m proud to accept the Herald’s invitation to recognize their valiant sacrifices for our country.”

  Veterans who wish to participate in the ceremony are urged to send their medals as proof of their accomplishments to reporter Lawrence Tremaine at the Lexington Herald by August 11, with a completed registration form explaining the circumstances under which the medals were earned. The medals will then be re-awarded during the ceremony, which Vice President Mondale has been asked to attend.

  “We know these medals are precious,” Bradley Gottenheim, editor of the Herald, noted, addressing the concern that some may be reluctant to part with them even temporarily. “My staff will hold them with the utmost care, and we will see that each is returned to its rightful owner—with all the pomp and circumstance the Bluegrass State and our illustrious governor can muster.”

  For a registration form please call Lawrence Tremaine at (606) 555-2822. All honorees’ travel expenses relating to the ceremony will be paid by the Lexington Herald.

  Fingers still in my ears, I read the article a second time. Oh boy. Mama would be more than a little perturbed at having to drive Granddad all the way to Lexington for a war medal ceremony. Suddenly it occurred to me that Granddad hadn’t been telling his battle stories lately and that this could be as much the cause for the recent calm in our house as my not arguing with Mama. I’d been thinking so much of Danny, I hadn’t been paying attention. But how strange, Granddad’s inexplicable silence regarding his favorite subject.

  By the time I left the kitchen, Mr. Lewellyn had pulled to his feet and was heading for the door, his right hand shaking as he clutched his cane, fat cheeks a vibrant red. “That’s the last time I try to help you, Thomas Bradley!” he stormed, sliding into a fit of wheezing. “Just tryin’ to help a friend . . . and all I git . . . is more a your crab-edged . . . ill-tempered, cantankerous, dim-witted accusations. . . .”

  “Wait, Mr. Lewell—”

  “You tell that ol’ coot granddad a yours”—he jerked his head in my direction—“I ain’t talkin’ to him no more, ya hear?” Hacking and sputtering, he plodded to the screen door and threw it open. I ran to hold it for him, costing him the pleasure of banging it on his way out.

  “Land sakes,” Granddad muttered as we listened to him pound his cane down our porch steps. “What a temper.”

  “You mailin’ your medals tomorrow, Granddad?” Kevy asked that night at supper. “I can’t wait to see you at the ceremony; I’ll be right proud.”

  “Daddy,” Mama said, casting him a warning look.

  He met her eye, glanced at me, then continued smearing butter on his potato with gusto. “Thank you, Kevy, but I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ about my illustrious service in the wars now, hear? So don’t be talkin’ about it at the table.”

  I raised inquisitive eyebrows at Daddy and he shrugged. Something was going on. Granddad had not talked of battles since about the time Kevy fell into the river—a feat to this day unequaled for Granddad.

  And he’d certainly never been this accommodating with Mama before. His intestines must have kinked just hearing his own words. But whatever was happening between them, Daddy wasn’t in on it.

  I did know Granddad had called about that article before Mama arrived home. Once Mr. Lewellyn had huffed off, he’d wasted no time running down the Lexington Herald reporter. “Lawrence Tremaine, please,” he’d snapped, expecting to hear there was no such man. But Lawrence Tremaine had come on the line and verified that he’d written the article and yes, he could mail a registration form to 101 Minton Street in Bradleyville. “And congratulations, sir,” he’d added politely, according to Granddad.

  I’d given him a look. “Sounds like you owe Mr. Lewellyn an apology.”

  “Humph.” He’d wandered down the hall toward his bedroom, the newspaper clipping in his hand.

  I went to bed early that night, exhausted from Barbara’s slumber party. Before disappearing into my bedroom, I hesitated, then tiptoed over to Mama, who was sewing in her favorite chair. “Good night,” I whispered, kissing her cheek. “I love you.”

  “Good night, Celia.” She did not look up.

  Pulling back quickly, I told myself she needn’t say more. Even so, when she called my name I turned, breath catching. “Yes, Mama?”

  “That basket of clothes needs mending. You’ll need to do that tomorrow.”

  My eyes closed. “Okay.”

  I shut my bedroom door softly.

  chapter 14

  On that hot, muggy Saturday, by the time Kevy and I reached the river, our faces were running with sweat. We’d beaten Danny, and I was grateful for the time to rinse my face and run fingers through my hair. I’d never before been this anxious to see him. Sinking onto a boulder as Kevy cast off a ways downstream, I dreamed of the moments we’d soon have. Things were different now. We’d stepped over a boundary and would no longer be satisfied with just sitting and talking. I wanted to hold his hand again, longed to brush that strand of hair from his forehead. The thought of being close to him sent a quivering through my chest. “Hurry up, Danny,” I whispered.

  I waited. Time ticked slowly by. Kevy caught a fish. After twenty minutes I stood up to stretch, my rear end numb.

  “Where’s Danny?” Kevy called.

  I shrugged. “Who knows?”

  What if Danny was watching me from afar, enjoying the sight of my impatience? Imagining that, I managed a laborious yawn, wandering a few steps as if I hadn’t a care in the world. When he didn’t appear after a few minutes, I dropped my pretense, daring a glance at the field, then swept my eyes up and down the riverbank. No Danny.

  He just has extra chores, I told myself. He’ll be here. I sat down again, absently picking up a handful of pebbles to drop one by one with a light click on the ground. When my hand was empty, I picked them back up. Dropped them one by one again.

  Something swished at the field’s edge and I jerked up my head, smiling with anticipation. But it was only a squirrel staring at me, mouth working, before it frisked away. My smile faded.

  With a dull pain growing in my lungs, I repeated to myself that he would come. I knew he wanted to see me, too, that he’d probably dreamed all week about our last time together, as I had. He would not stand me up without very good reason.

  No, I chided myself five minutes later, not true. I’d gone too far in taking his hand; I’d scared him away. He was unsure of himself and now he was embarrassed. Or maybe he didn’t like girls behaving so boldly. Why had I done it? I asked, sighing at the river. Why had I frightened him off just when I couldn’t stand not being with him again?

  Ten more minutes. I’d give him that.

  When ten minutes had passed, I told myself five more.

  Even then I couldn’t give up on him. It was an eternity since last Saturday; I couldn’t stand to wait another week. And what if he didn’t show up then? After another excruciating seven days
, I couldn’t bear it. He had extra chores, that was all. Maybe he’d finished and was now on his way. If I took the path through the field to his house, I could meet him. We could walk back to the river holding hands.

  “Kevy!” I called. “I’m gonna walk toward Danny’s house. We’ll be back soon.”

  “Okay!”

  I crunched over the rocks and onto the path. Entering the field, I searched for him in the distance. It hadn’t rained for a while, and the trail was dusty and simmering with heat. The longer I walked without spotting him, the more anxious I grew, until I knew I’d jump happily at the first sign of Danny Cander, even if I did appear too anxious.

  Far ahead the thick grove of trees at the outskirts of the field signaled Danny’s property on the other side. I envisioned Danny the day he’d saved Kevy, his jeans damp and his chest bare. Expanding each detail of his hugging me, wet and shivering, I watched the trees grow closer until they were only a stone’s throw away. I stopped for a moment to gather my hair and swish it up and down, fanning my neck. When I started up again, I dawdled, willing Danny to appear through the trees before I reached them. He didn’t.

  A few moments later I’d entered the grove, relative coolness surrounding me. I paused to wipe sweat from my face. Following the weaving path, I listened for Danny but heard only the sound of my own footsteps. He’s not coming, I taunted myself. He doesn’t want me. Leaning against the last tree, I berated my impetuousness. What now? I certainly couldn’t appear on Danny’s front lawn. Once he saw me, there would be no way to explain myself, no way to slip gracefully from the scruffy grass and the memory of his hand grasping mine. I was no more than a hundred feet from his house. I could almost feel him.

  I prayed for him to appear but knew I’d already waited too long. I needed to get back to Kevy. My chest sank. Turning to retrace my steps, I tossed a strand of hair from my face, telling myself it didn’t matter; I didn’t need Danny Cander anyway. Who did he think he was, trying to hurt me? I emerged from the trees, blinking in the sunlight, repeating that I didn’t need Danny, I did not.

  Then the sound came from Danny’s house, a muffled stridence through the grove.

  I halted, skin tingling. Cocked my head. There it was again. A man argued vehemently. A woman’s voice pleaded. I held my breath. The pleading escalated, then abruptly stopped.

  Silence.

  My eyes danced across the field as I waited, muscles tense.

  The woman screamed. My heart revved, thudded against my chest. Mrs. Cander.

  I spun toward Danny’s house and raced back through the trees. The pleading welled up again, deep from within a woman’s throat constricted with fear. The man’s bellowed words garbled as they hurled over the Cander’s lawn and split against the tree trunks around which I ran. Nearing the edge of the grove, I heard banging and scuffling, as if someone were fighting inside Danny’s house. The picture of Mrs. Cander’s worn face, her gentle hands holding a cracked cup of chicken broth to my brother’s lips, flashed through my head. I veered around the last tree, terrified. The sun’s glare slapped my forehead as I burst into the clearing.

  I tripped on a small rise in the trail, then caught myself with both hands, grunting as I pushed away from the dirt. I raised my head toward Danny’s house as the sounds grew more distinct, the bellows forming into threats that surged through the Cander’s screen door. In the next instant the door jerked open and Mrs. Cander flailed through it, careening across the rickety front porch and down the steps. Her flowered housedress swished between her knees as she ran barefoot, her long brown hair flying. One hand swept up against the side of her mouth, blood oozing down her chin to splatter across her dress.

  Before the door could slam, Mr. Cander lunged after his wife. He was barefoot and shirtless, his face purple with rage. “Don’t you be runnin’ away from me, woman!” he hollered. He banged drunkenly into the porch rail, reeled backward, then scuffled down the steps. “I ain’t through with you yet!”

  I froze, ashamed to see a man undressed like that but unable to tear my eyes away from the thick dark hair on his shoulders. I remembered him years ago at Miss Jessie’s wedding, dressed up and sipping punch. Now he looked like a madman. Standing shakily at the edge of the field, palms pressed against my lips, I stared in horror as he chased Danny’s panicked mama.

  “No!” she was crying. “No!”

  Mrs. Cander lost her footing as her housedress wrapped around her legs. Sprawling headfirst onto the patchy lawn, she quickly flipped over in self-defense, aghast to see her crazed husband so close behind. She scuttled backward on all fours, her backside dragging the ground. As he rushed for her, she keened, praying for him to stop.

  He’ll kill her, I thought. And still I could not move.

  “Mama!”

  I heard Danny’s cry a split second before I saw him. Bare-chested, he exploded around the side of the house to sprint toward his parents, dropping a bucket that sprayed his jeaned legs with the dregs of brown food scraps as it bounced against the dirt. Mr. Cander jerked his head toward Danny and stumbled, giving his wife the chance to scramble from his grasp.

  “Daddy, no!” Danny screamed, his face contorting into hard-edged fury as he raced toward his father, slamming into him with a force that shoved him backward. Looking shocked at his own violence, Danny immediately jumped away.

  Mr. Cander staggered, then lurched to a stop, his chest expanding as he turned his murderous glance from his wife onto Danny. “I’ll git you, boy,” he spat through twisted lips. “This ain’t none a your affair, hear? None!”

  On her hands and knees now, dirt puffing around her wrists, Mrs. Cander skittered away from them and back toward the porch, a long strand of hair stuck to the blood on the side of her chin.

  Shoulders heaving, Danny faced his father, legs apart, hands curling. A sneer crossed his face, narrowing his eyes. “Come on, then,” he challenged, his voice catching. “Come on then, Mr. Big Man.”

  I’d seen a young Danny in many a fight at school, seen him take on boys near twice his size. Watching at playground’s edge with my friends, biting my lower lip, I’d seen the anger etched across his face, knew the swell of his cheekbones and the hardened line of his jaw. I could vividly remember his looming over Gerald, dark brows jammed together over slit eyes. But I had never, ever seen him look like this.

  About the same height, Danny and his father hulked in semiprofile to me, Danny’s face three-quarters visible. The wrath that poured from him, sloshing off his shoulders and over his tightly muscled arms, swept like a wave across the yard to smash against my own stomach. I could almost reach out and touch its vengeance. It was more than anger; it was a loathing, cold and pure, that frothed from him. Seeing Danny that way turned my lungs to ice.

  “I said come on!” he shouted through clenched teeth. Danny’s voice dripped with disgust. “You a big man, ain’tcha! Big enough to hit a woman.”

  Mr. Cander’s rib cage pulsed. He opened his mouth and his upper lip disappeared. “I’ll kill you, boy.” The promise was gravel in his throat. I sucked in air, heart congealing, as he gathered his strength, then plunged toward Danny with a roar, head lowered.

  “Danny!” Mrs. Cander screamed, pushing to her feet to help her son.

  Danny faced the attack straight on; then at the last second he pivoted, pulling a knee up high to slam it under his daddy’s chin. I could hear the teeth snap at impact. Mr. Cander’s head jerked up and he stumbled. He fell forward with a dull thud, then rolled over on his back. In an instant Danny was astride him, hands pummeling, a torrent of words hurling from his mouth. The blows landed with wet smacks across his daddy’s chest and head, like the sound of my mama tenderizing meat.

  Mrs. Cander shrank away, knuckles blanching as she gripped the skirt of her dress.

  With a sudden bellow Mr. Cander brought both arms up and encircled his son in a bear hug. Danny’s yells ceased as he struggled to break free. His daddy slid a knee up, straining to dig into the ground with his heel, then
pushed with a loud grunt. He raised his hip and rolled, trapping Danny underneath.

  I thought my heart would stop.

  “Anthony, don’t!” Danny’s mama raced to her husband, sank fingers into his wrist and yanked with all her might.

  Mr. Cander let go of Danny with one hand and flung out his elbow. It caught her in the waist and knocked her aside, breathless. I flinched as my own ribs imagined the blow. Danny dragged his arm out from under his daddy, curled his fingers, and smashed his fist into Mr. Can-der’s left eye.

  “Aagh!” Mr. Cander slapped a hand over the wound. Danny snarled and pushed his daddy off his chest, then spun over and leaped up to kick his attacker’s ear with the heel of his shoe. Mr. Cander cried out again, protecting his head with an arm as he tossed to his side, away from the blows. Danny closed in on his father.

  “I hate you!” he cried thickly, kicking Mr. Cander’s head once more. “God help me, I hate you!” He aimed his foot again and again at his daddy’s ribs and back and spine, the words spewing from his mouth with each violent stroke. “I . . . hate . . . you, . . . you . . . stinkin’ . . . drunk!”

  “Stop!” Mrs. Cander reached for Danny, her fingers stiff as she tried to grab his upper arm. His movements were so erratic, she couldn’t find a hold. “Danny! Danny, stop. Stop it!” Wrists fluttering, she snatched at him until she finally caught him with both hands.

  “Lemme be!” Danny jerked away, still kicking viciously. Mr. Cander’s arms slid noiselessly away from his face and splayed, dirt-covered and still, upon the ground.

  My fingers pressed against my lips.

  “Danny!” His mama gained hold of him again, her grip firm. “Don’t kill him!”

  “I don’t care!”

  Her fingers tightened. “No!”

  The fear in her voice finally pierced him. I watched, a lump in my throat, as Danny’s vehemence drained away, his blows ebbing until, with a halfhearted kick, he stopped. He turned to face his mama, gusts of breath popping his ribs in and out. Spittle flecked his lips, and his mouth hung open. His eyes were hazed.