I lean my head back in the sun and think about it. I wish she didn’t like Bick Sifford. I wish I knew why she does. I wish I hadn’t asked who she came here with before.
My Aunt Delia says, “Sometimes when you sit here, the little sunfish nibble your toes. They like moles, too. Beulah has moles on her back, and they bite them. It scares the crap out of her.” She reaches over and tickles my side and laughs. It makes me laugh, and it feels good, and I want to tickle her back, but I don’t.
She pushes off from the sandbar and wades out toward the deeper water, and I go out there with her. The bottom is sandy, and it slopes away toward the middle of the river. Even when you can swim, it’s a scary feeling. The current tries to push us down river. My Aunt Delia says, “How much do you weigh, Killer?”
I say, “I don’t know, about a hundred, I guess.”
She says, “Come over here.”
I do, and she picks me up and holds me in her arms. I can feel her chests against my side hot in the cool river. I rest my head on her arm and my legs across her other arm. She says, “You’re light in the water.”
“So are you,” I say. I don’t know what to do or what to say. I know she can look down and see my thing if she wants to, but she doesn’t. She looks into my eyes. I’m afraid her chests against my side are gonna make the thing happen, even in the cold river. I look into her eyes, and she says, “Rock-a-bye, Travis, in the treetop,” and she starts to turn us around, and she rocks me up and down, and her eyes are closed. I want to close mine, but I can’t. I have to see her face. She turns me around and around slowly, and we move downstream, and she sings, “When the wind blows, the cradle will rock. When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall, and down will come Travis, cradle and all.”
She opens her eyes and leans down, and I see her lips coming. She kisses me on the forehead, like my mom used to do when she tucked me in at night. It feels warm, and her breath smells like Spearmint and her secrets. Then she bends and lets me go, down into the river. My feet hit the sand, and my Aunt Delia says, “See, the cradle didn’t fall. It doesn’t always fall.”
She looks up at the high white sky. I look up there, too. It’s like looking up from the bottom of a green canyon. The green tree tops sway in the wind. She says, “I guess the wind didn’t blow hard enough today.”
My Aunt Delia starts floating downstream to the place where her clothes are hanging. Over her shoulder, she calls, “Killer, Honey, go on and get dressed, okay?”
I try to say, “Okay,” but my throat is too thick and nothing comes out. I turn and push against the river. I can’t tell her my secret.
Twenty-one
Me and my Aunt Delia drive out on a country road, and she says, “Killer, come over here and sit on my lap.”
I do, and her breath is warm on my neck, and her lap is soft under me, and her arms curve around me to the steering wheel. She says, “Can you reach the pedals?” Fats Domino is coming from the radio: “I found my thrill, on blueberry hill. On blueberry hill, where I found you.”
I look down between our legs at the three pedals. I know one’s the gas, and one’s the brake, but I don’t know what the other one is. I stretch my legs out, and I can just reach them. My Aunt Delia says, “Okay, good. Now, that one on the outside is called the clutch. It engages and disengages the gears that make the car go. First thing we’re gonna do is practice with the clutch.”
My Aunt Delia puts her foot on the gas, and the engine goes faster, and she says, “Okay, Killer, push in the clutch. I’m gonna put her in first gear. When I tell you, start letting it out real slow.”
I do it like she says, and I’m looking off down the hot, white road with that glimmering water far off you never reach. The oak trees grow close to the road, and their branches lean over and almost touch, and my hands are on the steering wheel real hard right next to my Aunt Delia’s. I let the clutch out, and the Chevy bucks and bucks, and then the engine quits. I say, “Did I hurt it?”
My Aunt Delia laughs. “Naw, don’t worry. Everybody does that when they first start out. You can’t hurt this ole tank.” She turns the key, and I smell gas, and she says, “Don’t steer. I’m doing that. You’re gonna learn one thing at a time, and the first thing is how to use the clutch. When you get that down, then we’ll let you steer.”
I work at it for a while, and it gets easier. Sometimes I grind the gears, and my Aunt Delia laughs and yells out the window, “Grind me pound!” The road is straight and narrow and hot, and the sky is white, and the fields on both sides are green and empty except for a few cattle. We pass houses, and some are empty with gray clapboard sides and falling-down rusted tin roofs and old cars and tractors with dog fennel and broom sage growing up around them. When a car finally comes along, my Aunt Delia says, “Put in the clutch, Killer,” and I do, and we pull over until it goes whistling past.
Finally, she lets me steer and do the pedals. I can’t go over thirty, and I can’t make a turn, and if anybody comes along, I have to pull over. I drive like that for a while with her breath warm on my cheek, and her lap soft under me, and I say, “This is really neato. I thought you had to be sixteen to drive.”
We pass a field, and there’s a man on a tractor mowing hay. White birds follow behind him using their curved red beaks to spear the mice and bugs that live under the tall grass. My Aunt Delia says, “City kids don’t drive ’til they’re sixteen, but country kids start early. You look out in these fields, and you’ll see boys and some girls not ten years old driving tractors and combines. They aren’t doing it for fun, they have to do it. I was driving when I was your age.”
“Did Grandpa Hollister teach you?”
“Not hardly, Travis boy. That just wouldn’t do, not even in Widow Rock. I learned from Caroline’s older brother. He was a wild boy when he lived here, and he used to take me and Caroline out and teach us.” My Aunt Delia looks out at the fields. She looks as far as she can at the hazy green line where the long field rises into the sky. “There’s just not enough to do in a place like this. Kids have to do things as soon as they can. You’d go crazy if you didn’t.”
I don’t like that word, crazy, but I don’t say anything. I’m glad to be here with my Aunt Delia. Driving is about the most fun thing I’ve ever done. I say, “When can I drive by myself?”
My Aunt Delia leans to the side and makes big eyes at me. “Whoa, there, Killer. You’re getting way ahead of yourself. You and me can do this, but that’s all, and don’t you mention it to anybody, okay.”
“Sure,” I say. “Okay.”
• • •
I’m in the kitchen with Marvadell. Aunt Delia’s off in Panama City at the dentist. Grandma Hollister says she’s not gonna feel good when she gets back, so I have to leave her alone. “My,” she says, “you two sure have hit it off well. I’ve never seen an aunt spend so much time with her nephew.”
I don’t know what to say, so I just say, “Yes, ma’am,” and smile big.
I like Marvadell, but, mostly, she doesn’t like anybody in her kitchen. When Grandma Hollister comes in and stands over by the back screen door and says, “Why, Marvadell, isn’t that a pretty handbag. Did you get that here in town?” or she says, “Now don’t put too much salt in the gravy, Marvadell,” Marvadell just nods her head hard and pounds the biscuit dough and says, “Yes’um,” and “Noam,” until Grandma Hollister clears her throat and touches the glow at her temple and says, “My, it is hot today, isn’t it?” and goes on out of the kitchen.
When I come in, Marvadell looks over at me and says, “Humph,” like she wonders what rascality I’m just fresh coming from. She told me once she thinks little boys are devils, and they grow up to be mens, and then they turn into dogs. She says, “Little boys is okay ’til they gets they man hair.”
When she said that, I told her that devils have horns and dogs have tails, and it didn’t make any sense to me. I told her she should say m
en, not mens, because mens made the word plural twice, and she hit the biscuit dough so hard a cloud of flour flew up around it, and she said, “Boy, don’t you c’rect my speakin. My speakin be mine, and yours be yours, and you ain’t old enough yet, ner smart enough yet to c’rect yo elders.”
At first I didn’t think she was really mad, but then I saw it in her eyes, and I knew I better say I’m sorry. I did, and she just said, “Humph,” and slapped the dough, and I started slipping out quiet when she said, “They’s a piece of that peach pie I made fo supper yesterday left in the pantry. I give it to you wiff a glass of buttermilk if you want.”
I stopped slipping out quiet and said, “Thank you, Marvadell. That would be real cool.”
Marvadell rolled her eyes and hit the dough and said, “Now they got you talking like that Miss Delia and her friends.”
I’m watching Marvadell make blackberry jam. She gathers the wild berries out in the country where she lives and brings them here. She boils them with sugar in a big pot, and she heats big bars of wax to seal the Mason jars, and she pours the hot jam into the scalded jars and then pours the wax on top, and the whole kitchen gets like an oven, and the windows get misty and run, and sweat runs out of Marvadell’s hair and wets her blouse all the way to her apron ties.
I’m watching, and once in a while she lets me get something for her, and sometimes she closes her eyes and sings about heaven. We hear a knock at the back door, and a black man comes in before Marvadell tells him to. He looks at Marvadell, and she looks at him, and then he looks over at me. I don’t like his eyes on me. He looks at me the way Mr. Pultney looks at his goat. Marvadell says, “Eddie, what you doin’ here?”
The man says, “That ain’t no way to talk to me, Mama.”
I stand by the kitchen door so I can leave quick, but I don’t leave. The man walks over to the counter by the bread basket where Marvadell always puts her purse. He’s got on tight black pants and a purple shirt with a zipper all the way up the front, and it has yellow pockets. The shirt’s made of something that shines like the skin of a chameleon lizard. We got lizards all over the place out in the yard. They do push-ups and change colors when they move from place to place. When I’m bored, sometimes I go out and catch them and hold them and let them bite the ends of my fingers. It doesn’t hurt, and I like to look inside their mouths. You have to be careful, though, because their tails come off real easy.
The black man, Eddie, Marvadell’s son, is wearing a white straw hat with a purple band. He’s got on black shoes with pointy toes, and his black socks have a purple line up each side. He’s got a pack of Kents in his shirt pocket and scars on the backs of his hands. He smiles, but there’s no fun in his eyes. He picks up Marvadell’s purse and opens it and reaches inside. His scarred right hand comes out with some of Marvadell’s money. I can’t tell how much. He puts it in his pocket, smiles that goat smile at me, and turns back to Marvadell.
She’s standing with her hands on her hips. She’s got hot wax on her hands, and I guess it doesn’t hurt her. The wax is gray on her shiny black skin. She just watches Eddie. She doesn’t say anything. He walks across the kitchen and out the back screen door. I follow him.
Marvadell says, “Travis, you come back here,” but I don’t. I go out on the back porch and watch him walk toward the backyard. He hears me and stops. He turns and looks at me standing up here on the back porch. I know Marvadell’s inside watching. He says, “Come’ere, kid.”
I come down the steps and stand in front of him. He’s tall, and he smells like cigarettes and whiskey and Old Spice aftershave. He says, “I’m gone show you something.”
He reaches into his pocket and takes out something shiny black I’ve never seen before, and he pushes a button on it, and a blade jumps out. It’s a knife with a blade that jumps out when he pushes a button, and when it flicks out with a little click, it scares me, and I jump back a step. Eddie takes that step away from me. He stands close to me, and he holds the knife down low between us, and he says, “Look at this, little white boy. You know what I do with this?”
My throat is dry, and my lips are cold. I can’t take my eyes from the knife in his scarred black hand.
Eddie just stands there holding it. He doesn’t say any more. He lets me look at it for a while, then he turns and starts walking through our backyard, past the privy toward the woods.
“Eddie, what are you doing here?”
I turn quick, and it’s my Grandpa Hollister. He’s halfway around the house, and he’s wearing his black suit and his black ankle boots and his black bow tie. He’s got some papers in his hand. I never heard him coming. I don’t think Eddie did either. Eddie stops with his back to my Grandpa Hollister. He doesn’t turn, and he doesn’t say anything.
My Grandpa Hollister says, “Eddie, what were you saying to Travis? I want to know.”
I hear the screen door squeak, and I hear the spring that closes it stretch and groan, and I hear Marvadell’s heavy feet on the back porch steps. She comes down and stands beside me, and I feel her hand on my shoulder. Grandpa Hollister says, “Eddie, I’m not gone ask you again.”
Eddie doesn’t turn, and I look up at Marvadell. She’s not watching Eddie. She’s watching my Grandpa Hollister. She says, “Mr. Hollister?”
My Grandpa Hollister says, “Marvadell, I’m talking to Eddie.” He doesn’t look at her.
Marvadell says, “Mr. Hollister, sir?”
My Grandpa Hollister clenches his jaw, and I see his fingers tighten on the papers, and I hear them squeak in his hand, and I think the ink’s gonna bleed from them. I look at Marvadell’s eyes, and I don’t know what they’re saying. She holds her head higher than usual, and her back is stick straight. She’s picking wax off one of her hands with the fingers of the other. She says it again, “Mr. Hollister?”
My Grandpa Hollister looks at her now. His jaw is clenched white. He looks at Marvadell, and she looks back at him, and then he looks at me. Then he looks down. He moves his right foot. His jaw goes loose. It goes from white to red, and he says, “All right, Eddie.”
Eddie’s still standing with his back to us. His shoulders roll, and he starts walking toward the woods again. He never looks back. He walks real loose, almost like he’s dancing. Almost like my Aunt Delia and Caroline and Beulah up on Widow Rock that time with Bick and Ronny and Quig Knowles. We all watch until Eddie disappears into the woods. Marvadell lowers her head and wipes her hands on her apron. She turns and walks back into the kitchen.
My Grandpa Hollister waits until the screen door closes, then he says, “Travis, come here.”
I go over to him. “What was Eddie saying to you, Travis? Why was he here just now?”
I look up into his police eyes. I can’t lie to him without his knowing it. I remember my Aunt Delia telling me I’m a good liar, and it’s one of life’s essential skills. I know I’ve got to lie to him, even if he doesn’t believe me. For Marvadell.
I say, “Sir, he came to borrow some money from Marvadell. She gave him some.” I look around the yard. My mind is moving like a slow train on the tracks that go through town. I don’t know what to say next. I see the grape arbor over next to the privy. The grapes hang thick and black. Marvadell’s gonna make jam from them soon. I say, “He asked me if the grapes were ripe. He asked me if I’ve eaten any of them yet.”
“Are you sure that’s all he said?”
“Yes, sir. I’m sure.”
My Grandpa Hollister looks at the back door. We can hear Marvadell singing. She’s singing louder than usual. “Hush, little baby don’t you cry. You know your momma’s bound to die. All my trials, Lord. Soon be over.” Grandpa Hollister looks down at me again. “All right, Travis. You go along now.”
I don’t think he believes me. I think he knows. He turns and walks back around to the front of the house with the papers in his hand. After a while, I hear him start the Buick Roadmaster in the garage
. He backs out and whispers off down the street.
Twenty-two
It’s Wednesday night, and Beulah’s at church. Caroline’s gone on vacation to Yellowstone with her family. She’s gonna see Old Faithful. She’s gonna send me a postcard. Me and my Aunt Delia are at the Dairy Queen in Warrington getting Cokes and french fries. We drive on through Warrington and then turn around and drive back. My Aunt Delia says, “Same old Warrington.” She looks at the Coke in her lap. “Same old Coke and fries.” The radio is playing The Drifters’ “Under the Boardwalk.” I like the Coke and french fries. Back in Omaha, I don’t get to go out like this at night.
We drive back toward Widow Rock, and when we pass Luby’s Roadhouse, my Aunt Delia slows down and says, “Whoa now, son. Look at that.”
I look, but I don’t see anything. She points, and I see Ronny Bishop’s white pickup truck way at the back of the parking lot. My Aunt Delia pulls in, and we stop next to the red neon sign that blinks on and off: Whiskey. Dancing. Whiskey. Dancing. We can hear the jukebox booming inside and people laughing. It’s hillbilly music. My Aunt Delia and Beulah and Caroline call it shit-kicker music. They don’t like it, except for Patsy Cline. They like rock ’n’ roll.
My Aunt Delia pulls around back, as far from Ronny’s truck as we can get. We don’t see anybody in the truck. We wait, and a man comes out the back door of Luby’s. When he opens the door, the music jumps out with him loud, then it stops when the door closes. He’s wearing a white cowboy hat, jeans, and a blue western shirt with pearl buttons. He’s holding a brown paper bag. He stops and looks around the parking lot. That’s when Ronny and Bick stick their heads up.
They jump out of Ronny’s pickup and walk over to the man. Bick takes out his wallet and gives the man some money, and the man hands Bick the bag. The man gets into an old Hudson and drives away. We watch his red taillights disappear off toward Warrington. Bick and Ronny throw back their heads and whoop at the moon, then they jog-trot back to the truck.
Sweet Dream Baby Page 15
