by Debra Dixon
When we reached the one spot where the kudzu didn’t grow, we half walked, half slid down to the sandy creek bank. I laid my towel across a bush and sat down to take off my sandals. The sand was warm beneath my settee.
I had taken swimming lessons during the first weeks of the summer, but with the creek only a few inches deep, swimming was out of the question. Mostly all we did was wade and splash each other, but after a while we worked up the nerve to sit down in the icy water.
We were lying on our backs, spitting mouthfuls of water high into the air, when Bobby arrived. He just stood there on the bank watching us, and grinning like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth! I wouldn’t have cared, except that he had that look in his eyes — the look I didn’t trust. “Go away,” I yelled.
He didn’t go. Instead, he pointed to my new pink bathing suit then pinched his nose as if to say the suit stunk. “Hey, Piano Legs. Where’d you get that ugly rag? At a rummage sale?”
He laughed like that was the funniest joke in the world. He even pretended to fall down laughing. I secretly hoped he’d fall in a hole and come out in China, but I didn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing I’d even heard his remark. “Just ignore him,” Yvonne said.
“You know,” he said after a while, “you girls are pretty brave. You sure wouldn’t catch me in that creek.”
“Don’t ask him why,” Yvonne whispered. “He’ll just say something nasty.”
I sat up to let the sun warm me, my back to Bobby.
“I wouldn’t go in that creek,” he yelled, “because I heard Grandpa say the thing was plumb full of cottonmouth water moccasins.”
I froze, but Yvonne yelled,
“You’re a liar, Bobby Wilson!”
“It’s the pure-and-tee truth. I swear it on a stack of Bibles.”
“Then you’re a blasphemer as well as a liar,” I said, “and you’re probably going to hell! Besides, Mrs. Clay wouldn’t let her own daughter go in a place full of cottonmouths.”
He didn’t answer right away, then he said, “Oh, my aunt doesn’t know. Grandpa was telling it to Grandma.”
I didn’t believe him for a minute — at least I tried not to. Still, I’d have let a cottonmouth take a sun bath on my shoulder before I let Bobby see I was scared.
I made a big to-do of splashing Yvonne for a few more minutes, then I said, very casually, “I guess we’d better get back to the house now, it’s getting close to supper time.” She agreed so quickly I could tell she was as nervous as me to be out of there.
We slipped our feet into our sandals without bothering to buckle them and grabbed our towels. While we climbed the hill back up to the road, I had to bite my lips to keep from looking down at my feet for cottonmouth water moccasins!
We’d just reached the road when a big old June bug buzzed past my head, and I thought I would have a heart attack. I screamed, which made Yvonne scream, and her cousin doubled over, just laughing his fool head off.
After a time he ran on ahead of us. At first I thought it was good riddance, but that was before we rounded a bend in the road and saw Bobby standing perfectly still, looking down into the ditch on the left. “Come here, quick,” he yelled. “I found a snake.”
“You did not, Bobby Wilson, you’re just lying again.” I said it, but I didn’t mean it. This time I believed him, mainly because he was standing still and not taking his eyes off the ditch.
We took our time getting to him. I didn’t get close enough for him to push me into the ditch, which is something he would do, but I got close enough to see where he was looking. There was a snake!
It wasn’t a very fat snake, but it was about two feet long, and it had blue-black skin that shown like a jewel in the sunshine. It lay perfectly still. “Is it asleep?” I whispered.
“If it is,” Bobby said, “I’m fixing to wake it up.”
The fool picked up a rock about the size of a plum, then threw that rock right at the snake’s body. Thank goodness, nothing happened. Then he picked up a larger rock and threw it, hitting the creature smack on the head. Again, nothing happened.
“It’s dead,” Yvonne said. “Let’s go.”
I was willing, but Bobby stopped me by asking if I saw a big stick any place. “What are you going to do?” I asked, though I really didn’t want to know.
“Grandpa says there’s a snake that you can hit with a stick and it will break into pieces. Then, when you go back later, the pieces have grown back together again. I’m fixing to see if this is one of those snakes.”
I believe Bobby Wilson is one of those children you hear about sometimes, the kind who get their brains injured while they’re being born. When he started looking around for a big stick, Yvonne and I took off running. Somewhere along the way, I dropped my towel, but nothing would have tempted me to stop and pick it up.
At supper, all Bobby could talk about was how brave he’d been to kill that snake. Of course, I knew the snake was already dead, so I didn’t pay him any mind. Not until later that night. Just as Yvonne and I were getting ready for bed, Bobby came to the door of our bedroom and said he thought he’d better tell me something. “For your own good.”
“What?” I asked, suspicious of his concern.
“You know that snake I killed today?”
“You mean the dead one?”
“If you say so,” he said.
Uh-oh. If Bobby didn’t want to argue, it was only because he had something better in mind.
“What about it?” I asked.
“Well, I didn’t tell you before, but I hit it with the stick, and it come apart, just like Grandpa said.”
“So?”
“I took the tail away so the snake wouldn’t be able to get itself back together again.”
“So?” I asked again.
“I was just wondering how far a snake would travel to get its tail back.”
“Well, don’t look at me,” I said. “I sure can’t tell you.”
“That’s okay,” he said. “You can just tell me in the morning.”
Boys can be so stupid. “If I don’t know the answer now, I won’t know it any better in the morning.”
He giggled. “Maybe you will. ’Cause I hid the snake’s tail in your bedroom.”
Yvonne said he was lying, and she went right to sleep. I wished I could!
I kept telling myself that Bobby just wanted to scare me so I would sit up all night worrying. Deep down in my soul, I knew that the only snake in this house was sleeping on the sofa in the living room. I knew it, and yet I lay there wide awake, staring into the inky darkness, scared beyond description.
That snake was blue-black; he’d be almost invisible in the dark. All that night, every time a breeze blew across my arm, I would jump clear out of my skin. The only thing that kept me sane was imagining the various things I would do to Bobby Wilson once daylight came. Some time during that endless night, exhaustion must have claimed me, for I fell asleep. The next thing I knew, I heard the rooster crow.
By the time I got dressed, streaks of pink were lighting the dawn-gray sky. No one else was up, so I opened the back door carefully to keep it from creaking, then I hurried down the path. I didn’t want to see a snake again, but I had to know for sure. I saw my towel lying in the road, so I knew I was near the spot.
I walked slowly and carefully toward the towel and beyond, then I looked over the side of the road into the ditch. That blue-black snake lay there just as it had yesterday, whole and unsevered. The two rocks Bobby had thrown were still there, but there was no sign of a stick of any kind.
That big liar! He hadn’t even gone into the ditch to hit that snake. Probably scared to! All my dreams of retribution from last night came rushing back to me, but in the light of day none of them seemed cruel enough to serve for Bobby Wilson’s punishment.
I didn’t get a chance to speak to him until later, when Yvonne, her mama, and I were about to climb the front steps of the Children of Jesus Tabernacle. Bobby had ridden with his grandparents, and
he came running up to us, a big old grin on his face. “How did you sleep?” he asked.
“Why, just fine, thank you. How did you sleep?”
“Like a log,” he said, “but, then, I didn’t sit up all night waiting to see if a snake came for its tail.”
“Oh, that’s right,” I said, nonchalantly. “I forgot you asked me about that. I guess I was just too sleepy to care. When we get home, if you want to, you can go in the bedroom and see if the tail’s still there.”
Bobby didn’t say a word, but to my surprise Mrs. Clay winked at me. “Come on, King Solomon,” she said. “They’re already singing the first hymn.”
When we got home, Mrs. Wilson cooked a marvelous dinner. This time she fried two chickens, and though I didn’t wish to ponder where those birds came from, the aroma that filled the kitchen was mouth-watering. “There’ll be two pulleybones,” she said, when she saw me looking at the big old white crockery platter, “and one of them is just for you.”
I thanked her, though my mind was more concerned with retribution than food. Two pulleybones. Hmm.
Remembering how Bobby had grabbed the pulleybone the last time and licked it all over, I knew on the instant how I would get my revenge for the night of fear he had put me through. While Yvonne and her mama went to take off their Sunday clothes, I snitched both pulleybones, took them to the pantry, and set them next to Mrs. Wilson’s jar of pepper salts.
“One drop will inspire,” the lady had said of her pepper salts, “but two drops will set fire.”
The little green peppers lay at the bottom of the jar, but the liquid came up to the half-way mark. I unscrewed the lid, set it aside, then speared one of the pulleybones with a fork and dipped it all the way down into the jar.
I held the chicken in the liquid for a full minute — no point in doing a thing half way. This was no Methodist sprinkle, but a good old Baptist dunking. When it was finished, I put the lid back on the jar and took it and the baptized pulleybone to the table, leaving the other piece of chicken in the pantry.
I pretended I had to push several bowls around to make room for the jar of pepper salts, and in the process I slipped the pulleybone back onto the platter with all the other fried chicken. I put it just on the edge where it wouldn’t touch any other pieces, then I turned the platter so the pulleybone was in front of Bobby’s plate.
“Come and get it,” Mrs. Wilson yelled. “The food’ll be gettin’ cold, and y’all know I like my chicken while it’s hot.” I had to swallow my giggles.
Mr. Wilson said grace, and the moment he finished, Bobby snatched the lone pulleybone. Just like the last time, he started licking it like a dog.
In less time than it takes to blink, Bobby dropped the chicken on the table and jumped straight up, knocking his chair back in his haste. He gasped for air, then grabbed his water glass and poured the contents into his mouth. As soon as he emptied that glass, he flung it across the room and grabbed Mrs. Clay’s ice tea.
Bobby was the only person moving; everyone else sat in stunned immobility, watching his strange behavior.
When he’d emptied his aunt’s glass, he started to cough. It was magnificent coughing! Liquid oozed from every opening: his nose, his mouth, his eyes. I’m not sure, but I think some even dribbled out of his ears.
“The boy’s havin’ one of them fits!” Mrs. Wilson yelled, and she jumped up, threw her arm around his neck, and began forcing a spoon handle between his teeth.
“Help me, somebody, ’fore he bites his tongue off!”
Still coughing, Bobby grappled with his surprisingly strong grandmother. Finally breaking free of the old lady’s iron hold, he made a beeline for the back porch. Everyone but me and Yvonne followed him outside.
I heard the spigot squeaking, and while I pictured Bobby on all fours in the mud, with his head underneath the running water, I got up and retrieved the unbaptized pulleybone from the pantry. When I returned to the table, I broke the pulleybone in half and gave Yvonne her choice.
We served ourselves liberal helpings of mashed potatoes, corn, and okra, then Yvonne and I bit into the crispy pulleybone at the same time. “Umm,” she said.
“Double umm,” I said, licking a bit of warm crust off my lips. “You know, your grandma was right. Chicken tastes a whole lot better when it’s hot.”
She must have guessed that I was responsible for Bobby’s distress, for she was grinning from ear to ear.
“Polly Varner,” she said, nodding at the pulleybone, “I thought you were a good, God-fearing Methodist.”
I grinned back. Sometimes, blessings come from a complex mix of religion and food. “Oh, I am, except when it comes to paying off a debt. Then I’m what you might call catholic with a little ‘c.’”
The Mossy Creek Gazette
215 Main Street • Mossy Creek, Georgia
From the Desk of Katie Bell, Business Manager
Lady Victoria Salter Stanhope
The Cliffs, Seaward Road
St. Ives, Cornwall TR37PJ
United Kingdom
Dear Vick:
Polly Varner is one of my favorite people. I’m sure you can see why, after reading that story from her childhood. Not every Creekite childhood is as nostalgic as Polly’s, but we do try to take care of our young Creekites, and the community always rallies to help children in need. A few still manage to slip between the cracks. But not for long. I dare you to keep a dry eye when you read the story I just got from one of our Creekite teenagers (who’s doing very well now, I’m happy to report!)
Katie
Chapter 9
You don’t know who you are until you realize who your friends are.
The War of the Good Deeds
Chapter 9
Dear Katie Bell,
People keep tellin’ me my childhood is the best part of my life. But there are parts that I would just as soon forget. My mama says us Creekites wear our superstitions like an old coat. And sometimes, a bad thing is a blessing.
My name is Shirley, and this story I’m sending you happened to me last summer when I was eleven. It started the day everybody later called the beginning of the War of Good Deeds. The day Mama later called The End of Soap Sally.
The day I almost caused my baby brother to die.
My family has lived just outside Mossy Creek all my life, but before three years ago I hardly knew anyone in town. What with all the gossip my daddy stirred, Mama said it was best we stick to ourselves. And when she looked at the town motto painted high up on Mayor Walker’s corn silo, Ain’t Goin’ Nowhere and Don’t Want To, she’d just break down and cry.
“We got to get out of Mossy Creek and start over,” she’d say. “Some place where no one knows our shame. We’ll be like gypsies stealing away in the night, off to some new adventure.”
But I had keen Dumbo ears, that’s what Daddy called ’em, and I’d heard Granny and Mama talking. Moving meant the debt collectors were on our tails, that Daddy had lost his job cause he’d gone to pitchin’ again. Pitchin’ meant he’d gone on another long, drunken tear where he got mean and tore up things.
Then one day, Daddy took his pitchin’ too far and drove his pick-up straight into a plate glass window down in a Unadila hair salon. “Thank god it happened way off somewhere else,” Mama said, “so maybe nobody up here in the mountains will ever find out.” I guess none of y’all ever did. You didn’t report it in the paper. Mama was so depressed. See, after three months of being laid off, Daddy’d finally gotten a job delivering hair products but still couldn’t give up his liquor. Or maybe he was high sniffing perm solutions. Anyways, he ’bout near killed a little old lady in pink rollers. The Unadila law locked him up for what Mama said would be a considerable time.
Hence, the reason Mama wanted to move from Mossy Creek. She thought maybe we could escape while Daddy couldn’t follow us. But Granny’s rheumatoid arthritis flared up, bless her heart, and she had to take to the wheelchair, so she sure couldn’t go nowhere, even if she had wanted to, which she
claimed she didn’t.
Granny lived for her soap operas and had never missed an episode of Days of Our Lives. Every night, we lived for her to tell us more stories about the Bigelowan and Creekite feuds. Over pinto beans and a glass of sweet milk and cornbread, we heard one tale after another. Our bedtime story was her version of your gossip column. “I swannee,” Granny would say. “Sometimes the goin’s on between us and them Bigelowans is better than my soaps.”
But seein’ as how we lived in an old trailer out in China-berry and I hadn’t gone to school the year before on account of bein’ sick a lot, I hadn’t kept up on any gossip about Creekites and Bigelowans. School was startin’ again soon though, and Mama was already talkin’ about getting me signed up for the free lunch program and headin’ down to the Bigelow Wal-Mart to buy new undies. Undies was the only thing she didn’t buy second hand.
Anyway, although I was eleven and hoped I’d get into college someday and be somebody, I didn’t actually want to go to school. Kids might call me white trash and make fun of my thrift store clothes and my jailbird daddy. Sometimes I walked to the top of our rutted driveway and looked down on the road to town, judging from all angles to see if the woods between our trailer and the road had grown much since the fall before. Maybe this year the kids couldn’t see our ratty old trailer from the school bus.
But nothin’ was gonna keep me from school, Mama said.
Like later, when nothin’ would keep me from tremblin’ every time I walked past the old well in our front yard and thought of Soap Sally.
* * * *
The day the War of the Good Deeds began, the Truce, the day my baby brother almost died — whatever you want to call it — was a Tuesday, the fifteenth day of August, right in the middle of the worst dog days I’d ever seen. Heat blazed the parched dirt and red clay while flies and mosquitoes fed on us for lunch and supper. Behind us, Mount Colchik loomed among her sister mountains like some big secret haven God had planted from the heavens, but she was too far to touch or give us any shade. It hadn’t rained for going on a month, and whatever grass our pitiful yard once had was brown and so brittle it crackled like dead roach bugs when you walked on it.
