Cliques, Hicks, and Ugly Sticks

by KD McCrite

  Daddy glanced at him and shook his head again. “I don’t know. There’s still a strong heartbeat, but . . . it’s too soon. It’s just too soon.” He raked his hands through his hair, then pulled me and Myra Sue into his arms and hugged us. He even gave both of us a kiss on the cheek. “You girls don’t worry. The doctor is doing all he can to save the baby and to take care of your mama.”

  “But, Daddy, can’t you take Mama to a hospital where people don’t die?”

  “Honey, they’re taking real good care of your mama right here. We can’t move her.”

  A cold shiver ran down my back, and I saw in my memory that gray-faced old man lying in his bed in the hallway while those dumb nurses ignored him.

  “Don’t let Mama die!” I said.

  “Shhh,” he said quietly, holding me close. He pulled back and looked at both of us. “You girls do me a favor?”

  We nodded.

  “You pray for your mama and your new brother or sister.

  Okay?”

  We nodded again. I prayed harder than I’d ever prayed in my life for my mama. I prayed for that baby, who hadn’t even been born yet and had already caused more trouble than most kids do in a lifetime. But I was sorta beginning to acknowledge that none of this was because that little baby had decided to cause trouble. Things like this are just the harder part of life.

  All afternoon, while we waited for time to pass and Mama to get better, folks from up and down Rough Creek Road and from church dropped in to see how she was. Even Mrs. Fuhrman, whose name was not Mrs. Fuhrman anymore but Mrs. Ritter, came by and brought Lottie with her.

  I was not happy to see that Lottie, I tell you. One thing I did not need was some smart-alecky, hateful comment about my mama being sick. I sort of had a feeling that slugging a snotty Lottie in the waiting room was probably against hospital rules, so I surely hoped I didn’t have to do any such thing.

  Guess what that girl did? She walked right up to where I was sitting, sat next to me, and said, just as nice as she used to be, “I’m real sorry your mama is sick, April Grace.”

  Well, I was so surprised she’d sit by a “hick” like me, I practically turned to jelly and slid out of my chair. But I said, all prim and proper, “Thank you.”

  “I like your mama. I hope she gets better soon.”

  “Thank you very much, Lottie.”

  There was what is called an Awkward Silence between us while the grown-ups talked to each other in low voices.

  “Is she having the baby now?” asked Lottie.

  I swallowed hard because I did not even want to think about that child, let alone talk about it, but I said, “They’re trying to fix it so she won’t have the baby, ’cause it’s not supposed to be born until the end of January, or maybe first of February.”

  “Oh. I’m real sorry.”

  “Thanks, Lottie.”

  She sat beside me for a little while longer; then her mother called to her.

  “Well,” she said, standing up. “See you later, April Grace.”

  “Yeah, Lottie. Bye.”

  If I hadn’t been so worried about Mama, I would have been purely bumfuzzled—to use a Grandma word—by Lottie Fuhrman. Other than hollering at me when she got pelted with peas from Micky and Ricky, and griping me out about ole J.H. Henry, that day was the first time she had spoken to me directly since school started.

  Myra Sue had been looking out the window, but she walked over to where I sat and said, “You told me that Lottie had become a big fat snob.”

  “She has.”

  “She looked the same to me. And she didn’t act any different from any other time I’ve been around her.”

  “I know,” I said, shrugging. “Maybe she has the Christmas spirit.”

  “Or maybe you just make things up.”

  I refused to argue. I just gave my sister a dark look, then deliberately turned away. If she was in a bad mood, it wasn’t my fault, and I didn’t feel good enough my own personal self to cheer her up right then.

  I kept watching those doors that Daddy had walked through earlier and wished he’d come and say everything was all right.

  Pastor Ross walked in, and I was mighty glad to see him. He brought us a lot of comfort just by his presence. He read some nice scripture, Psalm 91. I liked it a lot, especially those last three verses that say, “Because he hath set his love upon me, therefore will I deliver him: I will set him on high, because he hath known my name. He shall call upon me, and I will answer him: I will be with him in trouble; I will deliver him, and honour him. With long life I will satisfy him, and shew him my salvation.”

  When he closed his Bible, he said a good prayer in his kind, deep voice.

  He stayed with us for a long time, and before he left, he said, “My niece was six and a half weeks premature, and she’s in third grade now, at the top of her class. There is great hope.”

  He had us gather around, then he prayed a real nice, comforting prayer. When he was through, he shook everyone’s hand, including mine, and left.

  “I hope his niece’s mother is just fine, too,” I muttered when he was gone.

  “I’m sure she is,” Ian told me. “April, please try not to worry.”

  “I’m tryin’,” I told him, purely honest.

  He smiled. “I wish you’d come sit beside me and tell me about school. I haven’t gotten much of a chance to talk to you lately.” He cut a glance toward Isabel, who was frowning at one of her fingernails. Ole Myra Sue was looking out the window.

  Ian lowered his voice. “To tell you the truth, I’m a little lonely since we moved into our own place.”

  I shot a look at ole Isabel as I sat down in the chair next to him and asked softly, “Isn’t your wife good company?”

  We met each other’s eyes, and he leaned toward me, whispering, “Not as much as you might think.”

  He grinned at me, and I had to laugh, because I knew— and I was pretty sure he knew that I knew—that Isabel was not a lot of good company for anyone other than Myra Sue.

  Until right then I had never thought about Ian St. James ever being lonely, but I reckon anyone married to Isabel would get that way in a hurry.

  “How come y’all don’t have any kids?” I asked. “They’d be good company for you, I bet.”

  He got kind of a sad look as he nodded. “Yes. Kids would be company. When we were young, we were both so busy with our careers. And Isabel never was too keen on the idea, and now, oh, I don’t know . . . At this point, I think we’re too old for children.”

  “You’re not any older than my folks.”

  “That’s true.” He seemed lost in thought for a while; then he nudged me slightly with his arm. “Tell me about school. How you doing in algebra?”

  “I still hate math.”

  Then I caught him up on school and told him all about how that year had been so weird and how I’d been so worried about Mama and everything at home. I told him about the Lotties and what a pain they were.

  “I wouldn’t worry too much about them, April,” he said.

  “Every school has a clique or two in it.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so. And I can tell you something about the people who are a part of cliques.”

  It sounded like he knew what he was talking about, and besides that, I liked and trusted ole Ian.

  “Tell me,” I said.

  “I used to be in a clique.”

  That did not surprise me as much as he might have thought it would. Maybe he forgot how snobby he was when he first moved to Rough Creek Road. But I wasn’t holding any grudges.

  “I know something now that I did not know then,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Kids in a clique don’t feel good about themselves.”

  I gave him a look because I did not believe that for a minute.

  “It’s true. Take it from an old guy like me who has been around. People who make fun of other people are doing it because they want to make themselve
s feel better. These girls are probably as scared and insecure about being in junior high as you are, so to help them feel strong and brave, they act out. That way, the ones they pick on are so busy feeling bad, the girls won’t notice how scared or vulnerable or confused they are inside. They feel second-best, but they sure don’t want anyone else to know it.”

  Well, I tell you what. I just stared at that man for a good portion of time while I thought about how mean Lottie was to me, and how J.H. Henry was all flirty with me even though I could not stand him, and that seemed to make her meaner than ever.

  “Are you telling me that ole Lottie Fuhrman feels insecure about a certain boy who likes me—who is a total creepazoid, by the way—and she feels like she’s not as good as me because of that, and that’s the reason she acts so rotten?”

  “I’d almost guarantee that’s part of it. You need to realize, too, that maybe Lottie and her friends have troubles at home that no one knows about. A bad home life can make people do rotten things.”

  “I see,” I said slowly, as what Ian told me sank into my brain. Boy, oh boy, if he was right, that put a new light on everything. I reckoned I’d have to pay a little more attention to what was going on, and not be so quick to think mean thoughts about a girl who used to be one of my bestest friends. I mean, there must be some good friendship left in her, ’cause she’d been all nice to me just a little while ago.

  I reckon next semester was going to be a little different than the one I’d just endured.

  “You have given me something to think about,” I told good ole Ian.

  He smiled and gave my braid a gentle tug. “Good. It’ll keep you from worrying so much about everything else.”

  It felt weird in that waiting room, strangers coming and going, and all of us getting so restless, we paced around those shiny tiled floors and looked at million-year-old magazines. Every time someone in those aqua-green scrubs came around, everyone in the waiting room looked up, and I’m sure every last one of us was hoping for good news. Most of the time those medical people just shush-shushed in their quiet shoes right on past us like none of us were even there, all worried and anxious.

  Daddy kept coming in every little bit, telling us things like “She’s doing fine, but her contractions haven’t stopped yet,” or “She’s resting a bit.”

  I was beginning to think we’d be there all night long.

  You won’t believe this, but ole Temple and Isabel actually sat side by side and had the longest conversation you ever heard. It was all about vitamins and nutrition and food additives and all that kind of stuff. I have a feeling Mint Dreams did not make it onto their list of approved foods, but I was not invited to join that discussion anyway.

  When the afternoon wore down and it started to turn evening-gray outside, Ian and Forest went to the farm to do the milking. Them dumb ole cows don’t understand about being inconvenient, and they probably wouldn’t care if they did understand. Cows don’t think about anything but themselves.

  Daddy came into the waiting room again.

  “Her contractions have slowed considerably, and will probably stop completely soon.” He rubbed his hands on his face like he was trying to rub away his tiredness. Then he dropped them and looked at Myra Sue and me. “It’s getting late, and you girls need to go to bed.”

  “Oh, but, Daddy—” I said.

  “No arguments. Grandma will take you home, and when there’s any change, I’ll call, and she can bring you back.”

  “But, Daddy—” I repeated.

  Grandma laid her hand on my shoulder. “Hush, child. Let’s not cause your daddy any more problems than he’s already got. We’ll go home, get us a bite of supper, and then get some rest.”

  I did not like this new development at all. I wanted to be Right There if Mama needed me, but there are times you just can’t convince grown-ups of a blessed thing, and I knew as well as I knew my own name that this was one of those times.

  I gave my daddy a big hard hug, made him promise to call us. Then I grabbed my coat and trudged out to the parking lot with Grandma and Myra.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Unto Us a Child Is Born

  When I got into the car, I kept on praying that God would take care of my mama and that new baby. All the way home I prayed the same thing. When I took a shower, when I put on my pajamas, when I went to bed and I closed my eyes, that prayer just kept running through my mind like a long ribbon that was sewn together at the ends. In the morning, my prayer hung above my head and followed me from place to place.

  “Are we gonna go see Mama today?” I said when I went downstairs for breakfast. Myra was sitting at the table, sleepy-eyed and silent. Grandma was scrambling eggs at the stove.

  “You’ll have to talk to your daddy,” said Grandma.

  “He’s home?” Myra asked, as surprised as I was. “Why didn’t he wake us up?”

  “He came home only long enough to shower and get a change of clothes. He’s heading right back to the hospital.”

  And right then he walked into the kitchen, buckling his belt. His hair was still wet, and he’d nicked himself shaving.

  “Daddy!” I yelled and ran to him. He gave me a hug and kiss.

  “How’s Mama?” I asked.

  “About the same.”

  “So she won’t be home today?” I felt so disappointed I nearly cried.

  “No, honey. I think they’re going to have to keep her a long time.”

  “Oh, Daddy! Then I’ll go get my coat and—”

  “Me, too!” Myra Sue hollered.

  “I’m going back right now, honey, and you girls haven’t eaten your breakfast yet.”

  “I’m not hungry!” I started to dash out the door, but he stopped me.

  “Me either!” Myra echoed.

  “You can come later with Grandma. Right now I want you to eat a good meal. Grandma will make you whatever you want for breakfast.”

  He gave me and Myra Sue another quick kiss each, this time on top of our heads, and then he was gone. There wasn’t much either of us could do about it.

  Believe it or not, I was hungry. Sometimes when I get upset, like yesterday, I can’t eat a single bite because food refuses to go down. Other times, like right then, I could eat the paint right off the walls. I turned to Grandma.

  “Biscuits and gravy, please, with bacon and scrambled eggs and grits and hash browns.”

  And you know what? She made it all, every bit. And I ate it. Myra Sue, too.

  About two o’clock that afternoon, Grandma called Ernie Beason and Rob Estes and filled them in on all that was going on, even though I figured they were all finished with that dating business.

  “Grandma, are you and Ernie and Rob friends again?” I asked as soon as she hung up the phone. “You haven’t gone riding around or to the movies or anything for a while.”

  She gave me a narrow look.

  “Boy howdy,” she said. “Nothing gets past you, does it, April?”

  “Not much, if I can help it. So are you friends again?”

  She blew out a breath. “We ain’t never stopped being friends, child. But I reckon we all needed a break.”

  I frowned, trying to figure out my grandma’s love life. She walked into the living room, and I trotted right along behind her. “So you gonna start dating that Methodist preacher, and if you do, you reckon he’d take me on a ride in his Mustang?”

  “April Grace Reilly!” she said as she settled down into the recliner. “Number one: None of this is any of your business, and number two: Going out with someone just so’s you can ride in his car would be a poor act of character. Now, leave me be. I want to take a nap.”

  I hushed up because I sensed if I probed much further into this subject, I might end up standing in the corner, which is what Grandma used to make me do when I was a little kid and she couldn’t get me to hush.

  Grandma adjusted the footrest and stretched out in that recliner.

  I was reading my Nancy Drew book and my grandmother was snor
ing softly when the telephone rang. The sound startled her so bad, she like to have fallen right out of the chair.

  “I’ll get it!” I shouted, running toward the phone in the hallway. But wouldn’t you know, that rotten ole Myra Sue reached it before I did.

  “Hello? Hi, Daddy! Yes, Grandma’s in the living room. Okay, hang on.”

  “Let me talk to him,” I said, grabbing for the phone.

  She jerked back, holding the phone to her chest with her back to me, and yelled, “Grandma! Daddy wants to talk to you.”

  “Ask him how Mama is! Myra Sue, ask Daddy how Mama is. Ask if he knows when they’re coming home.”

  Grandma bustled into the hallway and took the phone from my sister. She frowned at us both like we were being brats. Which, I guess if you’re gonna be technical about it, we were.

  “Mike? How’s Lily?”

  I watched as her eyes got wide and the color drained from her face.

  I reached out and grabbed Myra Sue. And she let me. In fact, she grabbed me back. We both stared at Grandma.

  “Yes,” she said into the mouthpiece. “Of course, Mike.

  We’ll be there soon.”

  She swallowed hard and hung up the telephone.

  “Grandma?” Myra Sue said, sounding as choked up as I felt.

  “Girls,” she said, gripping the edge of the telephone table, “your mama is in the delivery room.”

  We gawked at her until our eyeballs nearly popped out and rolled across the floor.

  “Mama is having that baby now?” I hollered.

  She nodded.

  “But . . . I thought it was too early,” Myra Sue said.

  “Daddy said they were going to stop her pains so it wouldn’t get born so soon.”

  Grandma took a deep breath, let go of the table, and stood straight.

  “Sometimes modern medicine doesn’t do what it’s supposed to.” She took another deep breath. “Well, it’s in God’s hands now.”

  “Grandma?” I asked.

  “Woo?” Her woo came out all soft and not like her usual woo at all.

  “Will Mama die having that baby so early?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so, honey. Babies come early all the time.”