The Secret Sense of Wildflower

by Susan Gabriel

  Mary Jane and I are always trying to outdo each other by talking grand.

  “I thought I’d keel over and die without you!” Mary Jane says.

  I roll my eyes, calling a halt to the contest.

  Mary Jane also has more freckles on her face than all the people in Katy’s Ridge combined. One day last year we started counting them during recess and got up to 84 before we had to go back inside. People expect her to have a fiery temper, too, but in all the years I’ve known her I’ve never seen even a hint of one. If anything, I should have red hair instead of her.

  We spend the whole morning in Mary Jane’s room and she shows me her new school clothes. Preacher says coveting is a sin. Coveting has to do with wanting what other people have, like their land, their wives or mules. I figure this goes for new dresses, too, even though I’d much prefer a new pair of overalls.

  Amy makes everything we McAllister’s wear and she makes them sturdy—dresses and pants alike. But when it comes to the day-to-day living of life, dresses just aren’t practical. Bare legs attract all sorts of annoying things like cuts, scrapes and bug bites. Not to mention that every time I take a notion to swing in grade school, boys try to sneak a peek at my underpants.

  Meg says high school boy’s eyes wander more to the top part of a girl than the bottom and since I don’t have much to show in that department, I should be fine. At least I’ve had practice with Johnny Monroe.

  “Look at this one,” Mary Jane says. She takes a dress out of a J.C. Penney box and drapes it across her arm like it is a mink stole.

  “That must have cost a fortune,” I say.

  “How about two fortunes,” Mary Jane says.

  I lie across Mary Jane’s bed, finding it impossible not to covet the J.C. Penney dress before me. It is green plaid and looks like something Katherine Hepburn might wear. I promise myself that the next time I visit the graveyard I will send God, by way of Daddy, my apologies for this latest weakness of mine.

  “Grandma also bought me these,” Mary Jane says.

  I gasp when Mary Jane brings out a brand new box of colored pencils and a pad of drawing paper. I have never in my life owned a box of colored pencils. At best, I’ve inherited broken crayon stubs, previously used by Jo, Amy, and Meg, kept in an old cigar box. Temptation grows stronger and I feel a sin coming on. Not coveting Mary Jane’s new art supplies is much harder than not coveting her dresses and seems an unfair challenge for God to throw at me.

  Thou shalt not covet thy friend’s art supplies, may very well be the hardest commandment of all.

  Think of all the pictures those colored pencils could make, with their perfectly sharpened tips. This temptation, as Preacher would be happy to point out, puts me right in my very own Garden of Eden talking to the snake. A snake that has every intention of getting me to bite into that apple. Truth be told, I would not hesitate to take a hefty bite out of that wicked fruit if promised art supplies. A fact, of which, I am not particularly proud.

  “So what have you been doing all summer?” Mary Jane asks.

  “Staying clear of Johnny Monroe, mainly,” I say.

  “He’s disgusting,” she says. She uses her hands to smooth some of the creases in the dress.

  “Disgusting just about sums it up,” I say.

  “None of the boys in Katy’s Ridge are even worth looking at,” she says for about the hundredth time. “However, Little Rock is full of cute boys.”

  I listen for the next thirty minutes to Mary Jane describe different boys in Little Rock, Arkansas. Her report is so titillating, I start to doze off.

  “So have you been to the graveyard lately?” she asks, at the end of her litany.

  Her question startles me awake.

  “Nearly every day,” I say.

  Mary Jane is the only person in the world who knows why visiting Daddy is important to me: I’m afraid I’ll forget him. The longer he’s dead, the more I play moving pictures of him in my mind, anchoring his memory in place.

  Just this morning I remembered how when I was a little girl I’d pretend to shave with him. I played that memory over and over in my mind like I was memorizing a poem for school, except this poem wasn’t words but images. I’d use a stick as a razor, imitating him while he stood on the front porch. During the warmer months he always shaved squinting into a tiny mirror tacked up on the house. A basin of soapy water collected the tiny whiskers until he threw it out into the ivy underneath the pine tree beside the porch. He told me that whiskers would grow like pole beans under that pine, and for years I believed him, but they never did.

  “I think I’ll wear this one the first day back to school,” Mary Jane says. She holds up a yellow dress with a green belt. She admires it, her hands on her hips. Unlike me, Mary Jane has filled out instead of up.

  “I got a new dress for my birthday,” I say. “Amy sewed it.”

  “Amy’s the best seamstress in Katy’s Ridge,” she says. “Anything she makes is much nicer than these store bought things.”

  Mary Jane probably knows that if she ever rubs it in about how much more she has than me, we wouldn’t be friends. Her grandmother in Little Rock is rich and both my grandmothers are dead. My grandmother on my mother’s side died before I was born and the one from my father’s side died when I was five. Not to mention that with Daddy gone we barely have any money at all. The government sends Mama a little, but the rest she makes up by selling things in Rocky Bluff like quilts and canned jams and jellies.

  Most of the time, I can be happy about Mary Jane’s good fortune. But lately, since my birthday, at least, I’ve felt sorry for myself and thought more about what I don’t have instead of what I do.

  “Well, hello Louisa May. Did you have a nice summer?” Mary Jane’s mother doesn’t look at me but admires the dresses spread out across the room.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say, wondering why grownups always ask questions instead of talking to you like a normal person.

  Even when she’s relaxed, Mary Jane’s mom stands rigid like she has a board strapped to her back and looks taller than most women. Mary Jane is so short you’d never think that they were even related. In my family, Meg and Amy look just like Mama and people say I look just like Daddy. Jo doesn’t look like anybody, except maybe a movie star. And as far as I can tell, Mary Jane doesn’t look like anybody, either, except maybe her grandmother.

  “Louisa May, would you like to stay for dinner?” Mary Jane’s mother asks.

  Mary Jane and I smile at each other like life is good and just got better. “Yes, ma’am,” I say. “But I’ll need to ask first.”

  “That’s fine,” she says. She walks over and smoothes the creases of Mary Jane’s new dress with one of her hands. I see the family resemblance in her actions. “Maybe Louisa May would like some of your older dresses, dear,” she says to Mary Jane before she leaves, as if it has suddenly occurred to her to have pity on me.

  Mary Jane’s eyes widen and she looks over at me like I might take a swing at her own mother. She knows I hate being pitied. But instead of reacting, I take a deep breath and sit on my hands. I’ve faced enough temptation for one day.

  According to Preacher, Jesus wants us to turn the other cheek when someone insults us, so I say, “No thank you, ma’am,” and bite my lip to keep from smiting Mary Jane’s kin.

  Given the sheer number of church potlucks we’ve all attended over the years, it is a well-known fact that Mary Jane’s mother can’t cook nearly as well as mine. But her family always eats off fancy dishes that have ivy leaves painted all around the edges and were made in China. I also like that Mary Jane has a father sitting at the table, which reminds me of how my family used to be.

  Mary Jane and I walk down the road to tell Mama I won’t be home for dinner. We are good at moseying and set out to do just that. I already dread the thought of seeing Johnny Monroe on the road and wish we had a telephone so we could just call instead of walk the mile to my house.

  Mary Jane’s parents own the only telephone
in Katy’s Ridge. If anybody needs help they go there to call the ambulance in Rocky Bluff. Otherwise, they go to Doc Lester, who isn’t really a doctor, but went to veterinary school for a year and still has all the books. Doc Lester smells funny, a sickly combination of rubbing alcohol, hair tonic and cow manure.

  It is hot for September and the dirt from the road sticks to our legs as we walk. Mary Jane and I take turns swatting horse flies that love to drink the salty sweat from the creases of our elbows and knees.

  We come to the crossroad, about halfway between our two houses, and there stands Johnny Monroe, kicking up the dirt with his scuffed up boots.

  “Well, look who’s here,” Johnny says. “Twiddle Dee and Twiddle Dum.” He gives the dirt an extra kick.

  Though I am already staring at my shoes, this statement almost prompts me to look up. Not because I am insulted, but because it amazes me that Johnny has ever read a book, especially Alice in Wonderland. I decide he must have heard someone else say it.

  “What do we do?” Mary Jane whispers to me. She matches my stance, lowering her head and hunching her shoulders since she actually has something to hide.

  “Just keep walking and don’t say anything,” I whisper back.

  Since Mary Jane doesn’t have to pass this way to go to school, she hasn’t had as many dealings with Johnny as I have.

  “You girls want to go into the woods and have a little fun?” Johnny laughs.

  Something in the way he laughs makes me look up just long enough to see a trickle of brown juice from Johnny’s tobacco chew running down his chin. My half-digested lunch quickly rises from my stomach and lodges in my throat. I taste parts of it before swallowing it. Then I grit my teeth and resist the urge to grab a stick and knock the holy crap out of him.

  Mary Jane reaches over and grabs my hand. We squeeze courage into each other’s palms and walk straight ahead like God has parted the Red Sea and the Promised Land is around the next bend.

  “Hey, you all want to see what’s in my pocket?” Johnny says.

  I can practically hear the smirk he must have on his face. Mary Jane gasps. I keep staring at my shoes, like they are the most fascinating worn-out oxfords on earth. Out of the corner of my eye I see Johnny holding the front of his pants.

  “You’re disgusting!” I yell, before I can stop myself.

  Johnny laughs again and Mary Jane and I start running and don’t stop until we get to the mailboxes in front of my house. We collapse on the side of the dirt road in a bed of clover gasping for air amidst the dust we rustled up.

  “Did you see what he did?” Mary Jane asks, after she’s caught her breath. “He’s like some old horny dog.” She fans her face that is still flushed from running. When Mary Jane runs, her face turns as red as her hair and her freckles blend into the background. “Do you think we should tell somebody?” she adds.

  “I don’t know,” I say. Even though I’m smart when it comes to school subjects, I feel dumb when it comes to Johnny Monroe.

  “If I tell Mama and Daddy they may not let me out of the house again until I’m thirty,” Mary Jane says. “What about your mama?”

  “She’ll think I caused it.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “I know,” I say. “But Mama thinks I draw trouble the way flowers draw bees.”

  Mary Jane huffs. “Johnny Monroe is as mean as a rattlesnake, and that has nothing to do with you.”

  Horseflies catch up with us and we swat them again as I ponder what to do about Johnny Monroe. My life would be a lot simpler if he just dropped off the face of the earth. Next time I’m at the cemetery I think I’ll ask God to arrange it.

  CHAPTER SIX

  We rest at the mailboxes at the bottom of our hill.

  “Johnny Monroe is like a boil on my backside,” I say to Mary Jane, which is about as true a statement as I’ve ever said. Though I’ve never had one.

  Mary Jane laughs and I catch her laughing like a summer cold. Right there in the middle of the road we double over, tears in our eyes. Laughter is the perfect tonic after being so scared and I wonder if Aunt Sadie should try to bottle our giggles instead of her root concoctions that taste like something you shouldn’t put in your mouth.

  Cecil Appleby, Meg’s ride to work, comes around the corner in his truck a little too fast for the curve. To avoid hitting us, he slams on his brakes, leaving tire tracks in the dirt and a shower of dust behind him. We cough from the dust and laugh more.

  My sister, Meg, gets out of the truck and thanks Cecil for the ride. Before he drives away, Cecil gives us a quick lecture on the sheer stupidity of playing in the road. While he does, I can’t stop looking at the strawberry birthmark that covers one entire side of his face. Cecil is a deacon at the church and a friend of Preachers.

  “Aren’t you too old to play in the road?” Meg asks. She sounds a little like Mama. I guess because she’s tired.

  “We weren’t playing in the road,” I say. “We were resting and laughing. There’s a big difference.”

  Meg asks Mary Jane about her summer in Arkansas and Mary Jane starts telling about all her J.C. Penney dresses. To avoid temptation, I pick at a scab on my knee until it bleeds. When they quit talking Meg rubs the top of my head, like she used to do when I was younger and I yell at her to stop. She smiles as if pleased that she’s irritated me and starts up the hill toward the house. A paperback book sticks out of the top of her purse and I yell that she’d better hide it. She stops long enough to push it deep into her bag and thanks me for looking out for her.

  “Maybe we should tell Meg,” Mary Jane says. She moves to sit on a big rock next to our mailbox. “She’s probably the reason Johnny’s hanging around so much anyway.”

  Tiny grains of grit from the road are in my mouth and I try to spit them out. “If we tell anyone it should be Daniel,” I say. “He’ll know what to do.”

  “I like Daniel,” she says. “He reminds me of Clark Gable in Gone with the Wind.”

  “Everybody likes Daniel,” I say. “And he doesn’t look anything like Clark Gable.”

  Ever since Mary Jane saw the movie in Little Rock, she can’t quit talking about it.

  We cross the street and climb the hill toward Jo and Daniel’s house. In Katy’s Ridge everything is on a hill. We find Daniel just home from work and watering his vegetable garden at the back of the house. Late tomatoes and green beans are coming in and a few summer squash. Pumpkins are growing, too. Yellow starburst blooms dot the vines.

  “Hey, Wildflower. Hey, Mary Jane,” he says when he sees us.

  I like that he calls me by my chosen name.

  “We need to talk to you,” I say, real serious.

  He turns over the empty bucket and sits on it like a chair. “I’m ready,” he says, a hand on each knee.

  Mary Jane passes me a look that says she’s just appointed me spokesperson. Words stick in my throat like a primed pump that hasn’t pulled water yet. Unlike Mama, who would already be off doing something else, Daniel seems content to wait.

  Mary Jane nudges me in the ribs and the words rush out fast. “Johnny Monroe said some things to us he shouldn’t have said.”

  “Like what?” Daniel asks.

  My stomach feels jittery, like a hive of bees is buzzing around inside. I can’t shake the feeling that God might send lightning or a hailstorm to Katy’s Ridge if I tell what Johnny said, and that even though we didn’t do anything wrong, I’ll end up getting punished for it. I remind myself about what Daddy said about fear being a friend and then wonder if this friend and the secret sense are somehow in cahoots.

  “He asked us to go into the woods with him,” I say finally, “and he wanted to show us what was in his pocket.” The words don’t sound as bad as Johnny’s actions.

  “He unbuttoned his overalls and touched himself!” Mary Jane blurts, like this is the part she’s been dying to say.

  Daniel’s eyes widen, like the whole picture has come as crystal clear as Syler's Pond. He says something und
er his breath and then rises from his bucket. “I’ll take care of it,” he says, tucking his shirt-tail into his pants.

  “Don’t tell Mama,” I beg Daniel.

  “She’s your mama, Wildflower, she has a right to know,” he says.

  “She’ll just ask a bunch of her questions and then blame me for it,” I say. “And please don’t tell Jo, either.”

  Daniel chews on a piece of straw like he’s thinking hard.

  “After Daddy died, you said I could come to you and talk about anything,” I remind him. “You said I could trust you.” I figure this is just what he needs to be able to keep the secret.

  Daniel pauses, like he’s giving it some thought. “I guess you don’t want your folks to know about it, either,” he says to Mary Jane.

  “No, sir,” she says. “They’ll send me to live in Little Rock with my Granny.”

  Daniel agrees to keep our secret but on the condition that if anything like this happens again, he’s telling everybody. Mary Jane and I agree. We even shake on it.

  “I’m eating dinner at Mary Jane’s,” I say, “and we have to walk by Johnny to get back to her house.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Daniel offers.

  “I have to go tell Mama first, about dinner,” I say.

  “Come by here when you’re ready to go back,” Daniel says. “Johnny Monroe won’t do anything while I’m around.”

  For the first time in ages it feels like the boil on my backside might have been lanced. At the house, Mama is busy canning and doesn’t catch on that anything has happened. When I tell her I’m eating at Mary Jane’s, she looks downright relieved. Before we leave Mama makes us each a big glass of lemonade and asks Mary Jane about her summer in Little Rock, while stirring a big pot of boiling tomatoes. I can’t remember the last time Mama showed this much interest in me. I try not to get jealous because I am sure somewhere in the Bible it says, Thou shalt not be jealous of thy best friend getting attention, or some such thing. The Bible has a saying for everything, especially for the things you should not do.