Darby

by Jonathon Scott Fuqua

  Dropping the drenched blanket out the window, Daddy checked on Annie Jane. He put a thumb against the bump on her head. “You got it pretty good, huh?” he said.

  “It ain’t nothing, Mr. Carmichael, but a good knot and a scratch.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Carmichael. You go on and mind Darby,” she instructed.

  Directly, Daddy turned and came over to me. “Darby, sweetheart, you okay?”

  “Daddy,” I sniffled, “my arm . . . it hurts to high heaven.”

  Daddy gently lifted my throbbing wrist and gave it a good inspection.

  I grunted in pain.

  Daddy whispered, “Darby, sweetie, you did something to it, that’s for sure.” He touched around a swelled-up area.

  Whimpering, I said, “I tumbled down the steps is how. That’s how I did it, I guess.”

  It turned out a lot of people got it worse than me during the storm, but being that my daddy is considered a real important person, an hour later Dr. McNeil came out to Ellan and wrapped my arm with a long, narrow strip of cotton. With his glasses hanging on the tip of his nose, he told me it wasn’t a break but a sprain and that I’d be feeling better so quick it wasn’t worth me going to his office. From out of his doctor’s bag, he found a clear bottle of medicine. “You drink a tablespoon of this before bed,” he instructed. But that stuff tasted so bad I couldn’t even stand to smell it. I’d have rather hurt all over than swallow a tiny thimbleful.

  Marlboro County was a mess. Things were flooded and trees were all the sudden bare, their colorful November leaves torn off in the wind. At Ellan, two shutters had been ripped and tossed into the backyard, and a whole row of shingles had cracked and slid off the roof. Plus, Daddy said that the window in our parlor was ruined. On the ground, tree limbs were scattered, and all of the flowers on my daddy’s camellia bushes had been blown clean off. Worse, my mama’s pecans were littered across the yard and down past the dairy barn. It took us days to gather them up.

  All over, people had stories, the best being old Mr. MacKnight’s. He says that after the storm passed, he went about checking his outbuildings, and when he got to where his mule barn was supposed to be, the whole thing was missing. Scared, he looked everywhere for it. At daybreak, he says he rose and drove the fields around his house, looking and looking. Finally, just as he was giving up, he spotted the barn way down a dirt lane in the middle of a cornfield. When he reached it, he said that the outside looked fine, like nothing at all had happened. Excited, he flung open the barn doors . . . and there were all his mules, happy as can be after getting picked up and carried for almost half a mile. He says he was so relieved that he trembled like the biggest baby you ever saw.

  Daddy told me that people don’t believe Mr. MacKnight’s story. A man who should know says that the barn always was right there and that Mr. MacKnight was getting too old and lonely to remember where his own outhouse was. Still, I believe him. I believe that a tornado could’ve done that sort of thing, because if one did, it means there’s a small amount of magic in the world.

  The morning after the storm, the front page of the Bennettsville Times announced, “Massive Front Brings Storms and Tornadoes.” A smaller headline explained, “Tree Falls on One of Bennettsville’s Finest Homes and the Gulf Floods.” The whole top portion of the front page was filled with that stuff. It even had a picture of a tornado in a cotton field. Still, there was plenty of room left for other articles. Underneath the top half of the paper, there was a story about the price of cotton falling and falling and another that told how a dog in Brownsville could bark “The Star-Spangled Banner” nearly perfect. At the very bottom, in a box, Mr. Salter had run my column. Above it, he’d written in medium-sized letters, “The Enlightened Views of a Child.” In smaller words was written, “Another article by Marlboro County’s favorite columnist, Little Darby Carmichael, with editorial assistance from Evette.”

  My daddy calls my article the second big storm in as many days, but I don’t exactly agree; my story didn’t push over trees or knock down houses. It didn’t do what the cold front did.

  The funny thing is, when I went to school in the morning, I didn’t even remember that my newspaper article was coming out. All I could think about was the storm and tumbling down the steps. I was telling everyone about that. I said, “Then the lights went out, and I nearly flew through the air, bashing my arm on the floor.” When Principal Casper requested my company halfway through arithmetic, I had no idea what he wanted. Shuffling down the hall, I figured he was mad at me for calling an older girl “dumb as dirt” the day before.

  Closing his office door, Principal Casper didn’t say a word, not right off. He sat down behind his desk and stared at me.

  “Yes, sir?” I asked him, nervous.

  He fanned a hand above the newspaper on his desk.

  When I saw my article, I spouted, “It came out!”

  Cracking his knuckles, he growled, “Yes, it did.” His eyes flared. “You do realize that this is going to cause a certain amount of uproar? You do realize that?”

  I was so surprised, I couldn’t move or speak.

  “It’s the kind of thing a lot of parents aren’t going to like. It’s the kind of thing some of your friends might not like, either. This story could make you very unpopular.”

  I whispered, “Saying the truth is what newspaper girls do.”

  “Maybe and maybe not, Miss Carmichael. Listen, I won’t beat around the bush here.” He leaned forward so that all I could see was his big head. “I’m glad you enjoy writing for the newspaper, but I don’t ever want you doing something like this again. I don’t need this kind of headache. You hear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “After church on Sunday, I’ll talk to your parents about this, too. Now, please, Miss Carmichael, return to your class.”

  Worried, I scuffed down the fancy hallway and up the steps and scooted back into my desk alongside Beth, who I smiled at. I looked around the room at my friends and the Lint Heads from the Mill Village, and I wondered which of them would hate me now. I wished I’d kept my big trap shut and that Mr. Salter hadn’t put my column in his paper.

  Before leaving for lunch, Beth asked, “What did Principal Casper want?”

  Staring at the floor, I answered, “To talk about my newspaper column.”

  She said, “That’s all?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I was worried you were in trouble.”

  “I wasn’t,” I told her.

  She said, “See you after lunch.”

  “See ya.”

  While classmates left for home, I fetched my coat, and while I was yanking it on, Miss Burstin walked over and put her arm around my shoulders. “Darby, dear, I’d like you to walk with me to lunch, okay? I feel like I should say a few things.”

  Uneasy, I answered, “Yes, ma’am.”

  Once everyone was gone, me and Miss Burstin went down the steps and out onto the front walk. Underneath a bare tree, she stopped, and said, “You told me that Mr. Salter wasn’t interested in your latest story.”

  I twisted and looked at her. “He . . . he wasn’t till he thought about it. After he did, he decided that he should put it in his paper.”

  She nodded. “Darby, sweetheart, I’m sure you know that you’ve upset some people. Some are going to be very unhappy about the subject of your column.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I answered.

  “Still,” she said, “I want you to know how exceptionally proud of you I am. I really am.”

  Taken aback, I smiled weakly. “You are?”

  “It was a very heartfelt piece of writing,” she explained as she started walking again, her pretty shoes making a hollow sound on the leaf-covered cement.

  I asked, “Miss Burstin, what’s heartfelt mean?”

  “It means it was genuine, from the heart,” she told me as we approached the house where all the teachers live and eat their meals.

  “Miss Burstin, what’s enlighte
ned mean?”

  “As in the name of your column?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Mr. Salter named my article. That’s why I don’t know the word.”

  “It means intelligent. When Mr. Salter wrote ‘The Enlightened Views of a Child,’ he was trying to say that you see this particular issue more clearly than many adults.”

  “Does he think I’m smarter than some adults?”

  “Maybe,” she answered.

  “You think I am?”

  “Possibly,” she told me, chuckling.

  Feeling better, I laughed, too. “Do you think some of the class is gonna hate me?”

  Stepping from a curb, Miss Burstin said, “No, because I won’t tolerate that kind of behavior.”

  At lunch, we got seated and said our prayers and passed the food. The teachers and farm kids around me ate so quietly you could hear their spoons and forks scraping across the plates or spearing pieces of meat. It was awful. After lunch was over, Miss Burstin walked with me back to the Murchison School, and I said, “No one even admitted they read my story.”

  “Some will, Darby, and some won’t,” she said.

  When school was done, I decided to stay in town with Beth. I didn’t really want to see Evette just yet. I jammed my books beneath my good arm, and we left the Murchison School. Hopping down the front steps one at a time, we laughed. It felt like our legs were roped together. Cutting catty-corner across the school’s front field, we started toward Beth’s house. Below our feet, leaves and twigs were as thick as a rug. Walking along, kicking through their floppy wetness, I felt strange and didn’t know if I was sad or happy. I didn’t know if I wanted people to be mad about my story or if I wanted them to like it.

  “You’re not listening,” Beth notified me.

  “Sorry,” I told her. “What did you say?”

  “I . . . I asked what McCall’s favorite color is. Do you know?”

  “Naw. Why are you wondering?”

  “Just to talk,” she told me. “I don’t care.”

  “Maybe he likes brown.”

  “Well, do you think he likes pink a little?”

  “He might,” I said.

  We kept going, and a man working in a yard stopped his raking and glowered, as mean as a crow, at me. Putting a cigarette to his mouth, he drew in and held the smoke in his chest for a second. Then he let it trickle out from around his tongue. Taking the cigarette and pointing the back part toward us, he said, “You should oughta stick to writing about toads, Darby Carmichael.”

  Fearful that the man was going to do something terrible, me and Beth started running as fast as we could. I practically flew down that skinny street with all its sweet-seeming places and shortish trees. It was strange, because that part of Bennettsville had never before seemed like a creepy place.

  When I finally stopped, Beth caught up and gave me one of my books.

  “I didn’t even know I dropped it,” I told her, huffing for air.

  “I saw it squirt out,” she said, huffing too.

  Looking back, I watched the mean man rake his yard.

  Beth said, “During lunch, Daddy and Mama told me your new story’s real brave and smart.”

  I told her, “Principal Casper said that some people might not like me anymore because of it. He said that my column might make me real unpopular at school.”

  Walking beside me, Beth all of a sudden laughed. “You know what? It doesn’t matter, because I think he’s got the biggest head I’ve ever seen.”

  I snickered when she said that. “It reminds me of one of those dogs who saves people in the mountains.”

  She said, “You mean a St. Bernard.”

  “Yeah.”

  Beth bounced up and down on her toes, making her dress jump at her knees. “Well, if people still like Principal Casper, they’re still gonna like you, ’cause your head is normal size.”

  With my thumb, I pointed behind us. “Wasn’t that man back there stupid?”

  Beth declared, “He’s an egg-sucking dog.”

  It took me a second to realize that Beth had said something nasty. Feeling better, I yelped, “Yeah.” Then I barked and made a slurping sound.

  “Egg-sucking dog!” Beth hollered without looking back.

  At Beth’s house, the cook cut us large hunks of corn bread and put butter on top. Together, we went outside to her daddy’s driveway and drew up hopscotch squares with chalk. Finding rocks, we tossed them into our long, long hopscotch arrangement, then started jumping. For some reason, I’ve always been better than Beth. I can do hopscotch perfect almost every time, including when I’m wearing a thick coat and have an achy wrist.

  We fooled around for a long while, but we didn’t keep a score.

  Late in the afternoon, Chester came home from somewhere. Stopping at the back door, he turned stiffly and gave me a quick wave.

  I raised my hand, telling Beth, “He waved.”

  “He’s really dumb,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “’Cause he got in trouble yesterday and has to stay after school all week.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t his fault.”

  “I bet it was,” she declared, pitching her rock onto our hopscotch course.

  Shortly, Chester came outside. He toddled toward us, keeping his head tilted sideways, like there was something messed-up about his neck. He stopped by our chalk boxes, and, as soft as can be, he asked if me and Beth wanted to ride on his goat cart.

  “Yeah,” I said, thinking about how I’d hugged him the afternoon before.

  “I’ll go get it,” he said, like we were forcing him.

  We went on playing hopscotch until Chester and Mercury clip-clopped over from the barn. Getting into the cart, me and Beth sat alongside each other. “This is nice to do,” I told Chester.

  “I reckon,” he agreed. “Where do you wanna go?”

  “Into town, I guess,” Beth said.

  “Yeah,” I agreed.

  Flicking the reins, Chester got Mercury moving along, and we rattled down the drive and out onto the street. Rolling slow, I wished I had a fancy goat cart out at Ellan. But I knew one wouldn’t be any good there. It wouldn’t be able to get through the mud and ruts of our dirt lane.

  On Main Street, we wiggle-wobbled past the Auto Fountain and the A&P. Cars and horse wagons jumbled past us, moving a whole lot quicker. As we waited to cross South Parsonage Street, on the opposite sidewalk, a waitress from the Sanitary Café waved at us.

  I waved back.

  A minute or so later, a man who is a regular in my daddy’s store said, “Well, if it ain’t Marlboro County’s favorite columnist.”

  I smiled.

  Farther down, on the Carmichael Block, a man who stacks boxes at the Lewis & Breeden drugstore said, “Hello, Little Darby.”

  “Hey, sir,” I said.

  Chester gave Mercury’s reins a yank, which stopped the goat cold. Twisting about, he asked, “Why’s everyone acting so different?”

  “I think it’s on account of my newspaper story.”

  When Daddy and me got home that Wednesday night, Mama was as hot as a firecracker. As we pulled into the car barn, she rushed out the back door of Ellan. By the time Daddy cut off the engine and got from the car, Mama was standing directly in front of him, breathing hard from running. Face knotty with anger, she shook a finger like it was a stick. “Sherman Carmichael, I’ll have you know that the telephone started ringing at ten in the morning. Friends of ours, people I’ve known since the day I came here to teach, were calling to ask what we were thinking. It rang all morning, and they all had the same question, What were we thinking?”

  With her eyes narrowed, Mama leaned toward Daddy, and demanded, “What was going on in your head? You tell me, because I surely don’t have any idea. How could you let our daughter put that kind of rabble-rousing, that sort of writing in the paper? Do you want to start another controversy in this county? Is that what you want? Because that’s what people are asking.”

  I blabbered,
“Mama?”

  Swinging about, she glowered at me like one of McCall’s wolverines. “Darby, don’t say a word, because right now I have a mind to keep you from ever seeing your friend Evette again. Do you hear me?”

  Daddy said, “If we’re going to argue, we should do it in private.”

  “I don’t want to do it in private, Sherm! I want Darby to see what she has done to this family.”

  “What’s that going to do?”

  “It’s going to teach her.”

  “It won’t,” Daddy declared. “It won’t at all, because I was the one who made the decision to run the article. I made the choice, and I’ll stand up for it.”

  Mama said, “I’m sure you will.”

  “That’s right, I’m going to. Because it’s important that something like this gets said. Besides, this isn’t about blacks exactly. It’s about being humane. That’s all.”

  Mama said, “Living here is not about being humane. It’s about watching out for your family, making sure you provide.”

  Daddy told her, “We’re going to be fine, Darby. We’ve got resources. We’ve got land and the store.”

  Shaking her head, Mama slowly leaned and fell against Daddy, who hugged her softly. “You should’ve told me this story was going to come out,” she hissed.

  “Maybe,” he agreed. “But I didn’t, and I’m sorry.”

  Mama started crying. I could see the tears rolling down her cheeks. “It’s just that I keep remembering that you two were already threatened once . . . and . . .”

  “And we’ll probably get threatened again,” Daddy told her. “As long as it’s threats.”

  She said, “I . . . I don’t understand why you’re acting this way, Sherman. I don’t. You never even used to think about this sort of thing before.”

  Daddy said, “I did. I always have known what’s right and what’s wrong. I just never saw a boy beaten to death for stealing a chicken. It pushed me.”

  Mama didn’t speak. Instead, she continued crying on Daddy’s shoulder, making me real uncomfortable. Already I was tired from the strange way people had treated me all day, and seeing Mama like that made me near about exhausted.