by Ruth White
Phyllis won that round. Mama left the room in defeat. We tumbled out of bed and put on our britches and sweaters. I put on socks and shoes, too, but Phyllis, of course, went barefooted as usual. I didn’t mention it. No need to stir her up now. Taking Nessie along, we went down to open our presents. There was a foot of snow outside, and the hills were brilliant and sparkling in the morning sun.
There were presents piled all over the place, and suddenly I was excited. Nessie bounced around like she had good sense.
Such a Christmas! I thought.
Mama silently handed out presents. She was mad. Vern was nowhere to be seen and I guessed he was next door talking to Mr. Horn.
I got a white Banlon cardigan from Mama and a black wool pleated skirt from Vern, a package of ponytail holders in assorted colors from Phyllis and a pocketbook from Beau and Luther. I was opening up my last package when Vern walked in and stood there looking at us in silence. He had his hands in his overall pockets, which meant he had something heavy on his mind. Everybody, even Nessie, got quiet and looked at him. He cleared his throat.
“Well, Phyllis, Tiny …” he said, and stopped.
“Did you talk to Mr. Horn?” Phyllis asked.
“Yes, I did,” Vern said. “And he wants his dog back right now.”
With that, Phyllis went into her squealing routine again. It was almost more than anyone could bear. Mama and I covered our ears, Beau and Luther cussed, but you couldn’t hear them over the din, Nessie wiggled behind the couch, and Vern looked pained. I felt a little sorry for him.
Suddenly he went to the fireplace, plucked the old Civil War musket off the wall, and marched back outside. Phyllis was shocked into silence, and a ringing reverberated where her screech had been. We all gaped at each other.
“What … ?”
“Do you reckon … ?”
“Naw, it can’t be.”
But it was. About two minutes later, Vern came back in empty-handed.
“Merry Christmas,” he muttered. “You got yourselfs a dawg.”
Phyllis flew into her daddy’s arms and covered him with kisses. I could only stand there in complete shock, afraid to believe.
“And you can’t thank the old man?” Vern teased me, grinning.
I looked at Mama and she was grinning, too. It was really true. Vern had traded his gun for Nessie. I kissed Vern on the cheek.
“Thanks.”
Then I went crawling behind the couch calling Nessie.
I volunteered to clean up the kitchen after breakfast while everybody else watched the Mormon Tabernacle Choir on the television. Nessie stayed right with me, half the time under my feet. Then Vern came in and poured himself another glass of bourbon.
“This is the best Christmas I ever had, Vern,” I said to him.
He put his arm across my shoulder.
“You’re growing up to be such a pretty thing,” he said. “You know I love you, Tiny.”
I giggled, feeling nervous and uncomfortable.
“I mean it,” he said seriously.
Then he kissed me on the cheek.
“I love you,” he said again.
FIFTEEN
There followed wonderful and happy days, close days for me and my sister. We spent all our free time together with Nessie, washing her in the bathtub when Vern was gone, teaching her tricks like fetch-if-you-feel-like-it, and most of the time she didn’t. “Sit” and “stay,” to Nessie, both meant roll over, and she did that perfectly. We sometimes laughed at her till we cried, and she laughed with us.
I found out Phyllis would do reasonable things like wear her socks and shoes if I was nice to her, and that Christmas morning when Nessie came to us was the last time we ever heard Phyllis squeal like a pig.
Sometimes on Sundays, Vern took us up on Ruby Mountain, where we ran and ran across the windy mountaintop. We holed up in the log cabin and did girl things like comb each other’s hair and paint each other’s fingernails.
We crept up under the weeping willow away from the world and made up stories about long ago and far away. And always between us there was Nessie, agreeable and lovable, swishing her tail. We brushed her and cleaned the burrs out of her coat, scratched her belly and kissed her nose. We spoiled her to pieces and she loved us.
In April the mountains came alive with color and sweet smells, with wild buttercups and lilacs, apple and cherry and dogwood trees, and all kinds of wildflowers.
Then one day I heard Phyllis talking on the phone to one of her classmates, and she said, “When I grow up I want to be just like my big sister, and I want to look like her, too.”
I was surprised and pleased. I looked at myself in the mirror and blushed a little. Yes, I had changed some for the better.
Still nobody called me up and asked me for a date. Bobby Lynn dated somebody different every weekend, and Rosemary started going steady with Roy Woodrow Viers, who played the tuba. You couldn’t have pried those two apart with a crowbar.
In May, I turned sixteen and the strawberries came on like crazy. You never saw the beat. Aunt Evie and Cecil Hess and all the little Hesses helped us pick for a share of the profits. Cecil loved to tease me about my ponytail. He would grab on to it and say, “Giddy up!” Aunt Evie would wink knowingly at me, but I laughed at her. I knew he was just being Cecil, as likable as always, and as sweet to Phyllis, Beau, and Luther as he was to his own brothers and sisters. Cecil was on the junior varsity football team that year, but the next fall, which would be our junior year, he was to move up to the varsity. Maybe by then I would be playing first clarinet.
About this time it was rumored that Mr. Gillespie had a girlfriend in a college in North Carolina, but I didn’t believe it. He wouldn’t. I still fantasized and wrote anonymous letters to him.
Then it was time for the second annual talent show. I felt so good I let Bobby Lynn talk me into entering with her. On a Friday after school we met in the auditorium with the other contestants for the first time to discuss what we were going to do. Only a few holler kids showed, but all the town kids were there—some singers and some pianists, some guitarists and some comedians.
There was also a four-piece rock group led by Geezer Coleman. Carole Ann Hudson was going to do a dramatic reading from Anastasia, and Lois Harmon was doing her baton routine with the fire on the ends and all. The Mountain Dew Drops, a bluegrass band, was there, and everybody was embarrassed for them because bluegrass music simply was not in style anymore.
But the one who worried me most was Connie Collins. Her act was tap and ballet, and she took dance lessons in Bristol every Saturday. Even though Connie was as dumb as a coal bucket, she was rich and she looked just like Marilyn Monroe. The Collinses had the grandest house in town because they owned the liquor store.
As for singing, Bobby Lynn whispered to me that I had no competition. Still, I wondered if I was good enough to beat all those town kids. What had I got myself into? When my name was called, I bolted clear out of my seat, and somebody giggled. My face went hot and Bobby Lynn stood up beside me.
“Tiny is going to sing,” she said sweetly. “I am going to accompany her on the piano. And I am going to yodel”
All eyes were on me, and I didn’t say a word. I felt so stupid and inferior. They’re smirking, I thought. They don’t think I can sing a lick.
“First rehearsal is Tuesday afternoon at three-thirty,” Mrs. Miller was saying. “Death is the only excuse I’ll accept, and then you better have a death certificate.”
Ha. Ha.
The meeting broke up, and we walked outside. It was such a perfect, perfect day, and the air smelled fresh and sweet. My spirits were lifted.
“Let’s walk down to the shop,” Bobby Lynn said. “You gotta see the new bathing suits. They are so cute!”
She was speaking of the Black Gap Style Shoppe on Main Street, where her mother worked. They had all the latest fashions from Bristol. The new county swimming pool was almost ready for its grand opening, and everybody was looking at bathing sui
ts these days.
Mrs. Clevinger smiled at us when we went in the shop. I had met her at ball games. She was petite and dimpled like Bobby Lynn, and you wouldn’t believe she was almost thirty-five years old. The one thing wrong with her was her marital status, which was not respectable, if I could believe the rumors at school. Bobby Lynn seemed ashamed of whatever was going on in her house because she had never discussed it with me, but rumor had it that Mr. Clevinger had recently moved out. I didn’t know another soul who was divorced except Mama’s friend Dixie, and nobody with any sense would stay married to Dixie.
“Show Tiny the new bathing suits,” Bobby Lynn said to her mother.
“Oh, my goodness, yes!” Mrs. Clevinger bubbled. “That little pokey-dotted one. Won’t she be sweet in it?”
Bobby Lynn squealed, and they both giggled.
They were the cutest bathing suits I ever had laid eyes on, but the little pokey-dotted one Mrs. Clevinger mentioned was my favorite. In a minute I was behind the curtains trying it on. When I came out, Mrs. Clevinger and Bobby Lynn ooed and ahed. Then Connie Collins walked in. Without a word, she towered over me like a tree and looked down her nose.
I turned around and around in front of the mirror, almost afraid to believe my eyes. I had grown an inch or two taller, my hair was longer and shinier, it seemed, and I was rounder in all the right places. Why, I looked almost … well … nearly … why I did! I looked good! The suit was a strapless one-piece, blue with white pokey dots and these two cute little mines or the butt.
“You are gorgeous!” Bobby Lynn said.
I loved her.
“Well, I would take off those silly ruffles!” Connie said sharply.
Connie had the most beautiful clothes of anybody I knew, but there for a minute I would swear she acted like she was jealous. That tickled me more than anything, and I was bound and determined I would have that suit.
“Take the ruffles off? Goodness no!” Mrs. Clevinger said. “Those ruffles will be the main attraction at the new county swimming pool. You’re a doll, Tiny.”
Connie turned quickly and pretended to be very interested in a red sundress. Mrs. Clevinger winked at me, and Bobby Lynn giggled.
As it turned out, that bathing suit cost $9.98! That made me swallow hard, but I would have it. My strawberry money was tucked away in an old coat pocket in the back of my closet at home, and Mrs. Clevinger put the bathing suit on her own account till I could get the money to her.
I hired a taxi to take me home because I was too excited to wait the two hours for Mama and Vern to meet me, like we planned, at the A & P when they came to do the shopping. I couldn’t wait that long for Mama and Phyllis to see my new bathing suit.
The taxi driver was Rosemary’s cousin, Gary Dean Layne, and he tried to flirt with me on the way home. He was at least nineteen, and I sure wasn’t interested in anybody that old except Mr. Gillespie, but I was getting the big head. I wondered if I would ever feel inferior to anybody again. Gary Dean charged me only forty cents when it was supposed to be fifty cents. I bounded into the house calling for Mama and Phyllis, but nobody was there, not even Nessie.
Well, shucks, I thought, they must have all gone strawberry picking. I went upstairs and put on my bathing suit anyway. They would see me first thing when they got home. For a while I pranced around in front of the mirror singing into an invisible microphone, and dancing. Then I took ajar of peanut butter and ’nilla wafers from the kitchen and settled down to watch the last of American Bandstand. Justine was dancing the waltz with a new partner, and Johnny Mathis was singing a love song.
I closed my eyes.
Me and Mr. Gillespie are at the swimming pool on opening day. He volunteers to teach me how to swim. I know he is totally overcome by my new bathing suit. He suggests I enter the beauty contest next year.
When I heard the pickup coming up the hill, I thought it was everybody coming back from Ruby Mountain, but it was only Vern who walked in the door. He was swaying.
“Where’s Mama and the young’uns?” I said to him.
“Cecil drove ’em up in his daddy’s truck to pick strawberries,” Vern said, slurring his words.
He was drunker than usual for that time of day. I sat perfectly still, stared straight ahead at the television, and folded my arms across my chest, hoping he wouldn’t notice what I was wearing.
“I went to see my daddy,” Vern said. “He’s in the hospital.”
I still didn’t say anything, or move. Somewhere I could hear warning bells. Danger. Look out.
American Bandstand went off. It was time for Howdy Doody.
“What’cha got on?” Vern said, and my heart dropped like a rock.
“Just a suit,” I said.
“Well, it’s new, ain’t it?”
“Sorta.”
“Stand up and let me look at it.”
“Oh, Vern …”
“Stand up!”
Obediently I stood up and held my arms rigidly to my sides, my palms cupping my thighs. I glanced at him, thinking if he would move out of the door I would run out and go up to Aunt Evie’s. But Vern was looking at me and he wasn’t moving at all.
“Hold your arms out and turn around,” he said.
I did as he said, feeling my face go hot with shame.
Oh, God …
On television, Buffalo Bob was saying, “Hey kids, do you know what time it is?”
And Vern grabbed me.
SIXTEEN
I am dreaming and it is nice. I am only a baby two years old, and Willa is with me, and my real daddy, Ernest Bevins, is there, too, and oh, we are having so much fun in the wildflowers up on Ruby Mountain. Willa and my daddy are so lovely with their curly red hair against the blue sky, and I think yes, yes, I guess I will just stay right here forever with Willa and my daddy and never grow up because growing up hurts and bad things happen to you.
My daddy has eyes like blue ice as he lifts me high above his head into the wind and I giggle and gurgle like babies do. Willa is picking daisies and going, “Loves me … loves me not …” in a singsong baby voice while her red hair flows away into the grass and into the mountain spring. Then we are all eating peanut butter and’nilla wafers. But they don’t taste good. They stink like bourbon.
Suddenly I look at my daddy and I am filled with rage.
“Where have you been?” I scream at him. “You should have been here to look after me!”
He is very sad, but I am mad and I want to hurt him. I throw a rock at him and it hits him in the eye.
“Tell your mother,” he says to me.
Blood pours out on the ground from his eye and Willa runs away crying. I have never seen Willa cry before.
“Oh, come back, Willa!” I call after her. “Come back!”
“Tell your mother,” Daddy says again.
I woke up crying in the warm May night. Oh, Willa … come back!
Phyllis turned over in her sleep and mumbled something about strawberries. Nessie sighed where she was sleeping under the window.
Willa … come back.
The words echoed in my head like a sad melody.
Willa, Willa, on my pilla’,
Come in your pretty lace
And your pink face.
First her sweet fragrance flooded my room; then she appeared in a rush of color.
“Oh, Willa …”
Her bright red hair lay in wispy folds all down her back and onto the floor when she knelt beside my bed. Her eyes were as stormy gray as a snow sky in her petal-pink face. She was wearing a mint-green satin dress and she was so lovely in her aura of goodness she glowed in the dark.
“Hush,” she said sweetly and dried my tears with her hair. “I’ll be here as long as you need me.”
Dear Mr. Gillespie:
I have a friend her name is Willa and a man hurt her. Now she doesn’t want to get up or go to school or talk to anybody. She wants to be alone all the time, and she cries at night. I am afraid she is losing her mind. I wish you were her
e to tell me why this happened. Why did God let this happen to my friend? I wish you could tell me so I can make her understand.
Love, Ernestina
I missed the talent show rehearsal, then pulled out completely with no explanation to Bobby Lynn. I should have told her something, I guess, but it didn’t matter. Bobby Lynn was mad and stopped speaking to me, but that didn’t matter either. Cecil was the only person who asked me what was wrong. It was when he found me sitting alone in a corner of the auditorium.
“Nothing’s wrong,” was all he got out of me.
Dear Mr. Gillespie:
Willa says she wishes she was dead. She feels dirty and ashamed. She says she can’t think of a good reason to go on living. If you are wondering why Willa won’t tell, well, it is because he said he would kill her dog, and he will too. She loves her dog. Oh, Mr. Gillespie, it is so hard to be hurt so bad.
Love, Ernestina
In band, I was afraid to look straight at Mr. Gillespie. I was afraid he would see something in my eyes. But one day, without warning, he said, “I have something to say to Ernestina.”
“Who?” somebody said.
I felt all the blood leave my face, and I looked toward him, but not directly at him. Was he looking at me? No, he was not looking at me.
“I am very distressed,” he continued, and his voice trembled a little.
Who else besides Mr. Gillespie would ever say, “I am very distressed”?
“What about?” somebody said.
“Willa must tell her mother,” Mr. Gillespie went on. “It is urgent. She must.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Gillespie,” Jimmy Ted O’Quinn said with exaggerated politeness, “but what are you talking about?”
My heart was beating so hard I was afraid somebody would see it or hear it.
“I am not speaking to you, Jimmy Ted,” Mr. Gillespie said. “The person I am addressing knows what I mean. She also must know I am her friend, and she can come to me anytime, in strictest confidence.”
