“I appreciate your good citizenship, Mr. Gorman,” Reverend Parkins said. Mrs. Parkins came up behind him and touched his shoulder. Bob looked like he didn’t feel that was the answer he wanted.
“After all, the man who’s sheriff has a lot of power, and usually has a powerful memory, too,” he said, and took a step closer to being inside. “And if he remembers your support, he might be more apt to overlook your people’s shenanigans.”
“Thank you for stopping by,” Reverend Parkins said and extended his hand again. But Bob Gorman wasn’t done. He grabbed Reverend Parkins’s hand and pulled him in close.
“But, if he doesn’t get your support, he’ll be powerful sure to remember that, too.” He shot a look at the rest of us that was in the living room. “Trust me on this, there could be a lot more than dogs that get hurt if the wrong man gets elected.”
Speaking of dogs, they was both standing there like two pit bulls staring each other down over a T-bone. And, even though Tommy’d done warned me to protect myself and all that, this looked like the kind of thing that needed to be stopped even if it might mean a bloody nose.
“How’s Eddie doing?” I asked.
Bob let go of Reverend Parkins’s hand and straightened out his shirt over his belly.
“He’s fine,” he said. “As usual.”
“So, if you run for sheriff, what’ll that make him? Sheriff Jr.?”
“Now, now, it’s premature to start talking about candidates,” he said. He forced a wink at Mrs. Parkins that he probably thought would look friendly but instead came off as serial-killerish. “But I wanted to do my part to prepare you people for what’s coming. It’s the neighborly thing to do.”
“Then why are you doing it?” I asked, and he shot me a look like he was fixing to bite me on the butt. Good thing he wasn’t a dog.
“I appreciate you coming by,” Reverend Parkins said again.
Bob nodded and started to walk off. He stopped and looked back at us.
“You ought to be careful who you’re hanging around with,” he said. I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me or them, but his point was made.
“Yeah,” Willie said from inside, “we’ll be real careful to not hang around with any of those Gormans.”
Bob didn’t hear that, I don’t reckon.
After he left, Mrs. Parkins grabbed Reverend Parkins and hugged on him real hard. Reverend Parkins looked shook up, but he held his wife and rubbed her back real good and took to telling her that there wasn’t nothing to worry about.
“We’ve got to move,” she kept saying.
“Now, now,” he kept saying. “We don’t have anything to worry about.”
“Do you reckon he’s going to run for sheriff?” I asked.
“He didn’t say he was,” Willie said.
“Yeah, but the things he didn’t say meant a whole heck of a lot more than what he did,” I said. Reverend Parkins nodded in agreement, but he didn’t say nothing ’cause I think he was trying to keep Mrs. Parkins from freaking out.
“We should all pray,” he said. “And take Mr. Gorman’s advice, as ill-intended as it was, to heart. We should vote for the right person and pray that the right person, whoever he is, will defeat Bob Gorman in the election.”
All of a sudden, I didn’t feel too safe having that letter so far away from me, even if it was safely in Willie’s room. Especially if the wrong fella was about to be the sheriff, I needed to protect myself as much as possible.
“Hey, I reckon I’m going to take the letter with me,” I said.
Willie looked confused at first, but then he understood, ’cause he could read my mind I reckon, and he got the letter for me. I folded it up and put it in my pocket.
I stayed up there for another couple of hours, shooting the breeze and being funny to try to cheer Mrs. Parkins up. Then I remembered that I was supposed to be at school. I hurried and headed back into town just in time for Mr. Braswell to inform me that I was going to get detention ’cause I’d skipped out of school. Which was fine by me for two reasons. One, staying in detention meant I didn’t have to worry about spilling my blood or the beans about Captain Morris. And two, detention was run by the best teacher we’d ever had, Mrs. Buttke.
Detention was held in the lunchroom, but they didn’t serve no food, so if you was hungry it was pretty bad. That day, when I walked in, I realized that it was going to be even worse for me. ’Cause, sitting in the back corner, right behind the kid from sixth grade that liked to put his boogers on the girl that sat in front of him, was Eddie. And he was sporting a black eye. It didn’t take me but five seconds to guess who’d given it to him.
There’s only been a handful of things in my life I’ve ever really regretted doing, like spitting on a roller coaster when Martha was riding behind me when I was ten or trying to siphon gas and drinking a quarter of a tank when I was eight. And I had a feeling that going over and sitting next to Eddie in detention that day was going to be added to that list. I should have stayed away, but for whatever reason, I felt like it was what I was supposed to do. I don’t rightly know why.
I plopped down next to him and he slid away from me on the bench.
“Where’d you get the black eye?” I asked.
“Ran into a door,” he said.
“A door with knuckles?”
He glared at me.
“Yup,” he said.
“Ahem,” Mrs. Buttke said. “Mr. Cannon and Mr. Gorman, if you two are trying to make me feel nostalgic about last year, I assure you my memories aren’t nearly fond enough. Now stay quiet and work on your homework.”
Eddie seemed real relieved at that and he buried himself into his math. I probably should have done the same, but me and math never did have a real keen relationship, so I took to drawing stick men fighting with swords instead.
After a bit, Mrs. Buttke finished off a big mug of coffee and excused herself to go to the restroom. Which is always the cue in detention for everyone to take a break and raise Cain. The Miller twins went right back into the same fight that had got them into detention in the first place, something about ducks and geese and which one was faster. At least I think that’s what they was debating. It was hard to tell with them wrestling all over the floor while they was talking. I think Cory was going to lose the argument, though. Natalie had a mean right hook.
Meanwhile, Cody Fannon was back to lighting matches and watching how long he could hold them before he had to blow them out. I don’t know why he got detention over that. It ain’t like he was catching nothing on fire besides his own fingers. And if he wanted to burn his hand off, that was his own business.
I decided it was a prime good time to try and talk to Eddie again.
“So, how’s things going with your pa?”
He didn’t look up from his math.
“Fine,” he said. “How’s things going with yours?”
“Fine,” I said. Yeah, that was deep. Oh well, back to my stick men. Maybe I could give them guns and liven up their battle.
I looked over at Eddie’s paper. He was doodling Nazi swastikas on it.
“Um, you really shouldn’t draw them,” I said.
He looked up.
“Why? Pa says the swastika’s been around for a lot longer than folks think, like a thousand years. It used to be a good luck symbol. It meant that great things was going to happen.”
“Sure,” I said. “But now it just means being a Nazi.”
He scratched through them symbols, which I was glad for, and then he looked over at my paper. He watched me drawing for a bit before he finally spoke again.
“Does your pa ever play games?” he asked.
“Um, I don’t know,” I said. “You mean like checkers?”
“Sure.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Don’t most everybody?”
He nodded and then went back to figuring out a math problem. He scribbled through a couple of numbers and then tapped his eraser on the paper.
“Does he ever lose?”
he asked.
That made me laugh.
“Yeah, most all the time. He’s an egghead when it comes to gadgets, but with games he ain’t got the brain for it. I can beat him any day of the week.”
“Really?” Eddie put his pencil down on the paper and leaned into our talking. “What does he do when he loses?”
“He laughs,” I said. “He rubs his hands through his hair and says, ‘But can you dance the polka?’ Every time. He thinks he’s hilarious.”
Eddie leaned back and let that sink in.
“Wow,” he said.
“Why, what does your pa do when he loses?”
He looked away and touched his face, right under his eye.
“He don’t lose,” he said. “At nothing.”
I looked down at my stick men. One of them was stabbing the other with the sword straight through the head.
“You ain’t never beat him?”
“He don’t never let me,” he said. “I came close one time with Monopoly. I got Boardwalk and Park Place, and he was down to his last bit of money. But then he remembered that I’d sassed him over breakfast, so he whupped me and sent me to bed.”
“And that’s the only time you ever came close?”
“That’s the only time I ever wanted to.”
He closed his math book and stared straight ahead for a bit. I was waiting for him to say something, and it looked like he was waiting for the same thing. Like he had something itching to come out but he wasn’t sure if he was ready for all the mess that him saying it was going to make. Finally he looked back over at me.
“You and me, we used to be friends, right?” he asked.
“Yeah, I reckon,” I said. “At the time, I guess you was my best friend, mainly ’cause I didn’t know no better.”
“Like Tom and Huck, right?”
“I guess so,” I said. “Wait, was I Tom or Huck?”
He rolled his eyes.
“Ain’t it obvious? I sure ain’t Huck, and you’re the one with a Tigger friend.”
“You shouldn’t say that,” I said.
“Say what?”
“Tigger,” I said. Course, I didn’t want to say the real word, so I actually said “Tigger.”
“I didn’t say ‘Tigger,’ ” he said. “I said ‘Tigger.’ ” He said the real word. “Mark Twain put it in the book, it ain’t meant to be disrespectful.”
“Yeah, well, someday when you write a book, you can say that word all you want and nobody won’t say nothing. But around me, don’t say it.”
“Okay,” he said. I was real surprised by that. I didn’t expect him to see my point. “But anyway, what if I told you I found something that I can only share with my Huck Finn?”
My ears perked up. Maybe he was going to start spilling about Bob, and about his life, and about his story, and all the things like what I couldn’t spill on account of my blood needing to be kept safe and such. Maybe listening to somebody else talking would make it easier for me to keep my trap shut.
“I’d say you better spill it,” I said.
He started to talk, but then Mrs. Buttke came back into the room. He set his head down on top of his book. After she broke up the Miller twins and sent Cody to the nurse for his third-degree burns, she came over to where we was at and put her hand on his back.
“Are you feeling all right, Edward?” she asked.
“No’m,” he said. “Can I go?”
She took a look at his black eye.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Go on home, then,” she said. “Take the long weekend and get better.”
“I reckon I need someone to walk me,” he said. “Can Johnny go with me?”
She shot me a real suspicious look.
“I don’t think that’s wise,” she said. “Perhaps you should go to the nurse instead.”
While she wasn’t looking at him, Eddie grabbed his pencil and shoved it in his mouth till it tapped the back of his throat. Then he turned and puked all over the floor.
“Oh my gosh!” Mrs. Buttke hollered. “Yes, Johnny take him home. Now!”
I jumped up and grabbed our things. Eddie was acting real faint and weak and he leaned on me as we went out the door. The whole time, Mrs. Buttke was barking down the hall for the janitor to hurry up and how some got on her shoes and all that. I looked at Eddie’s face, he didn’t even have a smile. He was the best actor I’d ever seen.
Once we got outside and was clear of the door, he stood up off of me and started laughing.
“Come on, let’s go to my dad’s shop.”
“I ain’t so sure that’s a good idea,” I said. “Me and him ain’t on the best of terms right now.”
“He’s not there. He’s out buying more fireworks for Monday,” he said. Bob liked to make the folks in Cullman love him by putting on our annual fireworks show, but he did it for Labor Day ’cause he could get the fireworks at a discount if he waited. I used to complain that we didn’t have no fireworks on the Fourth of July, but when I said something to Willie, he said he didn’t care ’cause it wasn’t his Independence Day anyhow. So I reckoned we could all be happy with it on Labor Day.
Eddie took off running down the street and I was amazed at how fast he went. He used to be so tubby and slow. It was like watching a completely different person. Maybe he was different. There was only one way to know for sure.
I followed him, running with both our backpacks banging against my butt. We got to the outside of his pa’s auto shop and he fetched the key from his back pocket. He opened the door and headed straight through the front into the big garage, which had all the lights out ’cause apparently everybody’d gone to help Bob load up the fireworks.
“Feast your eyes on this,” he said. He flipped on the light switch.
It was like a car hospital in there, there was three cars up on lifts or opened clean up, all of them being worked on or taken apart for parts. There was puddles of oil under some of them, one had a drip of gasoline so bad you could smell it from the doorway. It was real neat, but it wasn’t worth puking all over the lunchroom floor.
The next thing I noticed was that the walls was already lined up with stacks and stacks of fireworks boxes. Bob’d be moving them and the extras he was out getting all down to the railroad tracks near Smith Lake on Monday for the show, since no trains ran on Labor Day. Getting to see them all beforehand was neat. And a little scary, since all them explosives was so close to all that oil and gasoline. But still, not vomit worthy.
Then I saw it. The last car in the shop, parked down there at the end. It was cherry red with fancy white stripes. And definitely worth hurling over.
“Is that a Corvette?” I asked.
“It ain’t just any Corvette,” he said with a grin. “It’s a brand-new 1962 Corvette convertible. 327 V-8 engine, 360 horsepower if you drive it right, and it can get over 100 miles per hour.” That was a lot of numbers I didn’t know nothing about, but they sounded real impressive.
“Who in Cullman owns a Corvette?” I asked. “I reckon that’d make the front page of the paper or something.”
“It’s my dad’s,” he said. “He just got it, and he ain’t wanting folks to know about it. He won it in a poker game down in Birmingham.”
I nodded, standing in awe of that beautiful sleek car like I was seeing the face of God Himself right in front of me with custom rims.
“But,” he said, “that ain’t what I want to show you. We got to go driving.”
Before I could even process what he was saying, he ran over to the desk and fished out a key chain. Then he went and opened up the garage door that was right behind that Corvette. He headed over to the driver’s door, then he stopped.
“No, you know what, this might be the only chance you’ll ever get to drive something like this,” he said.
“Wait, what?” I asked. “What you mean?”
He tossed me the keys.
“You drive, I’ll ride. We got to go outsid
e of town so I can show you my thing.”
Now, I ain’t stupid and I know there’s a big difference between driving your own pa’s truck to go fishing and driving another man’s Corvette to go joyriding, and I know it ain’t something you’re supposed to do, and I recognize that if I’m ever talking to other kids I’m going to tell them this story different so they don’t get any ideas.
But, Eddie had a point. This really was probably the only chance I’d ever get to drive one. So I jumped in behind the wheel.
I said a quick prayer that there wasn’t no law anywhere around, which I probably didn’t need to ’cause Sheriff Tatum had stopped caring since he was going to retire. Then I peeled out of that garage like James Dean and we left a swirling cloud of dust that probably scared some of the folks that had survived the tornado. We both couldn’t stop laughing and giggling while I pushed that little car to go as fast as I possibly could while we flew down the road and out of Cullman. I ain’t going to say we hit ninety, but I ain’t going to deny it either. I also ain’t going to deny that I maybe drifted across the road and almost into a ditch one time, which made me drop our speed down to around sixty.
He pointed out which way to go and we drove along until he told me to pull over.
“Wait, you’re wanting to show me something here at Snake Pond?” I asked.
He hopped out.
“Yup,” he said. “And it’s a Tom and Huck kind of something.” He ran into the trees and disappeared.
Now, not everybody called that place Snake Pond. In fact, I think on the map it’s called Fellows Lake or something like that. But all the kids in Cullman knew what it really was. It was too ate up for any fishing and too shallow for swimming, so it didn’t deserve to be called a lake. Instead, we all called it Snake Pond. It don’t take too many guesses to figure out why we named it that. One time, I counted twelve water moccasins that was having a pool party just in one corner of the water.
I thought about sticking with the car and letting him be the one that died from a snakebite or something, but then I figured if Bob reported it stolen, I’d be spending most of my days in jail, so I’d better leave the scene of the crime. I got out and followed him.
The Struggles of Johnny Cannon Page 8
