Aim

by Joyce Moyer Hostetter

  Oh, boy. I should have just let it sit there. Because holding a cigarette between your teeth is not the same as sucking in the smoke of it. It took me back to the first time I fired Pop’s shotgun. I’d braced myself for the recoil like he said—but still, the kick knocked me backwards.

  At least Pop was there to catch me and set me up straight again. Now, there was no Pop, only Dudley, making worried sounds in his throat. I yanked the cigarette out of my mouth and told myself to just suck it up and look smooth. But I didn’t have control now. It was like the smoke was a giant hand squeezing my throat shut. I sat there coughing and pounding myself on my chest. Trying to catch some fresh air, but there wasn’t any such thing in that little room.

  Above all the commotion I heard the officers laughing. And Dudley was slapping me on the back. “What happened?” he was saying. “You smoke all the time and all of a sudden you start choking? Are you sick?” I knew he was trying to convince the officers that I knew how to smoke a cigarette.

  But they weren’t believing him. Even I could see that through the cloud between us. They waited. Arms folded across their chests. They looked at each other, and I reckon they had some kind of secret signal because they both shook their heads. Then the one who brought us in there spoke up.

  “Smoking don’t make you a man,” he said, and he looked at Dudley when he said it. “I’ll give you thirteen or fourteen years. Not eighteen. Not old enough to go clear around the world without your momma’s apron strings to hang on to.”

  He looked at me. “And you with the perfect aim. Just be careful what you point at. Because what if you hit it and it’s not what you thought it was?”

  28

  CONSEQUENCES

  March 1942

  Dudley didn’t say a word after we left the recruiting office. He marched out ahead of me, and I followed his trail of cigarette smells. I told myself I didn’t care if he was mad. What was he to me?

  Finally, after we were back in Brookford and had crossed the swinging bridge and were pulling our books out of the hollow log, he decided to talk to me. “Bledsoe,” he said, “I never should’ve taken up with the likes of you. You’re a moron, is what you are.”

  “Huh. If I’m a moron, then I guess that makes you an oxymoron.”

  He snorted. “You don’t even know what that means.”

  “It means you’re a bigger moron than I am. That’s what it means.” I did feel bad about messing everything up with that stupid cigarette, but I didn’t let on. “They weren’t going to take us anyway,” I said.

  “They would have. If you hadn’t tried to act all manly when you obviously aren’t.”

  “Oh, yeah? At least I can grow a beard if I take a notion.”

  That shut him up. At least for a little while. “Our goose is cooked,” he said. “We played hooky and we can’t even tell Old Lady Hinkle we joined the army. What’re you planning to say?”

  I shrugged. “I’ll think of something.”

  We would barely make it in time to catch our buses and the younger grades would soon be pouring out of the building. Just ahead of us was the road bank that sloped up to the schoolyard and the area under the trees where Mr. Hollar and the teachers parked their cars. We waited for a car to go by and then we ran across the road.

  Dudley dashed to the trees, but I waited so the two of us wouldn’t be seen together. He moved from one tree to the next and then swaggered out into the open, holding his books with one arm so they bumped against his hip when he walked to the buses. He threw his head back, and I could tell he was whistling. Trying to act like it was every other day.

  He rounded the corner of the school near the buses. I decided to go the long way. On the back side of the building was a set of steps going down into the furnace room. Wouldn’t you know, the janitor was coming up with his mop bucket. “Bledsoe,” he said.

  I stopped. “Yeah.”

  “Mr. Hollar is looking for you. He said if I see you to tell you to go on to his office and wait.”

  “Uh. Okay.” I was almost at the back entrance of the school. I could go in, march up the hall, and make a few turns to Mr. Hollar’s office. Or I could keep going. Take my chances at getting on the bus and riding away before Mr. Hollar figured it out.

  I decided to take my chances. My bus was at the back of the lineup, and I was almost there. I picked up my pace—practically running—and hopped onto the bus, quick as I could, after some younger boys climbed on.

  Mr. Hollar was in the front seat. Waiting for me. It was too late to turn and run. No matter what I did next, I was in trouble. So I just stood there, hanging on to the metal pole, and waited.

  “Did you have a good day, Junior?”

  I stayed quiet. What was I going to say?

  “I asked you a question.” Mr. Hollar’s eyebrows pulled together, making deep lines that ran up into his forehead.

  “No.”

  “No what?”

  “No, sir. I did not have a good day.”

  “Off the bus, Junior.”

  Oh, boy. Looked like me and Dudley would be riding home with Mr. Hollar this time. I turned, and at the bottom of the steps, fixing to climb on, was Ann Fay. She threw her hand over her mouth when she saw me with the principal.

  I glared at her and she kind of whimpered like a hurt puppy. She wouldn’t have to ask if I felt mean today. I couldn’t hide it if I tried.

  Mr. Hollar stepped out in front of me and stalked into the school. I followed him up the wide concrete steps, staring at my feet and trying not to notice the students coming out at the same time. But I knew right when Janie Aderholt was beside me because I recognized her blue skirt and the penny loafers going past me down the steps.

  “Hey, Junior,” she said. “Where were you?” But I didn’t answer or even turn to look because I had to keep following Mr. Hollar. And anyway, what would I say?

  The principal’s office was just inside the front school door.

  Mr. Hollar pointed to a heavy wooden chair. I sat and waited. In just a few minutes Miss Hinkle came, sour as a pickle, through the door, and right behind her was Dudley. He didn’t look at me, though.

  Mr. Hollar demanded an explanation. I figured honesty was the best policy. “Sir,” I said, “we volunteered for the army. Uncle Sam needs us.”

  “You did what?” He sounded surprised. Maybe he was even impressed. “How did that go?”

  I shrugged. “Not so good, I guess.”

  He picked up that paddle on his desk and tapped it against his palm, making steady smacking sounds.

  I could almost feel my backside stinging. I wished he would just get it over with.

  “I should whup you both, but I suppose I’ll let your parents figure out what kind of punishment you deserve.” He handed us each a folded paper. “Bring these back signed by a parent. And since you like walking so much, you can find your own way home today.”

  That’s how we ended up walking again—this time with cars and school buses blowing exhaust in our faces. Miss Hinkle drove past. She’d make it home a good half hour before I did.

  I was bone tired and real grumpy. And worrying about upsetting Momma.

  “My old man would beat me black and blue if he saw this note,” said Dudley. “I’ll tell my mother I missed the bus, and later, when Daddy ain’t looking, she’ll sign that paper for me. He won’t know the difference.”

  Him saying that put me in mind of Momma standing between Pop and the rest of the world—making excuses for his behavior like she was protecting him from what people would say and think. But at least Momma never had to protect me from Pop. He just didn’t have it in him to beat his family; I was sure of that. Probably because of Granddaddy whupping him. And besides, I did my level best not to cause Pop or Momma a minute of worrying.

  But those days were over. Now Momma was always fretting over me. I didn’t know what to do about that. After all, with him gone I had a mess of things troubling me too. And school was right there at the top of the list.

/>   I wanted to go home and tell Momma I was accepted into the United States Army. That I’d be fighting for the freedom of the whole world. I couldn’t do that. Not yet, anyway.

  But one thing I could do was find a job. Now seemed as good a time as any to quit school. “I’m not even showing this note to my mother,” I told Dudley. “Pop wanted me to drop out of school. I’m finally gonna do it.”

  Now all I had to do was convince Momma.

  29

  QUITTING

  March 1942

  Momma was at her ironing board by the kitchen table, sprinkling my blue plaid shirt with water from a Cheerwine bottle. She didn’t even look up when I let the back door shut behind me.

  “I’m home.”

  She spread the shirt over the ironing board and pressed the hot iron onto it. Steam rose around her like a cloud of anger. “Miss Pauline was here. You skipped school? What’s gotten into you, Junior?”

  I shrugged. I didn’t exactly know how to explain. It wasn’t like I was trying to be bad. Maybe Momma didn’t deserve what I was putting her through, but I didn’t ask for the hand I was dealt, either. And I had had enough. “I can’t do it,” I said.

  “Exactly what can’t you do?”

  “High school. It’s useless. Why does my longhand have to look like the Palmer method? And that nonsense Miss Hinkle talks about, poetry and grammar and figures of speech—what does any of that have to do with getting along in the world? Do you even know what a participle is, Momma? Much less a dangling one.”

  “Axel Bledsoe, Junior!” Momma set her iron down hard. “Don’t you dare take that tone with me.”

  I took that to mean she didn’t have any idea what I was talking about. But she wasn’t going to admit it, either. “See?” I said. “You’re doing just fine in life without knowing certain things. And Pop could tear a car to pieces and throw it all in a heap. He wouldn’t know a participle if it was on top of the pile. But he could put it all back together.”

  Momma almost smiled.

  “The reason I played hooky was, I tried to enlist.”

  Well, that set her back. “Junior!” Worry covered over her face like wrinkles on that shirt.

  “I wanted to do you proud, Momma. Get some honor for the Bledsoe name. Lord knows we could use it. I could fight for freedom with the best of them.”

  She stood, stiff as starched laundry, with the iron pressing into my best shirt, not even noticing the scorched smell it was making.

  “Momma! The shirt.” I grabbed at the iron, but it was too late. The blue plaid had a brown triangle pressed into it. When Momma saw that, she let out a shriek. “For crying out loud!” She took off across the kitchen with her face in her hands, ran into her bedroom, and slammed the door.

  I stared at that scorched shirt. She’d just made it for me a few weeks ago. And I knew we didn’t have money to buy more material.

  “Now look what you done.” That was Granddaddy, standing not three feet away, nosing into my business. “Better unplug that thing before you burn the house down.”

  I reached up to where the cord of the iron connected to the light socket and pulled the plug. And I set the hot iron over on the cook stove, where it couldn’t do any damage. There was a pot of potatoes and peas with bits of ham stewing there. “You might want to dish up your own supper,” I told Granddaddy. “I’m going to tend to the animals.”

  I went to the barn and milked Eleanor. “I should quit—right, Eleanor?” I didn’t know why I was asking her. I just couldn’t see me going back. As far as I could tell, the only good thing about school would be sitting behind Janie. I knew she didn’t like me. Maybe she liked me a little more than she liked Dudley, but that wasn’t saying much. And besides, by now she’d probably heard about the two of us playing hooky. She wouldn’t be impressed with the likes of me.

  When I was finished tending the animals, I strained the milk and took it inside. Momma had supper dished up and we sat down to eat but she wasn’t starting any conversations.

  “I’m sorry, Momma,” I said. “I’ll pay for the shirt. I’m not going back to school. With the war on, this country needs workers. I’ll take a job at Brookford Mills, making cloth for uniforms. It’ll be my bit for the war. And I can buy war bonds and pay the bills. Maybe we can even get ahead.”

  Momma squinted. “Axel hated that place. And you’re just like him. You’d hate it too.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe I’ll like bringing home some money. Doing something more in this world than he did.” I shouldn’t have said that. I wasn’t trying to put him down or hurt her feelings or anything. It was just a fact. I tried to soften it then. “Maybe I just want to be where he was,” I said. “See the machines he fixed. Heck, I’d even sweep the floors.”

  “Junior, I want you to go to school.”

  “I know you do, Momma. But I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can. And you will.” Momma shook her fork and little bits of broth came flying at me. I saw her lip quivering like a leaf in the wind. I took a bite of biscuit and she kept on preaching. “If you keep this attitude, Axel Bledsoe, Junior, you’re likely to turn out just like your father.”

  “I know,” I said. “Acorn don’t fall far from the tree. Least that’s what I hear.”

  I was trying to sound tough—like I didn’t care if she compared me to Pop. But much as she loved him, I knew she didn’t mean it as a compliment. Sure, I could do some of the things people admired about him. Fixing cars and helping perfect strangers. But lately I was real good at hurting her the way he could, too.

  I finished my supper and then went to work cleaning her treadle sewing machine, which needed oiling. Maybe she’d see that if I didn’t have homework to do I could actually help out more around the house.

  Later, when I crawled into bed, Granddaddy wandered around the room. I watched his stockinged feet go past my head and thought about the things I’d heard from Aunt Lucille and Aunt Lillian.

  “What’s it like?” I asked. “At the mill. What kind of jobs do they have?”

  Granddaddy’s feet stopped in their tracks over by the bureau. “What business is it of yours?”

  “I need a job,” I said. “I’m not going back to school.”

  “Well, if you ain’t Axel made over again.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “I’m a big disappointment. What kind of jobs they got?”

  “Sweeping floors.”

  “What else?”

  “Operating machines. Packing. Shipping.” Granddaddy walked past my head again, his feet sending up little clouds of dust. “I reckon you could sweep up. Like your daddy did.”

  “I thought he fixed machines. I could do that.”

  “Boy, you ain’t laid eyes on one of them machines and already you’re wanting to fix ’em? Your daddy learnt that a little at a time.”

  Granddaddy reached for the string hanging down from the light in the ceiling and the room went dark. The bedsprings creaked when he climbed into bed. “You can’t live here and work there. You gotta live in Brookford, where they can own you. Rent from them. Buy food on credit at the company store. Be in debt the rest of your life.”

  That was something I hadn’t thought of. “Does everybody at the mill live in Brookford? I’m a hard worker. They should be proud to have the likes of me there.”

  “If you’re so good, how come you ain’t sticking it out at school?”

  “That’s different,” I said. “School is a bunch of hot air, if you ask me.”

  Granddaddy laughed. “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “How about in the morning you wake up and listen to the radio and I’ll go to school for you. I have a feeling me and that pretty schoolteacher will get along just fine. I could clean her blackboards and if I’m lucky she’ll keep me after school and teach me to talk right. I could sing to her, even.”

  Then Granddaddy started singing. “Let me call you sweetheart. I’m in love with you. Let me hear you whisper that you love me too.” And when he did, he sounded a lot like Pop alway
s did when he came in at night. His deep voice alone could make you forget all the headaches and worries he’d just put you through.

  Granddaddy sang to the end of the song, then rolled over and thumped his pillow. It wasn’t two minutes later that I heard him snoring.

  “Sweet dreams,” I muttered.

  30

  BROOKFORD

  March 1942

  “Okay,” I mumbled when Momma called me in the morning. I almost crawled out of bed. But then I remembered. I wasn’t going. I turned over and tried to go back to sleep, but in no time she came knocking again. This time I didn’t answer.

  “Junior! You’re going to be late.”

  I pulled the pillow over my head. But that didn’t stop me from hearing her open the door and walk into the room. “Hammer,” she said. “It’s time to kick this boy out of your room.”

  His room? That made me good and sore. Momma turned his radio all the way up and marched back into the kitchen, flapping her dishcloth at my head on her way out.

  Between me being mad and the sound of the radio blaring, I knew I wasn’t going back to sleep. So I crawled out of my bed and turned the radio off. Granddaddy had a few words to say about that, but I ignored him and got dressed.

  A plate of cold grits and eggs was waiting for me at the kitchen table. I ate and Momma fidgeted around by the stove, keeping her back to me the whole time like a wide wall of anger.

  “After I milk Eleanor I’m going to clean up and go looking for a job,” I told her.

  Momma pushed the cupboard door shut extra hard.

  I intended to apply for work at the mill, and the sooner the better, so after my chores I climbed on Grover and headed for Brookford.

  Grover was tickled to be on the road again and wanted to trot. Evidently he approved of me quitting school. It felt good to be out on the highway with the March wind nipping at my ears and the bright sun trying to warm them up. Right before Whitener’s store I saw a gray car at the side of the road—a 1937 Chevrolet. A woman about Momma’s age stood there staring at it, hugging herself and looking like she didn’t know whether to kick that car or bust into tears.