Goldie dabbed witch hazel on my face and gave me the bottle to take home. That and a fifty-cent-piece-sized pot of pasty goo. “To hide the damage,” she said, and sent me on my way.
At home I read another eighty pages of Gone with the Wind. Things weren’t going well for Scarlett. Married to Frank Kennedy and the Civil War going on all over the place. When I took a bathroom break, I decided to use the cover-up cream from Goldie. I leaned in close to the mirror, and when I did, something caught my eye near the baseboard between the toilet and the sink. I got down on my hands and knees and picked up a small white pill. One of Mama’s. I held it between my finger and thumb and examined it. One tiny pill lost from the whole bottle. What if Mama had taken this one too? Would one more have been enough to kill her? How had it ended up on the floor? Did Mama have a screaming fit and fly apart? So much that her hands shook and she lost this one pill?
My chest got that squeezed-out-of-air feeling.
The glare of the light over the mirror made me imagine they’d strapped Mama in a chair to interrogate her, like the communists I’d seen on television. Question after question, zapping her with an electric rod if she didn’t get the answer right. Was that what shock treatments were?
I couldn’t breathe. Air. I needed fresh air. I slung the pill into the toilet and flushed it, watching the water swirl around and glug-glug-glug to the bottom, taking the pill with it.
I ran out the door and grabbed my bike, just to get away. My knee still hurt from the day I banged it on the door frame, so I rode slow, just taking it easy. Besides the street running through the middle of camp, a blacktop circled all the houses, passing the playground and community hall. One mile exactly. I made one loop, the wind flying through my hair, then reversed and started the other way. By the time I turned west, the sun angled down overhead, leaving a glare on everything. Two figures stood in Slim Wallace’s garden, but I couldn’t make out who they were.
One of them, the short one, had a hoe that he kept chopping toward the ground. I heard Mr. Wallace’s voice when I inched closer. “You can do it, son. Give it another go.” More whacking. Was it Cly with the hoe?
I stopped pedaling and coasted forward slowly. Sure enough. Cly turned around and saw me.
“Hey, Sam.” He waved the hoe. “Come see what I did.” He and Slim gazed at something in the dirt.
Mr. Wallace bent down with a stick and moved the earth around. When he stood up, he held a small object in his hand and shoved it toward Cly. “Your bragging rights, son.”
Cly held up the tail end of a rattlesnake.
Mr. Wallace chuckled. “Bet you ain’t ever killed one of these in California, have you?”
“No, sir. ’Bout scared me into next week.” He held up the rattle for me to see. To Mr. Wallace he said, “Thanks, that was wicked. And forget what I said earlier… about you being an old coot and gone off your rocker.”
“No problem.” Mr. Wallace took the hoe. “Reckon I do give that image, talking to Dottie the way I do.”
“Who’s Dottie?” I asked.
“My wife. Leastwise, she was once upon a time. Sure gets lonely without her. Me and her have some good talks out here in my garden.” His neck colored a splotchy red. “Guess I’d better mosey on home. See you young’ens later.”
Cly told me the whole story—how Mr. Wallace made him kill the rattlesnake. He pointed to a spot on the ground where a pulpy, bloody mess remained. A few bits of shiny flesh shone through. Gross, like fish guts.
“Musta been four or five feet long. Coiled up like a spring when I started toward him. I coulda been killed, you know.” He held up the rattle and shook it. The papery chatter made us both laugh.
“Like crazy, man, that was pure wicked. Wait till I show Doobie. You know for an old guy, Slim’s pretty cool.”
* * *
That night I wrote Mama a letter telling her about Cly coming from California to visit his aunt and uncle, about shooting baskets with Cly, and wasn’t it stupendous that he killed a rattlesnake. After I took my bath, I stood in front of the mirror and gazed at myself. Skinny. Straight as a yardstick. I squinted and tried to imagine what I’d look like when I grew up, or at least when I turned thirteen. My eyes played a trick on me. Right there on the front of my chest, a pair of tan lumps about the size of two mosquito bites had raised up. I turned sideways to get a different angle, and sure enough, I had the beginning of breasts. Jeepers. I hoped I wouldn’t need a training bra before Mama got home.
[ EIGHT ]
WHILE WAITING FOR MAMA to come home, I laughed and clapped for Tuwana and PJ as they showed off the splits and jumps they learned at cheerleading school. Poise and technique weren’t all they picked up. Words like indubitably, precisely, and consequently rolled off their tongues as easy as the “Two bits, four bits, six bits, a dollar” that echoed through the streets of Graham Camp.
On Father’s Day, I wrote a poem for Daddy about fishing at Gopher’s Pond and worms and lantern lights. Brother Henry gave me the idea in his sermon that day. “We honor God by honoring our parents.” Daddy’s lips quivered when he read it out loud. He Scotch-taped it to the Frigidaire and made us frog-in-the-hole eggs for supper.
The days flew by, hot and windy, blowing on toward July 7. When I wasn’t helping Goldie or reading Gone with the Wind, I practiced making brownies for the Fourth of July picnic and wrote my daily letter to Mama. The one thing I tried not to do was spend too much time thinking about her shock treatments. Or what she would be like when she got home. Every night I prayed for a miracle—that the Mama I knew before Sylvia died would somehow be the one who came home.
Two days before the Fourth, all the older kids went to the community hall to clean up for the celebration. You know, sweeping, mowing the grass, setting up the tables.
By the time we finished and stepped outside, the air felt like it was five hundred degrees. All the boys had gone, so Tuwana asked PJ and me to come over.
“I simply can’t wait until the picnic,” Tuwana said. “An entire day for fun. I’m hoping Cly will sit next to me.”
PJ gnawed on a fingernail. “You ask me, you need to get your mind off Cly. Mom says he’s nothing but T-R-O-U-B-L-E, same as his uncle.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Tuwana stopped in the middle of the street.
“Norm’s got a temper. Mom says he’s always mouthing off down at the plant.”
I came to Tuwana’s defense. “Just because Norm’s that way doesn’t mean Cly is.”
“Yeah, well, think about this. Cly’s dad got arrested one time for assault and got out of going to jail on a technicality. I think it’s bad blood, if you know what I mean, Jelly Bean.”
Tuwana’s eyes lit up, and I thought she might sock PJ and knock off her glasses. Instead she said, “You’re just jealous because the only one who will look at you is Doobie.”
“Doobie’s not as bad as you think. Besides, I just speak the truth as I see it.” Her splotched face glistened with perspiration. “I’m going home. This heat’s giving me a headache.” She squinched her eyes and wiggled her fingers at us. “Toodles.”
Tuwana and I trudged on toward her house in silence. To tell the truth, it was too hot to talk or even do much thinking.
Tuwana’s mother sat in the green glider, a tall iced drink in her hand when we walked up. She had on a crisp yellow dress with cap sleeves and cheery pink lipstick.
“Hello, girls. Looks like you could use some lemonade.”
“Absolutely.” Tuwana frowned at her mother. “Why are you so dressed up?”
“Oh, you know. This heat’s had me in the most dreadful state lately. Cross and grumpy with your daddy.”
I knew that to be true as I’d heard them arguing a couple of evenings before when Tuwana and I sat in the very glider Mrs. Johnson now occupied. Something about a blowout on their Studebaker and if Benny Ray had an ounce of ambition, he would go into his father’s insurance business and not make his family suffer living in such a dreadful plac
e as Graham Camp.
When I asked Tuwana what was wrong with Graham Camp, she told me her mother thought it was dull and boring and didn’t give us any cultural opportunities. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re fifty miles from anywhere decent to go shopping or even to the picture show.”
Now Mrs. Johnson let out a tinkling little laugh. “I thought I’d show him I’m still the sweet thing he married. You know the old saying: Timing is everything in dealing with a man.”
“Timing for what?” Tuwana wanted to know.
“A little birdie told me your daddy was getting a promotion, which certainly will include a raise. Just the thing I’ve been waiting for, the chance to bring up the subject of new living room furniture. I’ve heard Danish provincial is the latest rage.” She had a faraway look in her eyes.
“A little birdie or Mrs. Ford?”
Mrs. Johnson smiled and sipped her drink, leaving a pink smudge on the rim of the glass.
“Where is Daddy, anyway?”
“Gone to get new tires for the Studebaker. I’m making his favorite supper—grilled cheese on slabs of Texas toast—to show him I’m not mad anymore.”
Tara and Tommie Sue sat in the elm shade on the sidewalk playing jacks, arguing over what came next.
“Eggs in the basket come next, not pigs in the pen,” Tommie Sue whined.
“It’s up to the one who’s ahead, which is me….” Tara’s eyes grew round. Then she screamed at the top of her lungs.
“Oh my gracious.” Mrs. Johnson’s face turned as pasty as a bottle of Elmer’s glue. “How dare he?”
I looked around to see what had caused Tara to scream.
Then I saw it. A car glided to a stop right in front of us. A shade lighter than the summer sky, with scooped-out sides from the middle of the back door clear to the taillights in a dazzling darker blue. Shimmering. Metallic looking. The roof matched the side slashes. Silver trim sparkled in the sun. But the most amazing thing was the driver—Benny Ray Johnson.
My heart pounded. Tuwana’s dad hadn’t gotten new tires for the Studebaker. He’d bought a whole new car. I couldn’t take my eyes off it.
“Daddy!” the girls shrilled, and swarmed the driver’s side window. “Is it ours? Is it a Thunderbird? A Cadillac? Can we keep it?”
Mr. Johnson smiled, big beaver teeth shining. He rested his arm on the door where the window had been rolled down, and his muscular, hairy arm had a red heart tattoo with an arrow shooting through it.
“Yes, it’s ours.” His voice boomed. “Climb in. We’re going for a spin.” He waved in the direction of the house. “Sammie, Alice, come on. There’s room for everyone. Bet I could fit half the block in here.”
I raced toward the car, waiting to see where Mrs. Johnson would sit. When I looked back, she stood planted on the lawn, arms crossed. Her nostrils flared on a face that was now the color of strawberry jam.
I flinched and crawled into the back as Mr. Johnson hollered at Alice again. She stomped to the house and slammed the door behind her.
“What’s wrong with Mother?” Tuwana asked, settling into the front passenger seat.
“Too much excitement, I reckon,” her father said. “Maybe she’s never seen an Edsel before. I know the feeling. Knocked my socks off when I first saw it. The car of the future, you know.” He patted the dash.
“What does this do?” Tara pointed to a lever above the armrest.
“Electric windows. And up here”—he pointed to a circle of buttons in the center of the steering wheel—“Teletouch drive. Don’t even have to take my hands from the wheel to put her into drive or reverse. Just push a button and we’re off.”
Mr. Johnson cruised along as faces peeked out their screen doors, gawking. He waved and beeped the horn as if it were the Mandeville Pioneer Day Parade. The breeze caught my hair, and I inhaled the smell of the new, cushy interior.
“Oh, Daddy, this is fabulos-o! All my friends will be sooooo impressed. I bet they don’t even have cars like this in California. When can we take them for a ride?” Translation: Cly won’t be able to resist me now.
“Anytime, Princess. Now watch this.” He pointed out the power steering feature by using only his pinky finger on the wheel. We passed Bailey’s store and the Hilltop Church, where he honked at Brother Henry mowing the parsonage lawn.
The sharp smell of sagebrush rushed in the open windows. Mr. Johnson bellowed “Deep in the Heart of Texas” in a low, throaty voice. I felt swept away to a time long ago when Mama and Daddy and I had taken a drive in the country.
The wind had whipped through the open windows that day as I tapped my new white cowboy boots on the red pickup’s cubbyhole and Daddy sang, “Git along ye little dogies, git along, git along….”
Mama sipped Grapette from a bottle. Her hair, the exact shade of the Indian paintbrush blooming in the bar ditches, whirled around her head. She offered me a swig of the pop, its warm fizz wetting my dry throat. Oil-pump jacks bobbed their grasshopper-looking heads, sucking at the ground. Sunlight slashed through the clouds, aiming straight at us. With Daddy’s singing, Mama’s laughing, and my boots tapping, we skimmed along, just the three of us under a Texas sky.
That’s how today feels. In my heart, I knew it was a sign Mama would be all right.
[ NINE ]
WE HAD A THUNDERSTORM—a toad strangler according to Daddy—the day before the Fourth, so everyone let out a big sigh of relief when the weather turned clear for the picnic. The Johnsons’ new Edsel, though, created more excitement than the celebration. Tuwana’s dad took anyone who wanted for a ride. Kids lined up like they were waiting for the merry-go-round at the carnival. No charge, of course.
Tuwana had called me that morning and told me her mother refused to look at the Edsel and hadn’t spoken to her dad since he brought the car home. I could tell Mrs. Johnson was hopping mad when I dropped off my brownies at the food table. She and Harriet Ford had their heads together talking.
“I’m furious, I’m here to tell you.” Mrs. Johnson waved a spoon around in the air and took my brownies. “Thank you, Sammie. You didn’t have to bring anything, you know, with your mother gone and all.”
“It’s okay, Mrs. Johnson. This is my mother’s recipe, and I know she’s sorry she couldn’t be here for the picnic this year. She’s coming home on Monday.”
Mrs. Johnson went back to talking to Mrs. Ford. “You’d think he would consult me since I’m the one who has to sacrifice and get all the bills paid. Now he’s the hero of the hour, taking everyone and his dog for rides, burning up heaven only knows how many tanks of gas.”
Mrs. Ford stabbed a knife into my brownies, cutting them into squares, and said, “Mercy, Alice. You have to admit, your Studebaker had seen better days.”
I hurried off and ran straight into Cly.
“Hey, Sam, where you been all day? You missed the basketball shoot-out.”
“Sorry. I had to make brownies.”
“You okay?”
“Of course, why wouldn’t I be?”
“Beats me. You want to go shoot some baskets now?”
Before I could answer, someone rang a cowbell announcing the food was ready. Tuwana and PJ ran up, Tuwana pulling on Cly’s arm and dragging him into the food line. We all piled our plates with fried chicken, potato salad, and pickled okra. Cly made a face like he’d sucked a lemon when he tried the okra.
After eating and playing games, like gunnysack races and the egg-on-a-spoon relay, everyone brought out their fireworks and grown-ups supervised their kids, letting them shoot off Roman candles, Black Cats, and cardboard cones that fizzed into fountains. When I closed my eyes, the glare of the sparklers danced like shooting stars behind my eyelids.
“Anybody want to ride in the Edsel?” Tuwana tugged on Cly’s arm, but he told her to go ahead. She gave him a frowny face.
When I ran to ask Daddy if I could go, I heard Doobie holler, “Dibs on the window.”
Daddy told me to have fun, that he was heading home, so I ran b
ack to the Edsel.
“Sam, over here.” Cly pulled me into the backseat square on his lap.
“Everybody in?” Mr. Johnson gunned the engine.
Tuwana scowled at me from the front, squashed between Davie Summers and Mitzi Greenwood. “Do you wanna trade places? There’s more room for your long legs up here.”
“It’s okay,” I said, not wanting to delay the ride.
Tuwana crossed her arms and stared out the windshield.
Mr. Johnson pushed a button, and we eased onto the road.
“See this here bar above the radio?” Mr. Johnson pointed out the spot to watch. “Gives you the strongest signal available.”
Tapping Mr. Johnson on the shoulder, Doobie said, “Let’s see what this baby’ll do.”
Gravel spun from under the tires as the Edsel peeled out. On the open highway, Mr. Johnson floored it and said, “Keep your eyes on the speedometer.”
Necks craned and bodies shifted trying to see the magical spot. A red glow showed up on the half-moon dial when the needle reached 70.
“Speed warning light,” Mr. Johnson said. “Safety feature for any of you heavy-footed types.”
“You gonna let us drive it?” Davie asked.
“Yeah, when the moon turns to green cheese, I am.” He threw back his head and laughed. He slowed down, hung his head out the window looking for cars, then spun the Edsel around on the highway and headed back to the community hall.
“Can you drop me off at my house?” I asked.
“Right-o.”
I thanked Tuwana’s dad for the ride and ducked out the door. Cly hopped out behind me. “I’ll walk home from here, Mr. Johnson. Bossin’ car, man.”
“You live four streets over,” I said as the car pulled away.
“Yeah… well, I wanted to make sure you get home safely.”
“What could be safer than Graham Camp? Only thing might get me is a fang-toothed coyote coming out of the canyon looking for a snack.”
Chasing Lilacs Page 5
