“Son, you’re worrying about something you need to leave to the Lord. You got a Bible?”
Chan glanced at Daddy. Did they have one? Daddy studied the floor silently, lost in his own world.
Mr. Meekins reached into his desk, pulled out a worn black leather book, and held it out.
“You take this one. I got several. They say you aren’t supposed to talk about God in school, but what do I care?”
“Thank you, Mr. Meekins.”
“The best way to thank me is to read it, cover to cover. When you’re done, read it again.”
Chan opened the book.
“It’s hard to understand.”
“It gets easier. You just have to ask God to help you understand it. But for now I want you to remember one verse.” Mr. Meekins gently took the Bible and opened it. Chan hoped he gave it back. It felt good in his hands. Soft, worn, and special. Best of all, it smelled like Mr. Meekins.
After flipping through a few pages, Mr. Meekins found what he was looking for and handed the book back. He pointed to a passage.
“Show your daddy how good a reader you are. Read this part right here.”
Chan quickly read it to himself. Some of the words were bigger than fifth grade. He concentrated for a moment, then began to read.
“For I know the plans I have for you... de...”
“Declares,” Mr. Meekins said.
“... declares the Lord.”
“Good,” Mr. Meekins said. “’Declares’ means the same as ‘said.’ Now start again.”
Chan smiled. Mr. Meekins’s encouragement washed over him like one of Mama’s hugs.
“For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord... plans to...”
“Prosper you,” Mr. Meekins spoke from memory.
“Prosper you and not harm you. Plans to give you hope and a future.”
“Excellent. Do you know what it means?”
Chan read it through twice more. The words didn’t go together like the books he read in school.
“I think it’s saying that He knows who I am.”
The old man beamed. “Bless you, son. It means that and a lot more. It means that God knows what he has planned for you in the future, and that those plans are good.”
“God is going to make things go good for me at Adair School?”
Mr. Meekins pulled him close.
“It doesn’t mean things are always going to be good for you, or anybody else.”
The warm feeling started to fade.
“But if you trust the Lord, he will make sure things end good for you, and that’s the most important thing.”
The little schoolhouse grew quiet as student and teacher considered their final lesson together.
“Time to go, son. Mr. Meekins has to get back to Cape Girardeau.”
For a moment, he had forgotten Daddy was there. Clutching the new Bible, Chan reluctantly followed him to the door. Before leaving, he turned for a final look. Mr. Meekins was watching him. He looked older. Smaller, frail; his eyes were cloudy and tearful.
“Remember son, read that Bible again and again. When you love God, you’ll never be alone.”
Chan didn’t understand what it meant to love God, but he knew that Mr. Meekins loved him. He hadn’t felt love like that since Mama’s accident. Sure, he loved Dixie and Daddy, but not in the way he felt toward Mr. Meekins, who showed his love by giving of himself. Nobody did that for him anymore - spent time with him, making him feel smart.
Making him feel special.
And as certain as he felt about Mr. Meekins’ love for him, he felt something else.
A certainty that he would be okay.
Even if Lowell Surratt yelled at him or made him pee his pants, he’d be okay.
Even if the teachers didn’t like him or were mean to him, he’d be okay.
Because Mr. Meekins helped him understand something that none of them knew.
He was special.
FIFTY-SIX
Usually he rode the bus home, but it was one of those days when walking was preferable. Walking allowed the shame to subside, away from the smirks and whispers of the two dozen other kids on the bus to Saxon County’s East End. This time, the humiliation took place right in front of them, while the bus was loading outside school.
Marcus Twinby led the charge.
“Hey Mutt, we heard that old tractor chopped your Mama’s arm off.”
Loading stopped as the kids watched the confrontation unfold. Mutt didn’t turn around, but he felt their stares.
Dallas Devereaux entered the foray.
“Everybody knows a nigra woman got no business driving a tractor.”
“Got what she deserved, if you ask me,” Marcus said. “Is she buried in one of them coon graveyards in Kansas City, Mutt?”
Mutt glanced around to see if any adults were nearby. They weren’t. He looked toward the open door of the bus, hoping Old Man Grimes might intervene, but he appeared to be amused by the encounter. None of the other kids would say anything. They were as scared of Marcus and Dallas as he was.
“I’m betting them coon graveyards is full of drug dealers and hookers,” Dallas said. “Mutt, you ever buy any drugs when you lived in Kansas City?”
“Ever buy a hooker?” Even Old Man Grimes laughed at Marcus’ comment.
Mutt knew he should do something. These were two eighth grade farm kids, a year ahead of him in school. Neither was very big, but together they were formidable. Especially to a twelve-year old who was small for his age, had no one backing him up, and was navigating his first weeks alone at Adair Junior-Senior High School.
But then, being alone was nothing new. For four years he’d been alone amongst the two-hundred students at Adair Elementary School. Why should this be different?
But oh, how he hated being called Mutt. He would love to right the wrongs that had been done since that name was stuck on him in third grade. He hadn’t understood what they meant back then.
He knew now.
The kids who called him Mutt saw themselves as purebreds.
So did the teachers who had taken to calling him that.
And the people in town. Most of them probably didn’t know his real name. He was Mutt. Earl Manning’s half-breed kid.
“How’s Crazy Earl?” Marcus said. “Still running off?”
“Where’s he go, Mutt? Does he got a new nigra woman he’s chasing?”
“Mutt, get on the bus!”
Old Man Grimes must have spotted a teacher looking in their direction; otherwise he would have allowed the confrontation to play out. With the show over, the other kids’ attention shifted to grabbing the best seats. Marcus and Dallas skulked away, looking back as they boarded the West End bus.
“We’ll find you tomorrow,” Marcus said. “We got more questions about your mama.”
“Yeah, and we may wanna whup up on you a little bit,” Dallas added with a laugh.
Mutt watched them board their bus, not noticing that his own bus was loaded.
“Mutt, you going home or gonna stand around with your thumb up your rear?”
Old Man Grimes wore the same expression Mutt saw in the faces of so many in Saxon County.
Dislike.
Disdain.
Hatred.
He decided to walk.
###
He was three miles outside Adair when he heard the car pull to a stop behind him. He glanced over his shoulder, angry with himself for not staying alert and ready to dash into the woods if necessary. The late afternoon sun made it difficult to see the driver, so he focused on the road ahead.
“Son, are you walking all the way out to Grebey Island?”
The man’s voice was kind. Mutt squinted through the passenger side window. He was middle-aged, with remnants of red hair surrounding an otherwise bald head. There was a sign on the door.
Edgar Ellis Insurance Agency.
“I can give you a ride.”
Mutt looked at him warily. He seemed okay, but
taking a ride was not a good idea. He’d learned how things could turn bad real quick.
“No sir, I’ll be fine.”
“I’m sure you’d be fine if the weather was better, but look over that way,” he pointed north. “Storm coming, right down the river. Before you get much further it’ll be raining heavy.”
Lost in his misery, he hadn’t noticed the approaching storm.
“C’mon, get in. You probably know my missus up at school, Miss Bertie?”
Mutt nodded. Miss Bertie was his seventh grade English teacher. Tough old nag, according to what he’d heard. He knew from three weeks in class that she was demanding.
The rumble of distant thunder helped him decide. He climbed into the passenger seat, feeling the cool rush of air conditioning as he closed the door.
###
They hadn’t gone a mile before a smattering of large raindrops began pelting the car’s windshield.
“Would you mind giving me a hand getting in some tomatoes?” the man asked casually as he pulled onto the drive of a farmhouse Mutt had passed hundreds of times. “Bertie’s wanting to can this weekend and I forgot to pick ‘em. I don’t want to be out there when the storm comes.”
Mutt followed him to a small shed where he pulled two baskets from a stack.
“You can call me Mr. Edgar,” he said as they filled the baskets with ripe red tomatoes. Mr. Edgar positioned them on the house’s small back porch, close to the door, then pulled a wallet from his hip pocket and held out a five-dollar bill.
“I appreciate your help, son,” he said. “We just beat the rain.”
“No sir,” Mutt said, raising his hands. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“Don’t be silly,” Mr. Edgar said with a laugh. “Spend it on some candy or music... or whatever kids spend money on.”
“No really. It’s not necessary.”
A ten-year old Chevy Impala pulled into the gravel driveway, stopping a few feet away. Miss Bertie Ellis emerged, all six feet of her. Mutt hadn’t expected to see one of his teachers, and hoped she hadn’t heard about the incident after school.
Mr. Edgar sauntered over and reached up to kiss her cheek. She was several inches taller than her husband. Not surprising, he thought, as Miss Bertie seemed bigger than everybody at school. There was a familiarity about her he’d picked up on, but had yet to figure out. Something about the way she carried herself.
“You know this young man, I believe,” Mr. Edgar said.
Miss Bertie smiled at him across the hood of the car.
“I sure do. He’s quite the talented writer.”
Feeling his cheeks turn red, Mutt looked away.
“He didn’t tell me about that,” Mr. Edgar said. “In fact, he’s not told me much of anything. I picked him up walking down the road and asked him to help me pick those tomatoes you were wanting. I offered to pay him, but he wouldn’t take anything.”
The words were barely out of his mouth when the sky opened. Miss Bertie made a dash for the back porch, Mr. Edgar close behind. He motioned for Mutt to join them.
Miss Bertie said, “Since you won’t take any money, how about staying for dinner? We’re having homemade chicken pot pies. All I have to do is heat them up, won’t take more than a half hour.”
He tried to object, but Miss Bertie was having none of it. Mr. Edgar sat at the large kitchen table while she went about preparing dinner. Mutt sat across from him in a spot that would soon become very familiar to him.
For the next two hours they got acquainted. It was while he was eating his chicken pot pie and washing it down with sweet iced tea that Mutt felt something warm building in his heart. The setting was like some of the shows he watched on television, where families sat around the table talking about their day. That never happened at home. Usually Daddy or he would fry up steaks or pork chops they’d raised on the farm, but even then little was said. It was cold. Empty. Daddy was a shell of the man he’d been when they moved here.
This, on the other hand, was warm and friendly. He occasionally stole glances around the kitchen and into adjoining rooms.
It felt... right.
“You know, Channing, you and I have a connection of sorts.” She was the only person who called him by his given name. A couple of teachers still referred to him as Chan. Most called him Mutt.
“What kind of connection?”
“We’re cousins – distant cousins, but cousins.”
His surprise must have been evident. Miss Bertie smiled.
“Your grandma was Cora Tasby. Did you know her?”
Memories of his grandma were blurry and distant. Sometimes he remembered little things. A scent or a few words. While the memories were scattered, the impact her passing had on Daddy was impossible to forget. It was the beginning of the end for him. The hurt inflicted by Grandma’s death was made complete by Mama’s accident a few months later.
“Some. I was little when she passed.”
Miss Bertie nodded. “Miss Cora’s grandfather and my grandmother were brother and sister. That would make you and me...” Miss Bertie looked at the ceiling while she figured out the relationship.
“Second cousins once removed,” Mr. Edgar said.
“I never knew your grandmother. She left the family home before I came along, but I sure admired her.”
“People still say Bertie favors Miss Cora.” Mr. Edgar’s words tied together the loose ends that had been gnawing at Mutt since the start of school. The grandma of his memories was a tall, large woman, like Miss Bertie. His newfound affinity for her grew.
The conversation continued to flow easily. It was close to eight when Miss Bertie began clearing the table. Mutt got up to help.
“Leave that for me. You’re company.”
“You like baseball?” Mr. Edgar asked getting up slowly. “Cardinals are coming on in a few minutes.”
“Yes sir. I play baseball.”
“Really?” Mr. Edgar stopped for a moment. “Any good?”
“Pretty good. I’m the starting pitcher for my team.”
“You play on the junior high team at school?”
“No sir. I play Little League up in Sainte Genevieve.”
“Why all the way up there? Why not here in Adair?”
“Couldn’t make the teams here. Up there I’m on a team the Methodist preacher coaches.”
Mr. Edgar shook his head. “How’s that going for you?”
“I made the All-Star team. I was seven and one as starting pitcher.”
“That’s twenty miles up the road,” Mr. Edgar said. “How do you get there?”
“Different people come and pick me up.”
Miss Bertie had stopped clearing the table to listen. “And you couldn’t make any of the Adair teams?” she said.
“No ma’am. They said I wasn’t good enough and lived too far out in the country.”
Mr. Edgar and Miss Bertie exchanged a glance.
“Who said you weren’t good enough?” Mr. Edgar asked.
“Coach Duncan. From school.”
“Well I’ll be,” Mr. Edgar said disgustedly. “Bertie, do you believe this?”
“Dennis Duncan doesn’t have a lick of good sense. He was lazy when he was in school and is still lazy today.”
She offered Mutt a big smile, then added, “I can’t wait to tell him how well you’ve done.”
FIFTY-SEVEN
Mutt stood triumphantly, gloating over the fallen Shawneetown fullback, before turning to face two of their other players.
“Anything else you guys want to say?”
They didn’t respond. Their fullback was out cold. Minutes before, he and several of his teammates were spewing the kind of racial vitriol Mutt hadn’t heard since junior high. He always assumed it couldn’t get any worse than the slurs directed at him back then, but the boys from Shawneetown represented a new low.
So, when the opportunity presented itself, he’d reacted. In the first quarter it was the Shawneetown quarterback. He hadn’t said muc
h, but the boys protecting his blind side wouldn’t shut up. It would have been easy enough to take them both out, but he wanted to hit Shawneetown where it really hurt, so as they lined up for the next play he yelled at them over the heads of the Adair High defensive linemen.
“I’m coming... but not for you.”
They heard him. He could tell by the way they shifted that they knew what was going to happen, and that they probably weren’t big enough or quick enough to stop him. Mutt’s growth spurt in ninth grade, along with hours of farm labor rendered him an immense physical specimen. As a junior he was already the biggest and fastest guy on the field, and still growing.
At the snap, Mutt charged at the mouthy linemen, juked, and slid by on their right. The quarterback was tall, maybe six feet, but Mutt had him by four inches and sixty pounds. He put the size advantage to work, picking the boy up and viciously slamming him to the turf. The kid laid there until two teammates helped him to the sideline.
Message sent, but sadly not received.
The same two linemen and a couple of their teammates vowed revenge. They got in a few cheap hits and more insults, until Mutt decided just before the end of the first half that it was payback time.
Shawneetown’s backup quarterback called a running play that would send the fullback in Mutt’s direction. The loudmouth linemen were supposed to open enough space for him to get through. Big mistake.
They charged as one, putting their combined quarter-ton to work, but only driving Mutt back six inches before he got his footing and flung them out of the way. That left the fullback coming straight at him. Mutt saw the fear when their eyes met. The runner attempted to fake left, but Mutt anticipated the move and went in hard, helmet to chest.
This time Shawneetown needed a stretcher.
As they waited for the fullback to be removed, Mutt’s happy teammates slapped him on the backside and punched him in the arm. The Adair fans started to chant.
“Mutt.”
“Mutt.”
“Mutt.”
College coaches were thicker than flies. The Mizzou head coach and assistants from Illinois and Arkansas patrolled the sidelines, making sure Mutt saw them. Those from smaller colleges watched from the stands. Even with a year to go before graduation, Mutt was catching their attention. He was also getting calls from college baseball coaches because of his pitching prowess in American Legion ball. A decision would need to be made at some point, but for now Mutt wanted to enjoy the attention.
Harvest of Thorns Page 24
