Jim the Boy

by Tony Earley

  “Who’s that?” Buster Burnette asked as the new boys walked toward them.

  “I bet they’re the kids from Lynn’s Mountain,” Jim said.

  “Hillbillies,” said Dennis Deane, which made everybody snicker uneasily. Nobody mentioned that the new boys were dressed in overalls exactly like theirs.

  The new boys seemed to be led by a tall, handsome boy with inky black hair and dark eyes. He stopped directly in front of Jim, while the other new boys gathered around him. He was about Jim’s height, or maybe a hair taller. Jim thought he looked smug and bossy.

  “I’m Penn Carson,” the new boy said to Jim in a slightly odd accent.

  “I’m Jim Glass,” said Jim. “These are my friends.”

  He introduced them, while the new boys looked them over. Penn Carson nodded and pointed at his friends.

  “This is Otis Shehan. And Mackey MacDowell and Willie McBee and Horace Gentine.”

  Everybody mumbled “hey” all around.

  “I think we might be some kind of cousins,” Horace Gentine said to Jim.

  “I don’t think I have any cousins,” Jim said. He didn’t know if he did or not.

  “I know who your granddaddy is,” said Otis Shehan.

  Jim studied Otis. He was a lot smaller than Jim, but he looked mean.

  “I don’t have anything to do much with my grand-daddy,” said Jim.

  “Your name is Penn?” Buster Burnette said to the new boy.

  “I’m named for William Penn. He was the founder of Pennsylvania. My mother was a Quaker missionary from Philadelphia. She was the teacher at our school until it closed.”

  Penn spoke schoolteacher English, which made Jim a little self-conscious.

  “What’s a Quaker?” Crawford Wilson asked.

  “It’s pretty complicated,” Willie McBee said.

  “It’s a form of Christianity,” said Penn.

  “It ain’t Baptist,” Larry Lawter said.

  “Or Methodist,” said Buster Burnette.

  “It’s a Yankee religion,” said Dennis Deane, but nobody laughed.

  “Penn ain’t a Yankee,” Otis Shehan said. “And he won’t fight because it’s against his religion.”

  Penn held out his hand, as if to keep Otis from saying more.

  “I was born in North Carolina, just like y’all,” he said.

  “Miss Nanney says we’re supposed to play ball,” said Horace Gentine. “Are we going to play ball, or are we gonna talk?”

  “How about us against y’all?” Jim said. “The town boys against the mountain boys.” The two teams regarded each other warily. Nobody knew what to say.

  Penn finally nodded. “Okay,” he said.

  The town boys batted first and scored twelve runs. Jim got on base all three times he came up to bat. Larry Lawter, who not only couldn’t run very fast, but couldn’t bat very well, either, made all three of the outs. When the mountain boys came up, Jim saw quickly that the town boys had their hands full. Otis Shehan, Mackey MacDowell, and Horace Gentine loaded the bases before Penn came to the plate and swatted a ball to center that rolled almost all the way across the playground before Buster Burnette could run it down. Penn homered again the next time he came to the plate, this time to right field, with two runners on. Between pitches, Jim began to watch Miss Nanney, hoping that she would call them in before the mountain boys tied the score. But she stood placidly in the shade of the building, apparently in no hurry to return to the classroom.

  Penn came to the plate a third time with two outs, the bases loaded, and the mountain boys down by three. Jim looked at Miss Nanney, who still showed no signs of ending the rally. On the first pitch Jim threw, Penn socked a long line drive to left field. Crawford, who was playing deep, chased after it. Jim ran to shortstop to cut off the relay throw. Dennis ran home to cover the plate.

  Jim fielded Crawford’s throw and turned just in time to see Penn rounding third. He saw that Penn would reach home before his throw would. He threw the ball as hard as he could and it hit Penn between the shoulder blades, knocking him to the ground just as he touched the plate. Jim didn’t know in his own heart if he had hit Penn on purpose or not.

  Penn scrambled up and twirled toward Jim, his face flushed with anger, his fists balled at his sides. Jim threw down his glove and got ready to fight.

  The town boys and the mountain boys looked at Jim in disbelief. They stood still and watched to see what would happen. Jim had never seen anybody angrier than Penn. Still, Penn did not move forward. Across the playground, Miss Nanney raised her arm in the air, signaling the end of recess.

  “That was dirty,” Otis Shehan said.

  “Did you do that on purpose?” Penn asked.

  “It was an accident,” Jim said. “I promise.”

  Penn unclenched his fists. He brushed the dirt off of his overalls.

  “Mountain boys thirteen, town boys twelve,” Jim said, trying to smile. “We better go in.”

  He picked up his glove and turned toward the school. On the way back across the playground, he walked by himself. Not even the town boys knew what to say to him.

  Big Day

  JIM DID not sleep much the night before Big Day. The idea of the new school’s open house itself had not kept him awake, but the small carnival waiting on the playground had driven him to distraction. He was up and dressed and through with breakfast by seven, even though it was a Saturday. He paced back and forth between the front porch and the kitchen, huffing with impatience. He was afraid that Penn might get to the school before he did; he was afraid that Penn would ride the rides first.

  In the three weeks since the start of term, Jim and Penn had turned the school yard into their own private arena. They raced across the playground when recess started, and raced back when it was over. When Penn volunteered to wash the blackboard, Jim offered to beat the erasers. Penn memorized more Bible verses than Jim, but Jim won the spelling bee. When Miss Nanney set the class to work painting pictures of Bible scenes with which to decorate the walls for Big Day, Jim and Penn each painted a picture of David slaying Goliath; each then begged Miss Nanney to judge which one was best.

  From the front porch Jim could see the merry-go-round and the Ferris wheel. In the kitchen Uncle Zeno said, “No, Doc, it’s not time to go yet.” From the front porch, he could see the tall, skinned poplar log that had been sunk into the ground for the greasy pole–climbing contest. In the kitchen Mama said, “Jim, you are worrying me to death.”

  Big Day started at ten o’clock, when Mr. Dunlap would unlock the school doors. Mama did not seem to care that cars and trucks already lined the school driveway, that everybody and their brother was coming in from the countryside by the truckload, by the wagonload, and on foot, to see the new building and ride the rides; she did not seem to care that they would take up all the shady places to put their dinner on the ground. She especially did not care that Penn Carson might get in line for the Ferris wheel before Jim did.

  By eight o’clock, Jim did not see how he could live two more hours.

  By eight-thirty, Uncle Zeno had had enough. He slapped his leg with the Progressive Farmer he had been trying to read.

  “Come on, Doc,” he said. “We’re going for a walk.”

  “I don’t want to go for a walk,” Jim said.

  “Ain’t no ‘want to’ about it,” said Uncle Zeno.

  Uncle Zeno strode through the pastures and the fields as if he were on his way to something important, and not away from it. Jim followed at a distance great enough to show his displeasure, but not great enough to get himself in trouble. He tried not to enjoy how good the morning sun felt on his back; he tried to ignore the sweet air on his face.

  They crossed the creek on the stepping-stones, passed through the walnut grove, and came into the big corn bottom. The corn that had been knee-high to the uncles and the field hands in June was now seven and eight feet tall. It was still green, but thin, brown stripes, like those found on garter snakes, were beginning to darken the e
dges of the long leaves. Each stalk was topped by an elaborate, tasseled headdress; each heavy ear sprouted a protruding mane of silk. When Jim and Uncle Zeno walked through the field, the leaves whispered that fall was coming.

  On the far side of the bottom, they passed out of the corn and into the ribbon of tangled woods that marked the passage of the river. They carefully followed a narrow path through the poison oak. With each step, the river-smell grew stronger; the gurgling sound of water seeking its way through smooth, flat rocks grew louder. The path ended at the wide, flat rock from which the uncles liked to fish. Beyond the rock, the river bent suddenly toward South Carolina, as if intent on leaving their country for good. This was the place that for Jim marked the boundary of home; on the far side of the river lay another place entirely.

  Uncle Zeno hopped from the bank onto the rock. Jim followed him and sat down near the water. The rock had been warmed by the sun, but the air near the water raised gooseflesh on his arms. Jim stared at the green water; he lay back and stared at the blue sky. He wondered what was going on in town. He thought jealously of not just Penn, but of all the kids who would get to the school before he did.

  “You got ants in your britches today, don’t you, Doc?” Uncle Zeno said.

  Jim didn’t say anything. If he had been at Big Day, he would have been in line for the Ferris wheel first.

  “Don’t worry,” Uncle Zeno said. “It’ll be Big Day all day.”

  “How many people do you think will be at Big Day?” Jim asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Uncle Zeno. “The weather’s good. Several hundred, I reckon.”

  “Do you think it will be the most people to ever be in Aliceville at one time?”

  “Hmm,” Uncle Zeno said. “I hadn’t thought about that. Could be.”

  “More than when Alice came?” Alice was the little girl for whom the town had been named.

  “I don’t know. There were a lot of folks in town that day. That was a big day, too.”

  “How old were you when Alice came?”

  “Five,” said Uncle Zeno. “You sure you want to hear this again?”

  Jim nodded, and for the first time all morning began to think of something other than Big Day.

  “Well, this happened during the last century,” Uncle Zeno said, glancing slyly at Jim.

  He always began stories that happened before he was seven years old by saying, “This happened during the last century.”

  “Little Corrie and Little Allie hadn’t come along yet, nor your mother, and I was the only little fellow running around the place. Now, my granddaddy (that’s your great-granddaddy) and my daddy (your granddaddy, who died in 1918 with the flu) were doing pretty well. They were farming in a big way and they had the gin and the store and the mill and business was going good, and there was a tannery here then, and the tannery ran a big crew, and a sawmill, and Abraham and his bunch lived up on the hill, and it started to look to everybody like they lived in a regular town. Only they knew it wasn’t a real town because they couldn’t get the train to stop. You could flag it down, but if the flag wasn’t out, it went on through without even slowing down. And Granddaddy hated to see that. Everybody knows you ain’t got much of a town if a railroad track runs through it but the train won’t stop.

  “So one day Granddaddy packs a bag and flags the train down and goes to see the superintendent down in Hamlet and asks him if he’ll make the train stop. But the superintendent, he says, ‘My train only stops in towns. You can flag the train down like the rest of the country folk.’

  “Granddaddy comes back home, and he drives a big, iron stake right in the middle of town and he surveys out a half a mile from that stake in every direction, which made a circle a mile wide, and he gets everybody who owns property inside that circle to sign a petition, and he takes that survey and that petition all the way to Raleigh and files articles of incorporation. Then he goes to Hamlet and he says, ‘Now, look here. We got a town. We got a survey. We got articles of incorporation.’

  “But the superintendent, he says, ‘I don’t care about your articles of incorporation. You ain’t got a depot for the train to stop at.’

  “So Granddaddy, who by now is getting kind of aggravated at the superintendent, comes back home and with his own money builds a depot right over the top of that stake, beside the railroad track, in the dead center of town. Then he goes back to the superintendent one more time and he says, ‘All right. I made you a town. I built you a depot. If you’ll make the train stop, I’ll give that depot to the railroad.’

  “Now, Aliceville, as you know, was at that time called Sandy Bottom. That’s just what it had always been called. So the superintendent, who wasn’t too crazy about Granddaddy, either, he says, ‘I don’t care how many depots you give me, my train ain’t stopping at no place called Sandy Bottom.’

  “Granddaddy comes back home and he thinks about it, and he decides that maybe this time the superintendent has a point. Sandy Bottom ain’t much of a name for a town. So he asks around to see if anybody can think up a name, but nobody couldn’t think of anything good, nothing anyway that would stop a train.

  “Now, the engineer of the train at that time was a fellow named Bill McKinney. He was raised not far from here, down a little ways on the other side of the river, and his people still lived around. He was a big old handsome fellow with big waxed mustaches, and he was proud of that train. And the only thing he was prouder of than that train was his little girl, Alice. And everybody knew that.

  “So one Sunday in church, Granny (that’s your great-grandmother), it came to her that all this time Granddaddy had been talking to the wrong man. She thought that maybe instead of working on the man who was in charge of the train — but lived all the way down in Hamlet — they ought to work on the man who drove the train and came through here every day. She’s the one who thought up the name Aliceville.

  “Now Granddaddy thought that was a pretty smart idea, even if he didn’t think of it. He talked it around and everybody else agreed that it was a pretty good name for a town — everybody liked Bill McKinney, you see — and anyway it was better than Sandy Bottom. So Granddaddy painted ‘Aliceville’ on a sign and climbed up on a ladder and nailed it to the side of the depot. It’s the same one that’s up there today.

  “Now Bill McKinney, when he heard about what was going on from his people, he didn’t believe it. The first time the train came through after Granddaddy put the sign up, he stopped and climbed down out of the cab to take a look. And, big as he was, Bill McKinney almost broke down crying when he saw it, he loved Alice so much. He told Granddaddy that as far as he was concerned, the flag was always out at Aliceville, and he was going to stop the train every day, going and coming, no matter what the superintendent said.

  “Things went on that way for a while, the train stopping twice a day even though it wasn’t supposed to, and one thing led to another, and pretty soon the superintendent gave in and put Aliceville on the regular schedule. Oh, that was good news. Everybody in town got together and planned a celebration, because now Aliceville was an official town, as much as Shelby or New Carpenter or Charlotte or New York City, and they asked Bill McKinney if he would bring Alice.

  “The celebration was set for a Sunday, and the train made a special run. Everybody came in from the country and brought their dinner and stayed the day. They had mule races and footraces and sack races and three-legged races and a greased-pig chase, and they had a greasy pole–climbing contest — which I didn’t do no good at, I was too small — and sometime in the middle of the afternoon we heard the train whistle, and we looked and saw the smoke coming in the distance, and everybody ran down to the depot. When the train came up to the depot and stopped, it was all shined up, and it had flags and banners hung all over it, and Alice McKinney, the girl they had named the town after, was up in the cab with her mama and her daddy. She must have been six or seven, just a little older than I was.

  “Lord, Jim, I can still see her. She was wea
ring a white dress and a little crown, and I thought she was the prettiest thing I had ever seen, standing up there in the cab and waving at everybody. We cheered and cheered. Granddaddy had covered the Aliceville sign on the side of the depot with a sheet, and Alice got down off the train with her mama and daddy and pulled a rope and the sheet came down and everybody cheered again. I was just five years old then, and I thought that was the grandest day there had ever been. I thought Alice McKinney was like a queen or a princess, something out of a picture book, and I couldn’t believe I was standing there looking at her. Everybody was so happy. Town seemed like a different place. It finally seemed like somewhere.

  “But, one day not long after that, the train came through and Bill McKinney wasn’t driving it. A substitute man was. And the substitute man got down and told us that Alice had come down sick. She had the whooping cough or diphtheria, I don’t remember which. And as long as she was sick, people waited for that whistle, and when the substitute man pulled in, everybody stopped what they were doing and went down to the depot to see how Alice was. And every day he told us she was getting a little worse, that she was sinking a little lower. Women from here started frying chickens and making pies and cakes and sending them back with the substitute man.

  “Then one day we heard the train whistle start up way outside of town, long before it got to the crossing, just a continuous blast, and it got louder and louder, and it didn’t let up, and everybody ran fast as they could down to the track to see what was wrong. I remember running down the street holding Mama’s hand. Well, the train didn’t stop that day. When it came through, it was going so fast and the whistle was so loud, you could feel the ground shake. I’d never seen a train go that fast. And in the instant it flashed by, we could see that Bill McKinney was driving. He was staring straight ahead. He didn’t look left nor right, and he had this awful look on his face, and that’s when we knew that Alice had died.