Snakes and Stones

by Lisa Fowler

  Seeing that the young’uns are safe, I turn to run to the front of the wagon, intending to go to Old Stump and make sure she’s not too worked up from the ruckus, then climb up and go through the front behind Daddy’s seat. But those rocks and sticks are banging against my skin like hailstones on a tin roof. I can’t run fast enough to dodge them there’s so many, and they’re coming so fast. I couldn’t have seen where I was going even if I’d had my eyes open. And I didn’t.

  I run my hand alongside of that wagon like a blind woman searching for a home, feeling every crack and splinter and knothole that’s ever had a place in that old rickety red and white circus wagon.

  I can hear Old Stump getting more spooked by the minute, whinnying and snorting and dancing about, and Daddy’s hollering something, but with the ruckus them sticks and stones and screaming townsfolk are making, there’s no way I can make out his words.

  I stop a second to look around for Daddy, and all of a sudden, the biggest rock I’ve ever seen hurled into the air whacks me square on the side of the head before I can duck it. Down I go, landing with a mouth plumb full of dirt and blood.

  That’s the last I remember until I come to—lying on my cot, staring at the ceiling, and wishing I was anywhere but in the middle of Alabama in the back of a circus wagon with my kin.

  Filbert, Macadamia, and Hazel are all standing over me—staring down like they think I’m going to turn flips or do a magic trick right there in the middle of the wagon. I hear voices coming from the outside, and only one of them is a voice I recognize. Daddy’s.

  “I sure am sorry this happened to your girl, Mister Hill,” one of the outside voices says. “We’ve had trouble from those boys before. They congregate together and do their mischief, then when the law comes they scatter, so we don’t have a chance to catch them in the act. I sure hope your daughter is going to be all right.”

  “I think she will,” Daddy says. “The doctor gave her a good going-over. He says she’ll have a nasty bruise and a pretty bad headache for a while, but once she heals she’ll be as good as new.”

  “Good,” the other man says. “Why don’t you folks stick around a few days, just until the girl gets to feeling better? Then you can scoot out of town. We’ve got laws against peddling things like your elixir, so it’s best you be moving on as soon as you can. Me and my boys will keep an eye out while you’re here though, just in case those hoodlums come back around. If I were you, I’d keep the little ones close too, if you know what I mean.”

  “Thank you, sheriff. I will.”

  The triplets run to the door of the wagon, I reckon to see the sheriff as he’s leaving.

  “Is Chestnut gonna die?” Hazel asks, still staring out of the door.

  “Nope,” Mac says. “Daddy says she’s too mean to die.”

  They jump down the steps and I’m glad. My head hurts something fierce, and all I want to do is sleep. But I can’t. Or at least I can’t sleep long. If we’ve got to be moving on like the sheriff says, I’ve got flyers to nail up.

  Rolling from my cot, I try to stand, but the hammer in my head kicks the feet right out from under me. I’m back on my cot, and even though I fight it the best I can, I’m drifting off to sleep before I know it.

  Later, I’m half-awake but mostly asleep when I feel the bumping of the wagon wheels against the dry, rocky road. Every bump sends a sharp ax up the side of my head like it’s going to split open and spill out all my good sense over the floor of this rickety wooden wagon.

  As I lie here suffering something fierce from the pain of it all, a powerful thought comes to me. Now, I’m not a baby, and I’m not a sissy by no means, and more than all that, I’m not right proud of what I’m feeling, but well … I’ll just go ahead and say it.

  I want my mama, and I want her now.

  Seems when a body is sick or ailing the only thing makes them better is their mama. Their mama’s arms to hug them. Their mama’s lips to kiss them and rub their aching head with her soft and gentle hand. And more than anything else, an ailing body needs their mama’s words to let them know that everything’s going to be all right.

  But a mama’s the one thing I’ve not got right now.

  I wish my daddy would hug and kiss and give me comfort, especially since he’s the one who snatched me away from that loving mama.

  But he don’t.

  14

  MUSIC AND EMPTY BELLIES DON’T MIX

  The first thing I notice nearly two weeks later when we roll into New Orleans is the smell. Some of the smells are good, some of the smells are stinky, but there’s plenty of smells to go around for sure. With my head still pounding from time to time, I breathe deep, filling my lungs to the brim with the aromas of fresh-caught fish, ripe bananas, and hot baked bread. Almost sets a nose to twitching clean off a young girl’s face. Matter of fact, if a body hasn’t had a meal in a while, their stomach’s liable to rub right up next to their backbone, and their mouth will water like a fountain. Won’t do no good to ask how I know.

  The most curious thing of all though is that folks are eating—right out in the open.

  Oh, they’re sitting down at tables and chairs of course, but right out on the sidewalks where everyone that passes can see as plain as day what they’re eating and wish they had some too. Why, if a girl didn’t have control of her arms and hands—like I do, of course—them folks might look up and find half of the food’s been snatched clean off their plates.

  The way I’ve got it figured it would just be cutting out the middle man. Instead of having them people waste the food on their plates by not eating all of it, then tossing it over into the trash, I could just reach down and snatch it up before it ever even touches the can.

  But I don’t.

  Wouldn’t be proper.

  There’s too much of Mama in me for that.

  There’s music in New Orleans too. Everywhere, there’s music. Daddy calls it “the jazz.”

  Seems there’s not a street corner or an alleyway where folks aren’t blowing on something, beating on something, or plucking and strumming on some strings.

  They’s dancing right out in the middle of the streets too. Women and men, flipping and flitting and looking like they’re twirling around in thin air. It makes a body’s mind go to wondering if the whole world’s gone plumb crazy, leastwise New Orleans, Louisiana.

  I can’t recall when I did see so many folks in one place either—all shapes and sizes—but there’s only one person I’m looking for, and that’s my mama. Every face I see I give a second look, just in case she’s come to New Orleans to find us.

  Surely she’s close. She knows how much Daddy likes warm weather and that he’s always talked about going to New Orleans someday. It only makes sense that Mama would have figured out that Daddy would tote us here. But New Orleans is a mighty big place, so how could she ever find us? I never got to nail up my flyers in Birmingham telling her where we’d be, and besides that, she’d not know to look for us in an old circus wagon.

  “Come on now, Chestnut,” Daddy says. “Keep up with the rest of the family. Don’t lollygag behind.”

  “Keep up with the rest of the family?” What in the world has come over my daddy? I know I was hit on the head, but reckon it’s mostly healed by now. Daddy hasn’t said those words since he started selling the elixir. Wonder what he’s up to? He always makes me stay behind, like he’s ashamed of me and don’t want me along, like he wishes I wasn’t part of the family. He says he can’t have folks recognizing me as being with the group on account of the lies he makes me shovel at them. Huh. I think he just don’t want to be seen with me. Then again, maybe he’s got the conscience all of a sudden—on account of he didn’t do any comforting when I got wacked in the head with that rock. Maybe he’s—

  Filbert interrupts my maybes with a question.

  “We gonna do a show here, Daddy?”

  “Nope.”

  Daddy smiles a sneaky sort of grin.

  “Nope? How come?” Filbert looks
at Daddy and shoves his hands deep into his pockets, just like Daddy.

  “Well, son, we’re not here to do a show. We’re here to make a show.”

  Daddy’s practically skipping along the street.

  “Huh?”

  Filbert looks back at me like he thinks Daddy’s speaking a foreign tongue.

  I shrug. It does set my mind to wondering though. Back on the road from Birmingham, when Daddy asked Filbert if the triplets thought they had done their best in the show, I knew by Daddy’s question that he had some tricks up his sleeve. I just didn’t have any idea it would be so soon, and way down here in New Orleans, Louisiana, to boot.

  As we walk the streets, breathing in smells and listening to the sounds, Daddy’s words might have told Filbert we weren’t doing a show, but he sure has put on his show face. In a way, he’s doing his own show right now just by jumping around and conversing. He’s working the crowds like they’re there to see him, smiling, waving, and shaking hands with everyone he meets. And he’s introducing his young’uns—even me—to folks along the way. Seems to me my daddy’s happier than a bald-headed baby with a bonnet.

  It’s easy to see that the triplets are loving the excitement of New Orleans, too. They’re laughing and dancing, whooping and hollering, and twirling around like twisters with a plan.

  I never much figured my daddy the kind of man who liked this sort of stuff though.

  Fancy three-story high-rising buildings, more people dressed up in store-bought clothes and hats than you can shake a stick at. With anything you could think to name to eat, streetcars running on rails through the middle of the streets, and all of it wrapped up in a tight little package called New Orleans.

  We stroll for hours, soaking up the music, saying hey, and being neighborly to folk we’ve never seen and probably never will lay eyes to again. And, we’re breathing in the food of the privileged. My belly’s growling worse than a half-starved grizzly staring into a rabbit’s den. Feels like I ain’t had nothing more than a bite or two of taters or stale biscuits to eat in weeks—not more than just barely enough to keep a cat alive much less a growing girl.

  We turn a corner, head down a little side street, and come upon a Negro man picking on the banjo. There’s a crowd gathered in front of and around him so we can’t see any more than the top of his head—just enough to tell that he’s a Negro man with a gift for the music. I mean, I heard some of the finest banjo music you’d ever lay claim to played back in the hills of Kentucky, but this here’s different. It’s lively enough so’s you can shake a leg and dance to, but it’s calming and relaxing at the same time; the kind of music that sort of sets a body’s mind at ease.

  Puts me in the mind of being wrapped up tight in a well-worn patchwork quilt and laid out straight into a great big old bed stuffed plumb full of goose feathers. Now I tell you, life can’t get no better than that. Daddy must have thought it too because he slows then stops, like he intends to stay here a while.

  We stretch and strain, mesmerized as the man picks his banjo and sings. After a while his music dies back, the crowd parts a ways, and we see the man in the clear for the first time. I can’t believe my eyes, and it seems that Daddy is every bit as surprised as me.

  It’s Mac who speaks first. “Hey, Daddy! That’s … that’s that man that came—”

  “Abraham?” Daddy interrupts.

  Abraham keeps on plucking his four strings, but he’s not singing anymore.

  “How are ya’ll?” Abraham asks, smiling.

  “Mighty fine! Mighty fine,” Daddy says. “But how in the world—I mean—”

  It seems my daddy’s words have left him. A problem he don’t often have.

  Abraham leans back and laughs out loud. “Bet you neber thoughts you’d see me here, now did you?”

  Daddy shakes his head. “How long … Why didn’t you—”

  “How long I been here?” Abraham asks, still strumming away at his banjo. “Moved here after I left de mines. Warmer den Kentucky. Better for de bones.”

  Daddy nods.

  “As for why I didn’t tells you where I’s headed,” Abraham says. “Reckon you neber asked.”

  “Som’din ya’ll likes to hear played?” Abraham asks, smiling real big.

  Daddy nods. “Well sure. How about a little of my favorite, ‘Danny Boy’? You do know that one don’t you?”

  “I shore’s do, Slim!”

  He cuts loose on the banjo strings, plucking and strumming as hard and loud as his fingers will let him go. Then he breaks out singing.

  Daddy looks down and catches Filbert’s eye, then gives him a nod. Filbert opens up and goes to singing right along with Abraham, just like they’ve been singing together for years, and just like the whole thing was planned. Not long after, Mac and Hazel join in too.

  Part of me wants to step back away from them, like it’s showtime and Daddy’s going to whip out the elixir bottles at any second. Makes me look around right fast for the doubters too.

  But there aren’t any.

  Matter of fact, folks are gathering all right but it’s not from the sounds of an elixir show. It’s from a music show.

  When they finish their song, Daddy pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his eyes. I have to look at him twice to see them tears of his are genuine.

  Daddy shakes his head, his face the reddish-orangey color of a sunset after a rainstorm. He clears his throat and shoves his hankie deep into his back pocket. “Well, I for one am hornswaggled,” he says. “Abraham, I had no idea the talent you possess.”

  “I like your music, Abraham,” Hazel says, smiling and stepping closer to touch his banjo.

  “No, Hazel,” I say, pulling her away. “You call him Mister Abraham.”

  “Well, Daddy said we could call him Abraham when we was back in Georgia.”

  “Maybe he did,” I say shooting Daddy a look. “But Mama says the most disrespectful thing a young’un can do is call an adult by their first name. You don’t want to be disrespectful now, do you?”

  Hazel shakes her head.

  “How long have you been playing, Abraham?” Daddy drops to one knee, examines the banjo, then looks Abraham in the eyes.

  “Aw, more years ’n I care to shake a stick at. I can’t b’lieve I never did play in front of you or your kin. Course yo’ wife neber did want the likes of me …”

  His words trail off as Hazel pulls loose from my grip. “So, what do we call you, Abraham?” she asks, shooting me the evil eye back over her shoulder. “Do you have a last name?”

  Abraham snickers. “Naw, little one. It’s jes’ Abraham, like in de Bible. Dat’s what all de folks rounds here calls me.”

  “Mm-hm,” Daddy says. He gives Abraham a wink. “Well now, ‘just Abraham, like in the Bible,’ what do you think about joining us on the road? It don’t pay much but it would give you a steady roof over your head and an occasional meal. And being with friends is always better than being on alone. I’d be mighty glad to have another grown person around. Mostly though we could use someone with your talents to brighten up our show.”

  Abraham leans over and spits into the street. It’s then and there that I know without a doubt, he and Daddy are kindred spirits.

  “Remind me again, Slim, what kinda show ya’lls have?”

  “An elixir show. Slim’s Powerful Franciscan Healing Elixir to be exact,” Daddy says. “The wagon’s parked just outside of town. You’d have to ride up front with me, young’uns got the back. We’ll pitch camp and rest along the way. It’s a hard life, but a good way to see the country and offer up a bit of help to ailing folk along the way.”

  Daddy don’t notice, but he’s set my teeth on edge asking Mister Abraham to come along. He didn’t ask us if we minded. And just who does he think he is, offering what little food we’ve got to someone else?

  Daddy shoots Abraham another wink and it starts me to wondering if they’ve got secrets between them.

  Abraham rubs his chin with his hand and stares up int
o the evening sky, like he’s thinking great, important thoughts. His uncut snowy-white whiskers make a scratching sound against the palm of his hand, and for the longest time he don’t say a thing.

  Without Abraham’s picking, the music seems way off in the distance and there’s a low humming sound in the air, like the sound of folks talking but not being able to make out the words. Once in a while, there’s a shrill cackling that cuts through the air—like the laughter of ladies being happy.

  “Well now,” Abraham says. “S’pose I might be p’suaded to come along. Where’s ya’ll be headed next?”

  Daddy smiles. “Reckon we’ll be working our way into Texas, up through Arkansas, maybe into Missouri.” He shrugs. “Just anywhere the wind takes us is where we’re headed. No plans really.”

  Daddy’s words are like a big jagged splinter up under my fingernail, throbbing and pounding until it festers up and bleeds. I’ve had a feeling down deep in my gut that he wasn’t aiming to go back to Kentucky. Shucks. My daddy’s not even trying to get back to Mama.

  While he’s standing around jawing with Abraham, and the triplets are dancing in circles and twirling and chasing around and around, I want to let go with them young’uns and have a bit of fun, but I can’t. Too much on my mind. Anyway, with Daddy occupied and busy taking care of business like he is, someone’s got to be the responsible adult and watch out after them babies.

  But while I’m watching, my mind goes to painting this fancy city of New Orleans in all of its fiery flames of orange and fuchsia, red-onion purple, and the deep, dark powdery blues of eggplants. The jazz that Daddy loves so much is a hot mix of turquoise and aqua and indigo with large splatters of sunshine yellow and splashes of jalapeño green and hydrangea pink.

  But the more I think about Daddy offering Mister Abraham a place with us, those sunshine yellows turn to cool icy blues, and the jalapeño greens turn to angry, dark avocado-skin streaks of green. The more Daddy’s words swirl around in my brain, the more I wish I had some storm-cloud gray to smear over the top of the brightness, or maybe even some zebra-stripe black just to completely cover up the whole picture in my mind.