The Day of Small Things

by Vicki Lane

  At last Miss Birdie spoke. “So this here’s the trial that’s coming,” she muttered, lowering herself into the recliner and stretching out her legs.

  It took a moment for the words to register but when they did, Dorothy sat bolt upright, exhaustion forgotten. “You mean you knew …”

  Birdie’s face was still solemn as an undertaker’s but at least she was speaking and nodding in agreement. “Ain’t no doubt the poor little feller’s had it awful rough. Never knowed who his daddy was and then with a mother like Prin—law, it would of been a sight better had Prin stayed gone after running off like she did.”

  “Truer words was never spoke!” Dorothy dabbed at her eyes but somewhere deep inside she sent up a brief prayer of thanks. She’s coming round, I do believe. “You know I had just about got Calven tamed—though he’s still fighting that lawless nature he was born with.”

  “Everybody says you’ve made a world of difference in that child.” Birdie lay back in the recliner and closed her eyes. “When I think what he was like when first you brought him by here—not a please nor a thank you in his mouth …”

  Much heartened, Dorothy chimed in. “His mamaw Mag tried when she had him, back when Prin first run off. Mag did her best, and that’s the truth, but Calven’s papaw—that Royal Ridder—he ain’t no more fit to be around a child than them boyfriends of Prin’s. And Mag won’t never say no to Royal—she’s a fool for that man—always has been. They might have been a chance, now that Royal’s back in jail, but—”

  Seeing her friend’s lips tighten, Dorothy stopped mid-sentence. Birdie never did have much use for Mag—and I can understand the why of that. But Magdalene’s still my baby sister and a good somebody no matter what Birdie thinks. Mag would of done better if things had been different.…

  Dorothy looked down, trying to gather her thoughts, and caught sight of her uneven shirt front. “Now, will you look at that—buttoned all skee-jawed! I was in such a hurry to get over here I just throwed on my rags without paying any mind. Reckon I must look like a crazy woman, along with sounding like one.”

  Noticing her mismatched socks, Dorothy stuck out first one foot and then the other and gave a little laugh. “Maybe I’ll set a new fashion. Leastways I managed to get out of my nightgown afore I jumped in the car to come over here.”

  Seeing the beginning of a smile at the corners of Birdie’s lips, Dorothy went back to her pleading. Hands on her knees, she leaned toward the woman in the recliner. “But, oh, Birdie, if you could of seen them fellers Prin had with her … one of them was the wickedest-looking somebody I’ve ever seen; purely gave me chills to look at him … and poor little Calven, trying to act like going off with them weren’t nothing out of the ordinary—”

  She could hear her voice beginning to shake again. “You know how hard Calven tries to put on like he’s a big tough man.” Unable to sit still, she pushed herself up from the sofa, pulled off her glasses, and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, forgetting the wadded tissues in her other.

  Give me strength, Lord, to reason with Birdie and not go all distracted. Don’t let her bow up on me again, Dorothy prayed as she began once more, unashamedly begging for help from the fragile-looking woman who continued to listen, eyes still shut, her expression telling nothing.

  “The child looked so little and puny and scared when them two fellers got on either side of him and herded him out to that big van with the blacked-out windows—”

  Dorothy felt her face begin to bunch up as she tried to keep from breaking down altogether. “I got to blow my nose,” she said and stumbled like a blind thing toward the back of the house.

  In the bathroom she dashed cold water on her face. I’ll just set down on the commode seat till I can feel some calmer. Burying her face in her hands, she tried to pray but the thoughts would not be stilled. Will Birdie help me, I wonder? Me and her ain’t never talked of those things that the others whispered about, but if it’s true …

  The smell of fresh coffee greeted her when she returned to the living room. She could smell bacon and hear the crack of an eggshell and a cheerful sizzle as the egg met the hot grease.

  “Come on in here, Dor’thy, and get you a chair,” Birdie called from the kitchen. “We’ll have us some breakfast while we study on what to do.”

  Dorothy hesitated. I must go gentle-like if I’m to get her help. Let her see that I’ve tried everything I can.

  In the crowded little kitchen Miss Birdie was standing at the woodstove, tending a black iron skillet in which two bright-yolked eggs were sizzling. On the table, two places were set and two moisture-beaded glasses of milk waited. Dorothy cast a guilty glance at the clock on the wall.

  “Oh, Birdie! Eight o’clock already and here I’ve kept you from your breakfast. But my nerves are in such a state, I couldn’t swallow a bite. I’ll just set here with you while you have yours. I will take some of that coffee, though, if you don’t care.”

  Taking a seat at the plastic-topped kitchen table, Dorothy added milk and sugar to her cup as Birdie lifted the eggs from the skillet and began to fix two plates. After a few sips of the hot, sweet brew, Dorothy was surprised to realize that she felt better and didn’t protest when Birdie set a plate in front of her.

  “Just eat what you can, Dor’thy. You got to keep up your strength.”

  “Oh, I … well, maybe just a bite.” Dorothy picked up a fork and poised it over the perfectly cooked egg’s swelling yolk as Birdie dropped into the opposite chair and began to butter a biscuit. This done, she set the knife back on the butter dish with a click and looked at Dorothy over the top of her wire-rimmed glasses.

  “Now, I been studying on it and I think maybe the thing for you to do is to phone somebody at that place—what do you call those folks that was always coming around back when Cletus was alive, full of their quizzy questions and wanting to know did I need help with him? They’re in with the Health Department—Social Services, I think it is. I recollect seeing their sign when I went for a flu shot last fall—”

  “And whyever didn’t I think of that myself?” Dorothy jumped to her feet, sloshing milky coffee onto the table as she clapped her cup down. “Those are the folks someone told me I would need to talk to if I wanted to be Calven’s legal guardian. I’ll just go give them a—”

  “Set down, Dor’thy, and eat you a biscuit.” Miss Birdie pointed to the clock. “It ain’t but a little after eight—county offices don’t never open early, and even was somebody to be there, they’ll not pick up that phone till the stroke of nine.”

  “They’ve got me on hold again; every last one of them I speak to says they don’t know but so-and-so might.… Hello, yes, my name is Dorothy Franklin. I’m calling about this nephew of mine that I’ve been taking care of.…”

  Once more Dorothy launched into her story, “… his mother run off back of this and he was with his grandmother. She’s my sister but ever since she got sick she ain’t able to do for the boy.… I’m a Certified Nurse Assistant and I’ve kept him in school and he’s making C’s now and some B’s and I take him to church Sundays and Wednesdays.… No, I haven’t got a lawyer; why would … No, I didn’t know that.…

  Almost forty-five weary minutes had limped by when Dorothy at last set down the phone. “Lord-a-mercy but I feel like I been in a fight. Those folks … where’d I leave my coffee at?”

  Catching sight of her half-finished cup of coffee on the table by the sofa, she grabbed it up and drained it. With a grimace of distaste, she set down the empty cup and collapsed onto the sofa, her body slumping in on itself like a deflating balloon. “I am flat wore out and that’s the truth,” she admitted.

  Miss Birdie, who had been following the conversation from her recliner, took off her glasses and polished them on her shirt. “Sounds like things ain’t much changed at that place. They used to aggravate the life out of me.”

  Dorothy leaned back, her eyes half-closed, and sighed. “I talked to everyone who’d listen and they all say that being as
I’m not Calven’s legal guardian, Prin has every right to take him back. This last woman I spoke to said that if I’d petitioned to be named guardian back when Prin run off, they could of helped me, but the way things stand right now …” Dorothy drew in a deep breath, opened her eyes, and fixed Miss Birdie with a stare. “The way things stand now is that the boy’s gone and I’ve got no idea where to find him. I did hope he might call me, if they let him get to a phone.…”

  A thought hit her and she was on her feet again and making for the door. “Which I need to get on home in case he does call. If I hadn’t been so distracted, I’d of thought to bring my new cellphone. Calven knows that number too. Oh, Lord, why—”

  “Dor’thy honey …” Miss Birdie was struggling to her feet, one hand outstretched, her wrinkled old face full of concern.

  Dorothy stopped, one hand on the door knob. “Or could be he’s already called and left me a message. Everwhat, I’ll try to get up with Mag and find out if she knows where Prin might could be. At least, if I know where the boy is, I’ll not worry so bad.”

  “Dor’thy honey.” Her old friend’s gentle hand touched her arm and Dorothy froze, longing to hear that Birdie had changed her mind. If only she will …

  “You know I’ll do what I can, honey.” The old woman’s voice was filled with sorrow as she continued. “But what you was asking, I didn’t even dare use to save my own. There’s a danger in it, a danger that …” The words trailed away as Dorothy waited.

  She didn’t reply at first, then she whirled around. “Birdie,” she said, and it was as though a stranger was speaking the hard cold words, “I can’t be the judge of what’s right and what’s wrong here. All I know is, I want my boy back. You’ll have to decide what’s best for you.”

  The words seemed to be dipped in vinegar. Seeing Birdie bite her lip and hating the pain she had just caused, Dorothy reached out to take her friend’s hand.

  “Oh, Birdie, I don’t mean to sound so harsh. My head is all a-swirl and I ain’t myself. But I reckon there’s one thing you can do for me—iffen Calven don’t call and Mag don’t know their whereabouts, what about that old neighbor of yours—the one who moved over to Tennessee? Didn’t you tell me that she has the gift of prophecy and that she can find lost things? Well, I’m asking you to get up with her and see can she help me.”

  The devil in her couldn’t resist adding, “Don’t reckon that’ll make you break no promises, will it?”

  Chapter 38

  Calven, Phone Home

  Wednesday, May 2

  (Calven)

  I wonder have I been kidnapped? Can you be kidnapped if it’s your own mama that has got you?

  Calven stood by the door—it was locked from the outside; he’d just checked—and looked around the anonymous motel room—two double beds with brown plaid covers, a picture of a raggedy group of mailboxes hanging above his bed and the identical picture repeated above the other, a television with a lopsided antenna sitting on top of a chest of drawers, and two chairs at a small round table, where the big fellow called Darrell had left the bag from the drive-through. Calven rubbed the sore place on his shoulder and thought about the very strange day he was having.

  “Calven baby, me and the boys got to go off for a while,” his mama had said, ruffling his hair backward the way she always did. “There’s you some lunch on the table and there’s a cooler with some Pepsi and Mountain Dew in the bathroom. You stay here and watch TV and we’ll be back this evening before suppertime.”

  Mama’s looks hadn’t changed much—still skinny with those big old boobs some rich boyfriend had paid for—before him and her split up—and, like always, there was bright red lipstick on her mouth and black stuff around her eyes till she looked like a raccoon. Her hair was a good bit lighter than last time he’d seen her—almost white and pulled back in a ponytail with dark roots showing all around her face. She had on tight jeans that showed her belly button and there was a new tattoo peeking out of those jeans in back, a heart-shaped design that sat right above her butt. A “tramp stamp,” Heather had called that kind of tattoo one time, pointing to a picture of some rock star in the magazine they were looking at on the bus.

  Calven wasn’t sure how to feel about Mama coming for him the way she had. Poor ol’ Dorothy like to had a fit when they took him out the door. He wished there was some way he could let Dorothy know he was all right, but the other guy—the scary-looking, weird-smelling one they called Pook—had yanked the phone right out of the wall as soon as they got in the room. Had patted Calven down too, like on the TV, just to make sure he didn’t have a cellphone on him. The touch of those cold pale hands had been horrible—had made Calven want to squirm—hell, had made him want to scream. There was something bad wrong about this Pook guy.

  And he didn’t know either how to feel about being back with Mama again—he’d gotten pretty much used to the idea that she’d run off and left him and he’d told himself he didn’t miss her, that she weren’t no kind of a mama and he was better off at Dorothy’s.

  But still … when he had waked up this morning to see her setting there on the edge of his bed and when she had reached out and messed up his hair and said, “Rise and shine, Sunshine,” like she had used to do back in the good times, he had sat up and hugged her hard as he could. He’d had to shove his face up against her bony shoulder to keep from busting out crying.

  Those two fellows she had with her though—they looked like trouble. Darrell, the big one—and son, he was big—didn’t seem like he was so mean but Calven reckoned Darrell would do whatever the other one said. And that other one …

  “They call me Pook,” he’d said, coming up real close and talking right in Calven’s face. His breath stunk of cigarettes and bad teeth and his skin, even his shaved head, was the color of the belly on a dead catfish. He hadn’t once taken off his sunglasses and that made it all the harder to figure him out. He moved like a young man but the dead-white skin of his face was a maze of tiny wrinkles.

  This Pook wasn’t real tall, maybe five foot eight—an inch or so taller than Calven, who was just now starting to get his growth—and so skinny that he looked kinda puny till you noticed the ropy muscles in his arms. And the tattoos.

  Papaw Roy had tattoos something like these from his time in prison. Calven had seen them three years ago when he was staying with Mamaw and Papaw while Mama and her boyfriend went to Myrtle Beach. Papaw had been in a good mood that weekend and had told Calven a bunch of stuff he’d need to know was he ever to go to prison. Papaw had even taken a ballpoint pen and drawn a picture for Calven of the very same tattoo that was on Pook’s forearm—a three-leaf clover, a Nazi swastika, and the initials A.B., all tangled together.

  “Now, boy, you flat don’t mess with no feller carryin’ that ink,” Papaw had warned him. “A.B. is the Aryan Brotherhood and they’re ever one of them mean as timber rattlers.”

  Calven had nodded his head. He had only been eleven but he had promised to stay clear of the Aryan Brotherhood.

  Now Papaw Roy was back in prison, Calven was almost fourteen, and him and his mama were hooked up with a fellow wearing that very tattoo—a fellow who looked to be a sight worse than any timber rattler.

  Mama had been jumpy as a cat when they all come into the motel room—couldn’t sit still or even look him in the eye, but went to jittering around the room, pulling open the empty drawers and shutting them back, fluffing up the pillows on the bed he was setting on, and telling him they were locking him in to keep him safe while they went and did some business they had to do.

  Calven figured they were going off to buy some reefer or crank or whatever it was they were using. He’d felt some better seeing there wasn’t no kitchenette in this motel room. That meant they weren’t planning to cook any meth, at least not now. He lay back against the pillows and flicked on the TV with the sound off while Mama went on spinning around the room, jabbering all kinds of stuff at him.

  “… so good to be back with my baby boy and we
’re gonna—”

  “Sit down and shut up, Prin.”

  Pook’s words were spoken quiet and slow—six little words in the sudden silence. They filled up the space around them and left no room for arguing. Pook hadn’t even looked at Mama, nor raised his voice a lick, but her mouth had snapped shut as she dropped down onto one of the chairs at the little table and sat there without moving. It had reminded Calven of the time Papaw shot a mourning dove out of the sky and it fell like a rock to lay there, still and broken at their feet.

  The big fella Darrell was setting on the end of the other bed, staring at the muted TV where a cartoon cat was chasing a cartoon dog up a tree. There was no sound at all in the room except the dripping of the shower beyond the open door of the bathroom and the squeak of the bed as Pook came and sat down beside Calven.

  The sunglasses and the bad breath had come up close again, so close that Calven could see his own wide-open eyes reflected on the shiny black lenses.

  “Your mama says you’re a good boy … and a smart boy too. Is that so?”

  Calven had squnched back against the pillows and nodded his head.

  Pook’s hand shot out and grabbed Calven’s shoulder, pinching it between his thumb and fingers. “Speak up, Good Boy, I can’t hear you.”

  The cold fingers were jabbing into his neck in some kind of a wrestling hold that was sending waves of pain like an electric shock down his arm.

  “Yessir,” Calven had gasped. “I guess I’m pretty smart. And I’m good … try to be …”

  The iron grip relaxed but the hand stayed on his shoulder, gently massaging the area it had just punished.

  “Well now, that’s nice to hear. Because I’ve got a job for a smart boy. And if you’re good too, well, I reckon me and you’ll get along fine. The one thing you need to know about working with me …” and the pincher grip of the hand had tightened again, “… the one thing to keep in mind is that when I say ‘frog,’ Good Boy, you had by God better jump.”