Harold didn’t say nothing. I’d never known him to fish.
Me and Harold hadn’t had any relations since I’d took to the bed. But I knew that he liked it, so I went over to him and run my hands down his chest and said, “I like men that fish.”
I watched him go across. I watched them leave.
As soon as they were out of the driveway good, I went over to Mattie’s, but it took me a while to get her to the door. And when I did, she wouldn’t let me in, just stayed on the other side of it and told me she looked a sight. But finally she showed herself to me. Her mouth was all swole up. “Billy Udean didn’t like my new hair,” she said. It wasn’t up in a bun no more. “He’s jealous of you, Sarah.”
When Harold and Billy Udean come home from fishing, Harold had him a string of four, pretty good-sized catfish. I asked him how many Billy Udean got. He said six but that he threw all his up on the bank so they could die. Said his wife wasn’t no cook, said he was over there starving.
I got me an idea. I told Harold to go over there and ask them to come eat supper and tell Billy Udean how good a cook I was. “Tell him I’m handy.”
It worked. Billy Udean went for it. I got busy cleaning fish, fried them up good and crispy with some French fried potatoes. Billy Udean brought several of his Pabst Blue Ribbon beers he liked. Harold drank my sweet tea.
I got another idea when we were sitting there. I said, “Boy, some coleslaw would be good with this fish.” Then I reached over and felt Harold’s arm and told him, “Maybe a big, strong man could plow up that little spot between our houses out there, and we could have us a nice garden, plant some cabbage and potatoes and green beans and such.” Harold had a big grin on his face.
Mattie picked up on it and said, “Billy Udean could plow it up himself with a good shovel or a sharp hoe.”
We got us a garden. That next Saturday, Harold and Billy Udean were out there with a mule they’d borrowed from a Mr. Brown down the road. Me and Mattie both watched from our yards. We’d decided not to give Billy Udean anything he could fuss about. But as the morning wore on, we started getting braver and coming on in towards each other. Before you knew it, we were standing together, right there in the dirt, fresh plowed.
The men took that mule back, and me her took our shoes off and grabbed hands and ran through what our men folks had broken for us. We giggled and ran like schoolgirls, Mama Red, with not a care in the world. We went to skipping, holding hands, and swinging our arms. I could have swore I was a little girl again, but this time I wasn’t sitting off by my lonesome at recess, I had me a friend, and we played.
I asked her if she had any sisters. She didn’t. I told her, “Wonder if we could be?”
“Sister Sarah,” she said and grinned.
“Sister Mattie, Sister Mattie,” I said like I was singing.
Sisters for life, we were. I knew it in my bones.
Like me and you, Mama Red. In my bones. For life.
DECEMBER 21–22, 1951
Mr. Merritt wrote the words to the 4-H Pledge in a large hand across the blackboard. He had never done that before. LC felt a rush shoot up his body.
“In case any of you boys don’t know it by heart,” he said and asked them all to stand.
LC was sitting beside Emerson Bridge. LC whispered to him, “Put your hand over your heart,” and then brought his own up, a couple of his fingers his mother had bandaged in white gauze. The continued use of his father’s ax to chop the corn to his father’s liking kept blisters on him.
“I pledge My Head to clearer thinking, My Heart to greater loyalty,” LC read along with the other boys, but mostly kept his eyes on Emerson Bridge. “My Hands to larger service, My Health to better living, for my club, my community, my country and my world.”
Neal Glenn hollered, “Hey, Little Dob, trying to be a boxer with your hands all taped up?”
LC balled his fist up as much as he could and shook it at the boy.
“We’re not going to have this, boys,” Mr. Merritt said. “Especially not today.”
There it was. The paper to sign. LC’s heart began to race.
Emerson Bridge sat down and folded his hands on top of his desk. He had no idea what was coming, but LC had to stop it. He was thinking he should pull him out to the hallway and give him the Christmas present LC carried in his pants pocket.
“I wanted to remind y’all of the importance of 4-H before I pass out what I’m about to,” Mr. Merritt said and picked up a stack of papers. “What y’all are doing with your steers is serious business.”
LC leaned towards Emerson Bridge and whispered, “I need you to go out in the hall with me right quick.”
But Emerson Bridge whispered back, “I hope we don’t have to spend more money.”
“Because, let’s be honest,” the county agent said, “what you’re doing is raising your steer to be somebody’s next meal.”
LC saw his friend’s eyes open wide, then close down hard. LC tried to think of a way to make something more of the word “meal” like he had done for “deep freeze.”
But he came up empty.
LC jumped to his feet. “Mr. Merritt!” All eyes turned towards him, but he didn’t know what his next words would be. “I was wondering, since Christmas is coming up, if we can go ahead and get out so we can … can … go to town to … do our trading?”
Laughter filled the room.
“Boys!” Mr. Merritt said and slapped the papers against his hand.
“With your mommy?” the Prater boy yelled.
LC shook his fist again, but Mr. Merritt came to stand beside him. The papers now were within reach. He wished he had his ax. He’d gotten good at chopping things to smithereens.
“Last year, we had a little misunderstanding about what kind of show this is.”
LC grabbed the papers, but Mr. Merritt grabbed LC’s shoulder. “You can’t stop it, son. We’ll just type up some more.” Mr. Merritt held his hand out, but LC threw them in the floor, some flying off like birds. Fly off. Fly off.
But none got away. Mr. Merritt gathered them all and said, “This a terminal event, boys, which means at the conclusion of the show, an auction will take place where your animal will be sold to enter the food chain. That’s where your money comes from.” He held up the jumbled papers. “This states that you and your parents acknowledge what I just said. I need both you and them to sign it and bring it back at our January meeting.”
LC looked at Emerson Bridge. He’d been afraid he would see tears in the boy’s eyes, but he did not. His friend appeared to be looking straight ahead, his eyes, almost blank. He had his feet out of his shoes and crossed and his hands still folded on the desk like a dutiful student.
Mr. Merritt began passing out the papers.
“You ain’t going to tell us what we should be doing next with our steers? For the sake of Pear Boy back there.” It was the Prater boy, and he was pointing to Emerson Bridge.
LC stood. “You should already have him halter broke and tying him to a post or a tree a few hours a day. It’s time now for you to lead him, if you got the knack for it. And you know to ‘break him in rope and show him in leather,’ right?”
“That’s quite enough, LC,” Mr. Merritt said.
“Catch this, Mr. Knack!” the Prater boy yelled and slammed a balled up piece of paper that bounced off of LC’s forehead.
LC got in the boy’s face. It was full of freckles, and LC wanted to spit at them, see if he could hit every one. But Mr. Merritt said, “LC, don’t.”
LC spit at the boy’s face.
The Prater boy wrapped his arm around LC’s head, placing it in a hard lock, and then threw LC in the floor, straddled him, and beat him in the face. Boys gathered around, cheering on the Prater boy.
But, in the midst of it all, LC heard Emerson Bridge call out, “Stop! Don’t hurt my friend!”
Mr. Merritt managed to break up the fight and dismissed the meeting and told LC and the Prater boy to stay. LC remained on the floor, Eme
rson Bridge kneeling beside him and using his coat sleeve to wipe blood from LC’s face.
When LC sat up, he slipped his hand in his pocket and brought out two silver dollars, one from the hog killing and the other from his mother for his recent birthday. “Merry Christmas,” he said. He had wanted to give enough to cover the cost of a new pair of shoes, but his father had stopped his allowance until the new knives were paid for.
“But I ain’t got you nothing,” Emerson Bridge said.
“LC!” Mr. Merritt called out.
“You’re my friend,” LC said. “That’s a whole lot.”
He got up off the floor and joined Mr. Merritt and the Prater boy. “I could disqualify you both right now,” the county agent said.
“Do it, then,” LC told him but kept his eyes on Emerson Bridge, who was leaving the room, his head hanging low.
…..
Sarah was on her way to pick up her boy from 4-H when she heard a knock on the porch door. She wondered if Jeremiah Allgood had returned, bringing the law was with him this time to lock her up for lack of payment. Mr. Thrasher had withdrawn his $50.02 and applied it towards their debt, but he was unable to get a loan, since he had no employment. Sarah felt her insides jump like hot milk gravy popping in a pan. What if he was there to outright take Mama Red? She rushed through the porch to the screened door.
But the man was not Jeremiah. The man was the last person she’d ever expect to see, Billy Udean Parnell, and he was standing on the other side of the screen. She knew she should swing the door open and greet him, but she did nothing and said nothing.
He held his head like he was studying her. His customary cigarette dangled between his lips. He was still bone thin, maybe even more so.
He took his cigarette from his mouth. She knew words were coming, and they would not be pleasant. They might even be mean. But what if he knew about Emerson Bridge and wanted to take him away from her? She widened her stance on the concrete.
But all he said was “I’m sorry, ma’am,” and shook his head like he was trying to shake something free. “I was thinking you was somebody else.”
Sarah felt a flush over her body.
“There was a family that used to live here, a man and wife, good people, Harold and Sarah Creamer. I thought you was Sarah.”
She stayed quiet. He was a better mirror than the one on her chifforobe.
The pock marks on his face had grown deeper. She’d not seen him since a year before Mattie died.
He pointed behind him across the garden. “I used to live over there in that house with my, my …” His voice trailed off.
Sarah put her hand on the doorjamb. Here it comes, the part about Emerson Bridge. She was glad he was at school. If Billy Udean ever saw her boy’s dimples, he would know.
“Anyway,” he said and shoved his foot against the dirt, “I’ve been gone a long time and her sister was about to sell the place, but thought I might try to see if I could make a go of it here again.”
He returned his cigarette to his mouth. Sarah watched as he took another one from his shirt pocket and put it beside the other. She’d never seen him smoke two at a time.
Her hands were perspiring.
His were shaking. “Anyway, don’t mean to bother you none, ma’am. Forgive my manners. My name’s Billy Udean Parnell.” He removed both cigarettes.
Sarah knew she had to say something now. “Clementine” slipped from her mouth.
“Clementine,” he repeated.
Sarah swallowed. She wanted to show her manners and say, Nice to meet you, sir, but she would say nothing more. Her voice was still fat.
His eyes showed him to be an old man, not just with the wrinkles that fanned out like bird wings outside his eyes, but the shine in them had gone flat. Sarah understood that. He’d lost his Mattie, too. And that made her do something she regretted as soon as she did it. She swung open the door, as if to invite him in.
He took a step back as the door went past him. Sarah wished she could let the door return home, but that would be too much of a show. She caught it and held it open. A couple of feet of wide, open space now between them. She felt naked.
He looked towards her new automobile, parked to his right, and then to his left towards the barn, where a fence and two cows now stood. He was taking in the changes, and she let him.
“Reckon I was fooling myself to come here,” Billy Udean said.
Sarah wanted to nod, but she kept her head still.
He turned as if to leave but then stopped and looked at her again. “It’s odd. You kind of sound like her. Like Mattie’s Sarah.”
She held her breath.
He kept his eyes on her for a bit longer, then walked on, stepping into the growth of the old garden, which soon swallowed him. And then she heard a vehicle crank, a truck. She watched it leave. Maybe he would go back to wherever he’d been, now that he’d seen that nothing was the same. Because nothing was the same. Nothing.
…..
Emerson Bridge did not see his mother out in front of the school. He had wanted to run into her arms, but that was not possible now. She must be sewing and had lost track of time. He folded the piece of paper, put it in his coat pocket and ran towards home, his hand holding the coins.
When he approached Drake’s Store, he saw his mother’s automobile speeding towards him.
He waved his arms for her. She pulled off the road and threw open his door.
“Sorry to be late, hon,” she told him and pulled him to her. How did she know he wanted that? He had been right when he used to wonder what she smelled like. She smelled like biscuits but also sewing machine oil and her cloth, which made his nose tickle. Sometimes she smelled like Mama Red, and that was his favorite, because it was the way Lucky smelled, too.
She reached for his hand. How did she know he’d like that? He took the paper from his pocket, but he could feel her shaking. Her face, its pale color, looked like his papa’s before he died. Was she sick?
He’d wait to tell her about the paper. But he could tell her about the silver dollars. “Look what LC gave me for Christmas.” He held them out for her.
“That’s nice, hon,” she said and squeezed his hand.
When they turned in the driveway, she kept her head turned to the left like she was looking for something.
She went inside the house. He wanted to do that, wanted to get up under his bed and hide. But it was time for Lucky’s afternoon feeding, time to pour in the remainder of the fifty-pound sack of grain. Time to make him even fatter.
He leaned towards the ground and threw up.
He found Lucky with his head in the bin, eating. He grabbed the sides of the animal’s halter and tried to lift his head. But Lucky kept bobbing it away.
The top of the wooden trough came halfway up Emerson Bridge’s chest and sat on a platform a couple of feet off the ground. It was about as long as he was tall and shaped like a flat-bottomed boat, its ends and sides sloped to help the steer eat. Emerson Bridge moved to the far end and placed his hands on the boards and pushed upwards with all his might. He managed to tip it up off the ground, but Lucky was still eating. He yelled, “Stop, boy, stop!” as he walked his hands down the boards until it teetered on its other end. He gave it one big shove.
It landed upside down. And closed.
…..
Sarah looked out her kitchen window that Saturday morning towards Mattie’s. The truck Billy Udean had driven away in the day before was not there, nor had it been any time she’d looked out. Mildred was due in eighteen minutes to take Sarah to a Christmas singing and ladies luncheon. Sarah had been thinking she wouldn’t go, if Billy Udean’s truck had returned. But she was thinking now she could trust that he was gone for good.
She found a dish towel with only one hole in it, draped it across her hands and brought it to a pan, where she laid in the towel like she was laying a baby in a crib. The pan was round, one that she and Mattie had used to gather green beans and such from their garden. In its center, S
arah placed four pears, one for each member of Mildred’s family. Her fall harvest had been good, but these four were all she could spare.
Mildred’s knock came at the exact time her letter had said, “8:45 in the morning on Saturday.” She smoothed down her dress, the same one she’d worn on their last outing with the shoes, and called out towards Emerson Bridge’s room that she’d be back in a while. Mr. Merritt was due for his monthly visit that morning.
Sarah told Mildred, “Merry Christmas,” and handed her the pan as soon as she got outside. The towel was red and white. She hoped that would make it look Christmas enough.
“Why, aren’t you the sweetest?” Mildred ran her gloved fingers along the pears. “Yours is coming a bit later, Sarah.”
They got inside the automobile. “You all right, dear?” Mildred asked. “Your skin’s a little pasty, and you’re weak-eyed.”
“Oh, I’m good,” Sarah told her. She’d been feeling more tired than usual, but she’d gotten little sleep the night before worrying about Billy Udean trying to take her boy away.
Mildred crossed over Whitehall and proceeded towards New Prospect, passing the cemetery and Harold and Mattie. Sarah looked out towards their graves. Emerson Bridge is mine. Y’all know that, don’t you?
Mildred turned in towards the small white clapboard building and stopped.
Sarah felt a thousand pin pricks all over her head. “We’re not going inside, are we?”
“Why, yes.” Mildred opened her door. “I’ve got a special Christmas present waiting for you in there.”
The outside air felt cold enough to snow. “I ain’t good enough for God,” Sarah whispered.
“Well, if you’re not, none of us are.” Mildred was not whispering.
“Nobody wants to see nobody fat walk the aisles and take up too much room on the pews.”
Mildred closed her door. “You’ll take up the room you’ll take, and my friends will be proud to see you walk in.”
She could feel Mildred’s eyes on her. “Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Act like you don’t see the bad in me.”
One Good Mama Bone Page 22
