by Chris Fabry
“Amen!” a few people said.
“So today, open to John, chapter one, verse one.”
I associate the sound of flipping onionskin with every Sunday and Wednesday night of my youth.
“‘In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.’”
My father preached well and seemed to hold the congregation’s attention despite the few references to Greek words and Old Testament concepts. My mind turned toward the potato salad and Jesse. I looked at Mr. Blackwood, his jaw set as he listened, and wondered what had happened to the last pastor.
After the message, the elders rose and gathered around my father, put their hands on his shoulders, and prayed. The sound system, which was tinny and only came through one speaker, began to squeal as the man working the sound tried to pick up the prayers. When it was over, Mr. Blackwood dismissed the ladies to go to the kitchen. Several men left to get the coals going on the barbecues. My shirt was drenched by the end of the service and I couldn’t wait to get my tie off.
My mother finished her postlude and scurried to the back while men congregated around my father, shaking hands and swapping stories. I heard someone say, “I remember when you and your brother went coon hunting on my daddy’s property.”
I did not see the man’s approach or I might have run, but when I looked up, Mr. Blackwood leaned over the pew in front of me, his face inches from mine.
“I recognize you,” he said, his voice emotionless. He said the word recognize without the g—reckonize. His eyes locked on me like lasers.
“Yes, sir,” I said, a ball of sweat rolling down my neck.
“Am I going to have to speak to your daddy about you trespassing on my property?”
I wanted to tell him I was only trying to help his horse, but I said, “No, sir.”
“Then we’ll keep this between us. And don’t let it happen again, you hear?”
“Yes, sir.”
I quickly made my way out the back door into fresh air. Men gathered in the shade of a weeping willow. The women had set out covered dishes on folding tables. Somehow they had coordinated things so that there weren’t too many bean casseroles or pasta salads. I saw a dish at the end, set off by itself, that looked a little disgusting and smelled like somebody had died. I later learned it was called ramps and that it was a delicacy in that neck of the woods. It was the only dish I never tried.
A circular table held desserts that looked like the bread of angels. Frosted pound cakes, walnut-filled brownies, cherry pies, apple pies, pecan and lemon meringue. I wanted to grab one of everything on the table, but as a heavy child you quickly learn that people judge how high you pile your plate. Instead, you pick opportunities to secretly indulge.
“Matt, honey, why don’t you go see what the others are doing?” my mother said, gently prodding me away from the food.
Several boys were in a heated game of basketball at the sagging hoop on a dead walnut tree, and I wandered over, hands in my pockets. They would bounce the ball on the uneven ground and pick it up after every dribble. A wiry redheaded boy with a complexion that seemed too light, like Edgar Winter, made a shot and gave a teammate a high five.
“What did the Reds do last night?” someone said.
“Got rained out in Montreal.”
They were bantering about their favorite team when a big-boned girl came up beside me. She had the same red hair and light complexion as the boy playing basketball. She stared at me with abject fascination, then pulled at her dress, which could not hide her large frame or budding femininity. Her hair was short and she had the first signs of acne. Her upper lip didn’t reach all the way to the lower one, so she had the countenance of a chipmunk.
“You the preacher’s boy?” she said.
I introduced myself, holding out a hand. She took it daintily, like she wasn’t sure how to respond, and dipped her head in a curtsy like I was royalty. “I’m Shur-uhl,” she said. Later I learned that this was short for Shirley and her last name was Turley, and I immediately felt both sorrow for her and contempt for her parents. I also learned that Shirl’s father, Burl, had been a leader in the church but had died several years earlier and that the Turleys and Blackwoods were cousins and stuck closer than worms in a can.
“I’m not going to be eatin’ anything at the picnic,” Shirl said.
I wasn’t sure why she would offer such personal information, but I couldn’t think of anything to say but “Why not?”
“Upset stomach. Mommy made me all the whipped cream I could eat last night. Once you get started, you can’t stop.”
I nodded.
“Earl?” Shirl shouted toward the gaggle. The redheaded kid picked up his dribble. “This here is the preacher’s boy. You ought to let him play.”
Earl walked toward me with the basketball tucked under his arm. When he spoke, it sounded like some country singer I had heard who whined his songs. “You gotta get somebody else if you want to play. Keep the sides even.”
“He don’t know nobody,” Shirl said. “How’s he gonna get somebody to play?”
“Wait till somebody shows up,” Earl said.
“Fine,” she said, spitting the word. “I’ll be on their side, Matt. You be on Earl’s.”
“No girls!” a smaller redheaded boy said. It was the younger Turley, Verle, who hadn’t scampered clear of the family rhyme scheme.
“That ain’t fair,” Shirl said. And there began a verbal back-and-forth I sensed might become an all-out war between the sexes.
Another boy pointed toward the road and yelled, “What are they doing here?” He said they like it was a curse word.
“It’s the coon and that Woods girl,” Verle said.
“He’s only half-coon,” Shirl said.
“Half is bad enough,” Earl said. “Besides, he looks full-blooded to me.”
At the first sight of my friends, I ran toward the road waving, elated. I was trying to influence those behind me toward a little diversity and acceptance. Jesse was on her bike and had something strapped to the back. As she got closer, I saw Daisy’s legs dangling from a basket. Her legs bounced and she had a thumb in her mouth, her head bobbing.
“Dickie,” I called, “come on, we need another player!”
Jesse was out of breath, pulling up the hill to the parking lot and scanning the grounds like an explorer fearing danger in the untouched wilderness. She stopped and put dilapidated flip-flops on the gravel. They looked like she had found them in someone’s trash. Dickie looked skeptical of the gathering.
“Has the picnic started?” Jesse said.
“They’re cooking the burgers and hot dogs now,” I said. “Won’t be long. Come on, I’ll introduce you to my mom. And you can get a drink for Daisy.”
“We don’t allow coons around here,” Earl said behind me.
“Shut your mouth, Turley,” Jesse said. I could tell there was history here. History lessons came quick in Dogwood.
Shirl lumbered off. I wasn’t sure if she was afraid of the turning tide or had heard someone open a tub of Dream Whip.
Earl stepped forward and glared at Jesse. “Come shut it yourself. And why don’t you let the coon fight his own battles?”
“We don’t have to play basketball,” I said, my voice trembling. There had to be some way to defuse the situation. “Dickie, come on, let’s just go over to the—”
“We don’t allow skanks, either,” another boy said, interrupting me. He had just walked up and was taller than the others and a little older, a deeper voice. Something in his face looked familiar.
I didn’t understand the word skank, but I knew by the tone and Jesse’s reaction that it was not a term of endearment. I had heard the word coon used for black people back in Pittsburgh, but my parents said only people of low intelligence and character used that term or the n word for “colored people.” When I asked them why only people with black skin were considered “colored,” they didn’t have a good answer.
“Don’t
waste your energy on them, Jesse,” Dickie said. “Let’s get out of here.”
“I’m not going nowhere,” Jesse said, stepping off the bike and staring past the bigger boy to Earl.
“Nice bike, Jesse,” Verle Turley said from a distance. “What dead coon did you steal it from?”
Jesse ignored him and motioned for me to come closer and grab the handlebars. “Hold this for me, Matt.”
Earl took a step backward and grew paler, if that were possible. I wondered if he’d been through a tussle with Jesse before.
“Why don’t you two get out of here,” the bigger boy said. “Before you get yourself in a world of hurt.”
“You tell them, Gentry,” someone said.
I held up a hand. “I agree with Gentry. Let’s calm down.”
“Earl needs to be taught a lesson,” Jesse said, her voice low and gravelly.
“And what lesson is that?” Earl said, seeming emboldened by Gentry’s support.
“That you don’t call people names if you’re not ready to take responsibility for the name-callin’.”
“Okay,” Earl said, stepping forward. “Here you go, preacher boy. Hold this.”
He threw the ball hard and I wasn’t expecting it. Even if I had gotten my hands up, it would have done little good. The heavy, dusty ball hit me squarely in the nose and I fell back, closing my eyes and seeing stars. The bike fell, and I heard yelling. Daisy cried. I sat up. Ketchup on my tie and dress shirt. I touched my nose and pulled away a handful. It wasn’t ketchup.
Dust flew, along with angry shouts and curses. I wanted to jump into the fray, but I was so stunned by the ball and the geyser that was my nose, all I could do was go to Daisy. Dickie had pulled her up and was dusting her off. He shouted over his shoulder for Jesse.
Gentry and Earl were in the middle and Jesse’s bare feet stuck out from the pack, her flip-flops a memory. I heard screams of pain from the boys but Jesse wasn’t talking, just grunting and struggling in the scrum.
Shirl returned with several adults, one of them Mr. Blackwood. When he pulled Gentry out of the heap, I saw the resemblance.
“She started it!” Gentry yelled to his dad. “I was just trying to help Earl not get killed.”
“Jesse’s just like her daddy!” another boy yelled.
Earl came up for air holding scratches on his face. Claw marks, more like it. Jesse was the last one up and her hair was dirty and her T-shirt torn. She still had a look of determination, like she had given more than she’d taken and wasn’t finished.
“What happened here?” my dad said, running up.
My mother arrived with a bag of ice, somehow anticipating that someone would need it, and put it to my nose. The women of the church were always the first to see trouble. Shirl had been the one to run for help. My mother brought ice.
“They started it, Preacher,” Earl said.
“They came riding up here calling us names,” Gentry said. “And taking the Lord’s name in vain, too.”
“That ain’t true,” Jesse said, spitting some blood in the dirt beside her and hugging Daisy. “We was invited.”
“Who would invite the two of you?” Gentry said.
Jesse glanced at me, then back at Gentry. “Don’t matter. A church is supposed to welcome people, no matter who they are.”
“You all get out of here now,” Mr. Blackwood said to the gathering. “Show’s over.”
Daisy cried and Jesse held her. I wanted to say something, wanted to speak up and tell what really happened, but battle lines had been drawn and I felt more comfortable in the demilitarized zone.
“As for you,” Mr. Blackwood said to Jesse, “take your sister and the half-breed and don’t come back.”
My mother whispered in my ear, “Come on over to the kitchen and we’ll wash you up. What in the world happened?”
Dickie got on his bike and Jesse tried to get Daisy into the metal basket, but it had bent when the bike fell and there wasn’t room.
“I’m hungry,” Daisy whined to Jesse. “You said we’d get something to eat.”
“We’ll get something when we get home,” Jesse said, wiping blood from the corner of her mouth.
My mother went over to the bicycles and introduced herself. “You must be Jesse and Dickie. Matt told me about you.”
They looked at me, then back at her.
“And this is Daisy Grace?” my mother said.
“Yes, ma’am,” Jesse said. “She’s three.”
“Well, look at how pretty you are. Now y’all should stay for lunch. We have plenty.”
Jesse looked at Gentry and Earl walking away and shook her head. “We ain’t wanted here, ma’am.”
“This is a celebration. Everybody in the community was invited.”
“We just came to say hey to Matt,” Dickie said. “Since we didn’t come to the service, we shouldn’t eat anything.”
“Nonsense. You don’t have to do anything to deserve a picnic.”
“We have to be going,” Jesse said, getting on her bike.
“I’m hungry,” Daisy whined.
My mother turned and there was a pained look on her face. “Wait just a minute.”
My father put his hand on my shoulder and got out his good white handkerchief and told me to hold it against my nose. “Keep your head back,” he said. “And hold that ice right here.” He didn’t ask what happened.
My mother returned with three paper bags that hung with weight. “There’s a hot dog and hamburger for each of you,” she said. Her voice sounded polite and friendly, but there was a strain in it. “I wrapped them up. I would have put some potato salad in, but it would have gotten too messy.” She leaned close to Daisy. “There’s some dessert in there, too. And a cold can of pop.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Jesse said.
“That’s nice of you, Mrs. Plumley,” Dickie said.
“You be careful with that hot dog with her,” my mother said to Jesse. “It’s easy to choke if she doesn’t chew it good.”
“I knew a guy that choked on a hot dog once,” Dickie said, but he didn’t finish the story.
Daisy opened her paper bag and looked inside like she was beholding the Holy of Holies.
“If y’all change your mind, you can come back and have some more, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jesse said. “But we better be going.”
Mr. Blackwood yelled in the distance and all the kids went running. My dad and mom walked toward the picnic hastily, as well, leaving me with my friends.
“Nice church you got here,” Jesse said. “Some places only make visitors stand up.”
Dickie smiled. “Does your daddy hold people under extra long when he baptizes them?”
“I’m sorry they said those things. I don’t understand why they’d do that.”
“You’ll understand directly,” Jesse said with a frown. “You okay?”
Her compassion moved me and I nodded, fighting off the tears. She was the one who had taken the punches and pulled hair and she was asking about me.
They started to pedal off and I called after them, “Hang on!” I sounded like Rudolph with the black nose shoved over my red one. “The burgers and hot dogs are going to get cold if you don’t eat now.”
“In this heat?” Jesse said. “They’ll probably get warmer.”
“Yeah, but if you went over on the front steps of the church, in the shade, we could eat together. We don’t have to go to the picnic.”
“I’m hungry,” Daisy whined again. She opened her bag and stuck a grubby hand inside.
“Leave that alone,” Jesse said. She looked back at me, then at the church. “I guess it wouldn’t do no harm to just sit awhile. Then we’ll head home.”
I smiled, still pressing the handkerchief to my nose. I led the three to the concrete steps, and they put their bikes down and opened their bags and ate like they had missed several meals. Daisy struggled to open her can of root beer, so I took it from her and popped the top, and it bubbled up and
ran down the side.
“You guys want anything else?” I said. “I can get some deviled eggs or a piece of chicken. Macaroni salad?”
“This is fine,” Jesse said. “If she eats too much, she’ll get sick.” She took the last bite of hamburger and chewed it.
“What about some watermelon?” I said.
Dickie’s eyes widened. “Yeah, I’ll take some melon.”
Before I could leave, Jesse said, “Your mama is real nice.”
“Yeah,” Dickie agreed. “If she’d start a church, I’d come Sundays and Wednesday nights.”
“She plays the piano,” I said, trying to think of something to say.
“She give lessons?” Jesse said.
“Not yet. I mean, she used to. Back in Pittsburgh.”
“How much they cost?” Jesse said.
“I don’t know. A few dollars a lesson, maybe?”
She scowled. “Do you play?”
“She was teaching me but I wanted somebody not related. She’s been looking for someone—”
“What do we have here?” a voice said behind me. Gentry Blackwood came around the corner holding a watermelon rind. I glanced above him at a yellow jacket’s nest that had been built in the eave of the roof. A few of them buzzed around the nest.
“Don’t your mama know it’s not good to feed strays?” Gentry said to me. “Feed ’em once and they’ll keep coming back.” He spat a black seed that landed near Dickie’s foot. Daisy dug in her bag for her dessert and came out with a handful of brownie.
“If you feed a coon, he’ll just dig around in your trash at night,” Gentry said.
“What’s your problem, Gentry?” Jesse said. “Why don’t you mind your own business?”
“A coon and a skank at my dad’s church is my business.”
Jesse looked at me. “I thought your dad was the pastor.”
“My dad runs this church and he already told you to leave,” Gentry said. “So you best be getting out of here before we make you. And learn your lesson, Plumley. Don’t go feedin’ the strays. This is Dogwood trash.”
