“Don’t go to any big trouble.”
“Or steak, I can buy us some pretty steaks and maybe a bottle of wine.”
“Whatever you say.”
“You don’t act happy about this, Harold.” She stands right by his chair, pulls his head up against her stomach but he pulls away.
“I said it’s going to take time.”
“I know! I know!” She squeezes his arm. “What time are you coming?”
“I don’t know, not too late. Got to go out to the trailer first and make sure I got my valuables.”
“Hey, can Petie go, too?” Harold, Jr., yells and runs out on the porch. “Petie doesn’t want to stay here with Granner, cause Granner will make Petie Rose go to bed.”
“Petie’s going with us,” Juanita says and smiles at Petie, who doesn’t smile back. That Petie is a sourpuss for such a young thing. “We’ll all get big Slurpees!”
“Hey, I’m gonna get cola!” Harold, Jr., screams and Petie Rose mimics him exactly. It is a shame that Patricia is not as kind to him as he is to Petie Rose.
“Thrills,” Patricia says.
“Honey, I’m going to the shopping center, too, to the A&P, you reckon that the new drugstore out there would have that cologne that you want so bad?”
“God, I said I like it. It’s not like I just smelled it for the first time.” Patricia glances at Harold and then traipses on down the steps, with Harold, Jr., and Petie Rose racing behind her.
“Well see you in a little bit then?” She waits now, holding her breath, afraid that Harold might burst out laughing and say that he was teasing her, or worse answer with that old, does a deer wear a brassiere? or does your Mama have three titties?
“Does a fat baby burp?” he asks, and Juanita is so nervous and so in the dark as to what to expect that she has to think for a second. Yes, yes a fat baby does burp. She nods and runs down the steps herself. Harold watches her and she looks almost like a child herself with those curls in her head so loose and sparkly. She toots the horn and then waves her arm out the window to him. She keeps waving and just about backs right out in front of a car.
“Mother!” he hears Patricia scream, but Juanita just laughs and waves again. Without a doubt she is the prettiest thing in town, but he can’t let her get off the hook that easily, can’t let her tell some little doctor story, flash those thighs, let a few tears well up and everything be okay. Harold Weeks has got to be slam damn sure of what’s going on before he crawls back on top of that velvet spread with that woman.
6
The walk back makes Sam Swett feel much better; as long as he’s moving, he’s just fine. He never should have had all of those drinks, doesn’t know why he let a man like that big hairy crude one have such an effect on him. But he does know; he knows that he wanted to fit in, to be liked and accepted, and it bugs the hell out of him because it goes against everything that he has been telling himself, that he needs no one, that he is different. He watches Corky walking on the edge of the curb, her arms held out gracefully to balance her, her hair falling down around her face as she watches her feet. He can’t imagine what it would feel like to be Corky, to really have no family to speak of, to have seen all of the things that she has. And maybe that’s been his biggest fear all of this time anyway, the fear of something bad happening, something that he cannot control; he can’t even control himself. He feels so weak and helpless and how can that be? He doesn’t know what the dead man’s wife is feeling right now, what he felt when he was gasping that last breath, what Corky felt when she found her Daddy, what she feels when she visits her brother; what that old woman feels when she talks about her husband; what the man in pink pants felt when the mailman found his Mama. What would it feel like to suddenly have a child? a grandchild? a great-grandchild? What would it feel like to be the girl sitting there, with her parents talking about what made them split up? What would it feel like to be either of those parents? Sam Swett never even had a pet; he doesn’t even know what that little girl is feeling with the loss of her cat. He doesn’t know anything; he can only imagine how it all must feel, and he can’t help but wonder how he can possibly write it all down as he has planned to do without really knowing and understanding; he can’t help but wonder how people manage, how they keep going instead of doing what Corky’s Daddy did. What do they have that keeps them alive when their lives appear to be so empty, so routine, like his parents? What do those people have that made him want to be a part of it all? They are settled; in spite of everything they are settled. “When are you going to settle down, Sam?” his father has asked. “You’ve got so much going for you and I wonder why you won’t settle down.” Settle. Settle down; his father said it as if it were a positive thing to do; so many people say that they want to settle down, to have a family, but what does that mean, settle? Settling, sinking to the bottom like silt and sand, orange juice pulp in the bottom of a glass, or settling like cream, rising to the top, finding a place, sticking together. They have settled; they’ve accepted; just that easily they have accepted the good and the bad, the indifferent; they even accepted him in an odd way just by letting him be there. Settling, accepting; that’s what makes it different.
“What are you thinking about so hard?” Corky grabs his hand and swings it back and forth. “Feeling better?”
“Yeah, fine.” He rubs his thumb up and down the back of her hand. “Sorry I drank too much, should’ve known better.”
“Well, Harold has a way of getting people to drink too much.” She laughs. “He and Juanita are some kind of pair. I hope they’ll get back together.”
“Why? Seemed to me like they couldn’t agree on anything.”
“That’s how they’ve always been. You know people love in lots of different ways.”
“They do?”
“Well, yeah.” She faces him, gives him an odd look like he might not know anything. “Like my big brother, Chip,” she says and shrugs. “You know, the one Harold was talking about.” Sam Swett nods. “When we were little or at least when I was little, Chip would get me on the sofa and pin me down and he’d get this real serious look on his face and he’d say, ‘I am never going to let you go.’” She laughs and looks away from Sam. “He would say that over and over and of course, I’d scream and cry and tattle and my Daddy would get after Chip.” She stops and reaches down and picks up a piece of pine straw, braids the three pieces of straw like a plait of hair. She holds it up. “I used to braid straw all the time.” She hands it to him and he bends it up and puts it in his back pocket. “Oh, but you know, that was Chip’s way of loving me. That was his way of being close to me and holding me. He used to beat up anybody that picked on me.”
“I can’t imagine anybody picking on you.”
“Shoot, everybody gets picked on some time or another.” She pulls his arm and speeds up. “There’s M. L. sitting on the porch,” she says when they round the corner, and Sam looks over to see a small black boy sitting on the steps. “Hi M. L.!” Corky yells and he stands up and waves, then runs to the door and yells that Corky’s home.
“Whatcha doin’, M. L.?” Corky rubs her hand over his head.
“Playing.” He stares up at Sam Swett, his eyes zeroing in on Sam’s shaved head. M. L. has a G.I. Joe that he is playing with. “Who’s that?” he asks without taking his eyes off of Sam.
“His name’s Sam,” Corky says. “He’s gonna be with us tonight, cause he’s a friend of mine.” Corky sits on the step beside M. L. and motions for Sam to have a seat. He really probably ought to keep walking but he sits. At this point he would probably do anything that she said. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Naw.” M. L. bends his G.I. Joe’s legs and makes him sit down. It is a white G.I. Joe and that bothers Sam Swett. Does the child pretend that he is black? It is something that has always made Sam stop and wonder. It is only in the past few years that they have even started making black dolls, and Sam cannot help but wonder what it must have felt like to be a black child with a whit
e baby doll, to be a black child and for Roy Rogers and all the good heroes to be white. Which M&Ms did black children choose for themselves, the dark browns or the light browns? “I did a dive off the side of the pool,” M. L. says to Corky.
“That’s great!” she screams and claps and hugs him close. Corky needs to love people. Obviously, she loves this black child. Sam Swett has never had much to do with children; he’s not even certain that he knows how to talk to a child.
“I might try it off the board pretty soon.” He stands up and bends his knees up and down, holds his hands over his head, one hand cupped over the other. “Do like this. I jumped off the board today, done like this.” He goes to the edge of the porch, winds up his arms and then jumps off. He lands in a squat position with his knees bent, but can’t hold it there; he tumbles over.
“Good jump,” Sam says, and the kid just grins at him and nods. “What does M. L. stand for?”
“Martin Luther.” He holds his arms out and spins around and around with his head thrown back. “Martin Luther McNair.”
“Nice name. Martin Luther King was a fine man.” Sam Swett shakes his head and looks little M. L. square in the eye once he has stopped turning and is standing on that sidewalk swaying back and forth. Sam Swett has to sway with him to keep eye contact. “You should be proud to have such a fine name.”
“My Mama named me,” he says and flops down on a grassy spot by the walk. “Fannie said that name was too big for somebody so small so she named me M. L. for shortness.” He lies back in the grass now, his legs crossed, one shoe untied. It looks so comfortable that Sam Swett would like to do it himself.
“Where are your parents going tonight?” Sam asks and Corky gives him a quick look that he doesn’t understand.
“My Mama’s in New York,” he says. “I don’t know where they go at night.”
“M. L. lives with his grandmother, Fannie McNair,” Corky says. “They’re my best neighbors, right, M. L.?”
“Yep.” He sits up and looks at Sam. “Who you stay with?”
“Myself.” He leans back on his forearms, stretches his legs.
“You talk with Corky?” M. L. creeps up closer, now that he has gotten used to this funny looking man.
“Well, sure, we’ve been talking all day,” he says, and Corky starts laughing.
“No, do you talk to her, you know.”
“He means are we going together,” Corky says and then looks at M. L. “He’s a lot older, you know, hasn’t heard the new things to say.”
“Oh,” M. L. steps closer and grins again. “I talk to a girl named Lareesie Polk. She’s seven.”
“Older woman, huh?” Corky asks, and M. L. spins around again and laughs.
“So, you two talk?” he asks again, and Sam Swett doesn’t know what to say; he doesn’t know how Corky can laugh so hard. She may think it’s just that funny to imagine herself going with him.
“We haven’t known each other long,” she says. “We’re just friends.”
“Oh.” He stops spinning again and walks crooked all around the yard. “This is what a drunk man does,” he says and falls flat down. Sam is getting a little self-conscious now. Is this child making fun of him. Can everybody tell that he’s been drinking?
“How was the party?” Fannie McNair steps out on the porch, and M. L. comes running up when he sees her. She stops and stares at Sam Swett first thing. “I’m sorry, didn’t know you had company.”
“Fannie, this is Sam Swett.” Corky stands up. “He’s a friend, just visiting the area.” Sam gets up too, and his knees feel a little rubbery. He sticks out his hand. “Pleased to meet you,” he says and smiles. Her hand is rough and warm, her knuckles as gnarled as the roots of a tree.
“Any friend of Corky’s is a friend of mine,” Fannie says, and Corky cannot help but notice the sad distant look in Fannie’s eyes. It makes Corky feel a little scared, because she has never seen Fannie look this way.
“They don’t talk, though,” M. L. says and picks up his G.I. Joe, fixes Joe’s arms like he’s about to dive.
“Are you okay?” Corky touches Fannie’s arm and she nods her head slowly.
“Baby, how about you running upstairs and eating your supper,” Fannie says, and wraps her hand around the back of M. L.’s neck. “I got it on the table for you. I want you to go ahead and eat and take your bath cause I’m leaving pretty soon.”
“Right now?” He reaches up and hugs her around the waist.
“Don’t you put on that act now, M. L.” She gently pushes him away and laughs, though the laugh seems strained. “You run on and put on your pajamas, too. Then you’ll be all set to watch T.V.”
“All right,” he says, and turns when he gets to the door. “You ain’t gonna leave right now, are you?”
“No, I’ll be up there before I leave. You go on and you put on those bedroom slippers before you come back down here.” Fannie watches him go inside and then listens while he goes up the stairs. She pulls that old kitchen chair up near the steps and sits down, wipes her forehead where beads of sweat have formed. “I appreciate you keeping him, Corky. I wouldn’t have asked if I knew you had company.”
“We don’t mind, do we?” She looks at Sam and he shakes his head. “Are you okay, Fannie?”
“Lord only knows,” she says and it looks to Corky like Fannie might cry. “I tell you it has been some kind of day.”
“What happened?” Corky asks, and slides over to where she is sitting right at Fannie’s feet. She looks like a little girl in that position, and Sam Swett suddenly has the urge to know what she looked like as a child, what she looked like when her brother held her down on the sofa, what she would look like when she got old.
“My boy, Thomas was picked up cause he looks like a murderer.” She stares out in the yard, focuses on an old pop-top at the edge of the street that is glaring in the late sun like a bright star. “They got him in jail, too. I know Thomas ain’t a real good person, but I don’t think he’d kill nobody.”
“Fannie!” Corky grabs her arms. “Does your son have a white girl friend?”
“I didn’t know it till today but yeah, I s’pose so.” Fannie shakes her head. “See, that’s how Thomas is. Hell do anything to be different from what he is. I mean no offense, but he knows I wouldn’t like the notion of him being with a white girl.”
“Then he’s okay,” Corky says. “They don’t have any evidence to keep him.” Corky is up on her knees now and talking so fast that Sam can barely understand her, she’s telling about the big hairy Harold and the lie he told and the girl with the cop and so on. It amazes Sam the way that both of them sit there and say “white” and “black” and draw out all of these differences between the two. He has always treated black people like he didn’t notice that they were black, like they were all the same. He had always thought that that was the way it should be, that that was what civil rights was all about, and yet these two are sitting here talking about all of the differences, talking as if there is a need for differences to be made.
“Well, that is music to my ears,” Fannie says when Corky has finished the story. “I knew that Thomas couldn’t have killed that man. That was a nice man and it’s a shame. I didn’t know him that well, but every time me and M. L. went in that store, he’d give M. L. a piece of gum or candy.”
“He was a fine man,” Corky says and then squeezes Fannie’s arm and laughs. “You feel lots better now, don’t you?”
“Yes, Lord, I sure do.” Fannie smiles and Corky can see the relief in her eyes. It makes her feel relieved herself to see that Fannie isn’t upset any more. “I sure hope they catch that man that done it, though.”
“I do, too,” Corky says. “You know Sam here went in the store after it all happened, and he saw Mr. Husky.”
“Oh, how bad that must’ve been.” Fannie clucks her tongue and looks at Sam. “I am sorry for you.”
“Yeah,” he says and nods, but he remembers seeing the man before he was dead as well, or did he
dream that?
“All done, Fannie.” M. L. comes running out in his blue striped pajamas and bedroom slippers. He has swapped his G.I. Joe for an old stuffed monkey.
“Um um, I bet that was some bath, give what you got a lick and a promise and that was it, huh?”
“No, I scrubbed, scrubbed so hard it near about hurt!” He swings one leg up on Fannie’s lap. “How late you gonna be gone?”
“I’ll be home about eight or so.”
“Can I sit up till you get home?” He slides up and sits on her lap.
“I reckon you can.” She wraps her arms around him and it makes Corky feel so good to see them that way. It makes her want to squeeze Sam Swett, but she can’t do that in public, so she just reaches over and takes his hand. His hand is cool and clammy and his face looks a little pale. He probably needs to get some food in him to soak up those drinks. “I tell you what, M. L. I might bring you home some goodies from the party, too,” Fannie says.
“Please!” He pulls that monkey right up under his chin and swings his little feet back and forth, one of his corduroy slippers about to fall off.
“There’s my ride,” Fannie says when a big black New Yorker pulls up. “Hop up, baby, I gotta go get my purse and that dress for Mrs. Foster.”
“I’ll get them for you.” Corky hops up and goes to the door.
“They’re on the bed, honey, thank you.” Fannie turns and holds up one finger to Billy Foster, who has already blown the horn two times even though he sees her standing there.
“Hey, do this,” M. L. says to Sam, and starts spinning round and round up on the porch. It makes Sam dizzy to watch him; it makes everything feel like it’s spinning; it makes the saliva in his mouth double its production; makes his stomach churn. He has to look away from M. L. and stare at something stable, concrete, that big black car, that boy with the punk-cut yellow hair, that big black car. Sam puts his head between his knees and stares down at a spot of grass beside the steps. He remembers squatting outside of the store; he remembers everything spinning so fast and he felt so sick and he heard a car; he heard the bells on the door ring. It seems they rang several times. He looks up and now that boy has gotten out of the car and is walking around, opens the passenger side. “What’s the hold up?” he asks.
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