Making Friends with Billy Wong

by Augusta Scattergood

  The line went dead while I was holding on. I hadn’t asked whether we were going to the Grand Canyon or if my friend Barbara Jean had stopped by to ask if I was okay.

  “I could hardly hear him. There were so many clicking noises.”

  “Probably the operator snooping.” Grandma Clark frowned, shook her head. “Mavis could still be listening. She loves to tattle everybody’s business all over town.”

  “Our telephones back home don’t need operators. Nobody I know shares the same line.” But mostly I thought, Holy crow. It’s 1952 already. This place needs new phones.

  I carefully put my grandmother’s heavy black phone down, wishing even more I was back in Texas.

  The next morning before the sun was up, I heard clanging around downstairs. “Azalea! Get moving, girl. Need you down here. I can’t reach my big hat.”

  Yep, that was my grandmother.

  I tumbled out of bed and pulled on yesterday’s shorts and shirt. When I got to her room, Grandma Clark was dressing herself in working clothes and one old shoe, still cussing at the bandage on the other foot. “Hand me my clean apron. Today’s the day you meet the helpers.”

  Oh, brother. They would probably make fun of me being named for a pink bush, wearing cowboy boots, or if I tripped on a root and fell flat on my face.

  First garden helper to ring the doorbell was the prissiest-looking girl I ever laid eyes on. She waltzed in, sweeping her blond bangs to one side, straightening a bow as big as a basketball. I’m sure she puts her hair up in pin curls every single night. You will never catch my ponytail in pin curls. When she jangled a charm bracelet and flounced her skirt, you couldn’t help noticing she had on shiny shoes with a little bit of a high heel. Dopiest things on earth to wear anywhere, especially a garden. Guess she didn’t figure on pulling up actual weeds.

  “Come right in, Melinda,” my grandmother said.

  This Melinda hugged the book she was carrying tighter than if it was Pippi Longstocking. Or a dog story I’d read a zillion times. But it wasn’t. It had Party Planning for Fun scrolled across the front in fancy letters.

  “Do you need help in the kitchen, Mrs. Clark?” the girl gushed. “I’ve been practicing my lemon pound cake.”

  She practices pound cake?

  “Garden work today.” Grandma Clark nodded at me to help her into the dining room. Melinda followed.

  I tugged at the bottom of my mostly clean shirt to cover up a tiny tear in my shorts, smiling to be friendly like Mama says. But I might as well be a piece of chewed-up gum stuck to Melinda’s fancy shoe.

  So I sneaked back to the kitchen to watch the clock, wishing that stupid little cat tail would move faster and make this day disappear. The doorbell’s buzz jolted me out of scheming to march over to the phone booth in front of Mr. Wong’s store, call my daddy, and beg him to come save me.

  When I opened the front door, the boy from the garden headed straight for my grandmother. He bowed a little and his straight black hair fell over his glasses. “Hello, Mrs. Clark. My great-aunt sent this. She hopes you feel better.” He handed her a wrapped-up present and put his hand out. She beamed and shook it.

  The Chinese boy in the tree, Billy Wong. What an apple polisher!

  Grandma Clark tucked the gift to the side of her wheelchair. “Tell Mrs. Wong I appreciate it.”

  I didn’t have time to disappear into the kitchen again before guess who was at the door. Looking like he’d rather walk barefoot on burning-hot tar than stand in my grandmother’s front hall. I had to tell Grandma Clark quick! There was a possible thief in her house!

  When she saw that boy, the corners of my grandmother’s smile turned upside down. “Come on in, Willis.”

  Willis? The name Miss Jane Partridge, the lady with the big pocketbook and the file folder, mentioned should be working off some crime?

  The exact same crook Mr. Wong shooed out of his grocery store yesterday?

  Willis? Standing between my grandmother’s fragile figurines and Billy, Mr. Wong’s very own kin. He somehow managed to stick his hand and his bottom lip out. Then, crossing his arms over his chest, he scowled a quick “Hey.”

  Holy moly mashed potatoes, this could get interesting.

  “You all may not know each other, especially my granddaughter,” Grandma Clark said when she caught her breath. “Azalea Morgan, meet Melinda Bowman, Willis DeLoach, and Billy Wong, my garden helpers.”

  I waited for them to snicker about my name. But Billy shook my hand and prisspot Melinda half smiled. We followed Grandma Clark to the back door. Shoving ahead, Willis kamikazed off the top step onto the ground. Oh, brother, what a show-off.

  After I helped my grandmother into a backyard chair, I grabbed a bucket. But I never took my eyes off Willis, who probably had a plan to pocket the best rose clippers.

  Grandma Clark straightened her sun hat and pointed up under the stairs. “Gardening gloves in that basket. Shovels and clippers over there, children.”

  From where I sat, there weren’t any children in this garden. Willis could have whacked down her tallest tomato plant with one arm chop—and he was surely a shoplifter. Melinda was flouncing her skirt out, moseying around in ridiculous shoes. Billy’s manners made him sound eighty, and I was almost twelve, sure as shooting not a child.

  My grandmother kept giving orders. “Billy, you pick the last of my tomatoes. Plenty for your store.” Her eyes cut over to Willis, who’d sneaked away to peer into her garden shed window and rattle the door handle. Grandma Clark called out, “Willis! Get over here!”

  He sauntered back. “Yes, ma’am?” he said, all innocent-like.

  “Nobody needs anything inside my shed. Stay out. All of you.” She picked up her cane and shook it toward the side fence. “Even if you’re only working today, Willis, you can pull up honeysuckle.”

  When Melinda opened her mouth like she was about to ask if she could get on inside and bake something, Grandma Clark said, “Green beans are finished. The bamboo poles can come out.” Melinda’s prissy smile disappeared quicker than her shoes sank into the soft dirt. Then my grandmother looked right at me and said, “Azalea, tend to the roses.”

  She’s letting me touch her precious roses?

  She reached into her apron pocket for her metal clippers, shining like she polished them every day. She opened and closed them carefully, showing me the sharp edge. “Take care. I promised Preacher Jones I’d send my prizewinning Climbing Iceberg beauties for a funeral tomorrow.”

  I leaned close enough to smell the roses’ sweetness. I touched a stem, careful of the prickly thorns. Before I could cut a single rose, a million crushed petals fell into my hand. I jiggled another stem, pricked my finger, and dropped the clippers in a puddle of water.

  I handed a few roses to Grandma Clark.

  “Azalea,” she said, eyebrows raised. “These will never do.” She wiped her clippers on her apron and tossed my roses in the mulch heap. Real quick, I went back to pulling up weeds.

  We’d pretty much attacked every dead thing in Grandma Clark’s garden when she finally called out, “Leave the gloves and trowels next to Azalea.”

  I may not know how to clip her roses, but it looked like I was still the Number One Helper. I stacked buckets and put away gloves and tools till she took off her wide sun hat and fanned herself. “Show everybody out, Azalea,” she said. “See you next week, children.”

  The thing was, I’d like to show them out and pray they never come back. Not next week, not ever. If I didn’t like talking to new people before I got to Paris Junction, my mind had not changed today.

  Here’s what went wrong in the garden.

  Willis accidentally sprayed Billy with the hose.

  I may have ruined Grandma Clark’s clippers.

  A possible shoplifter worked side by side with the person he might have stolen from.

  After Grandma Clark was settled inside, I opened the front door. Just in time to see Willis point to his own brown crew cut, then to Billy’s straight bla
ck hair, making a face, mumbling the words bad haircut. He did something funny with his eyelids, pulling them up and down, mocking Billy.

  Billy flinched, then jammed his fists in his pockets. I shot Willis my meanest look. He ignored me and whispered to Melinda, loud enough for me to hear, “Slanty Chinaman eyes.” They snickered all the way down the sidewalk.

  Billy left, too, in the other direction.

  I was happy to be rid of those helpers, every last one of them.

  “Grandma Clark, did you hear Willis making fun of Billy Wong?” I said when I pushed her wheelchair toward the kitchen.

  She sat up straighter. “Can’t have that. What did he say?”

  “Showed off something awful. Said ugly things about his hair. Willis is mean!”

  “I will not have that behavior in my house.”

  I plopped down on the chair closest to my grandmother. “And also? I think I saw Willis DeLoach shoplifting at Lucky Foods.”

  Grandma Clark’s kitchen hardly had enough room for both of us, but she wheeled around quick. “Willis is not supposed to be at the Wongs’ store. You saw him there? Stealing something?”

  “Well, maybe.”

  “Tell the truth, Azalea. Don’t create more problems by being untruthful.” Grandma Clark leaned forward and took my hand. “If you’re not sure, we don’t need to get involved in the Wongs’ business.”

  I answered as truthfully as I could. “Willis ran out of the grocery store yesterday like he had a firecracker in his shoe. And maybe, no, probably—there was a lot of stolen bubble gum in his pocket.”

  Meanness

  Willis DeLoach thinks he can hurt.

  With his names, his jokes.

  Chinaman.

  Chink.

  You eat rats?

  I’ve heard all that.

  Words bounce off me. I’m strong.

  Strong as my sister May Lin’s hands on piano keys.

  May Lin tells me:

  Ignore them.

  Walk away.

  A new school is for new things.

  A club, a team.

  Write for the newspaper.

  Take trigonometry. Miss Jones’s advanced English.

  Make signs.

  Make friends.

  Make a promise.

  Not to tell Great Uncle.

  Not to tell May Lin.

  Willis made me mad.

  Mad enough to haul off and slug him.

  Mad enough to yell.

  Mad enough to call him a thief,

  that he should be in jail.

  Tonight, in the darkness,

  my pillow catches my tears.

  Where nobody but me can see.

  Billy Wong, Mad at the World

  By the time I’d cleaned up after the helpers, and Grandma Clark had finished shaking her head with worry over Willis and Billy, I was too hot to move.

  My grandmother had other ideas. “Help me to my room and turn on the radio, Azalea. Go read a magazine on the porch where it’s cool.”

  Cool, my foot. I could die of heatstroke sitting on the front steps. But just in time to save me from boredom, here came a man walking the world’s littlest dog, barking her head off. Now, I love dogs more than anything. Cats, too. I’m a whole lot better at talking to animals I don’t know than people I don’t know. But this one looked plenty mad. In case I was attacked by a dog not much bigger than a rat, I backed up. The man pulled on a skinny leash and waved real big, same as most everybody in Paris Junction.

  “Afternoon. I’m Henry Jackson. This here’s Tiny, my Chihuahua. I do some handiwork for your grandma. My bike and auto fix-it place is over past Main Street.”

  “I’m Azalea. Visiting from Texas.”

  “I know about you, Azalea. Even met you once or twice. Last time, when your mama and daddy brought you back for Mr. Clark’s funeral. Showing you off to anybody who’d listen and look!” Mr. Jackson winked, then sat next to me on the steps. “Knew your mother when she was a girl. Your daddy, too, that crazy scoundrel. Yes, indeedy. I could spin a story or two, especially about little Mary Josephine.”

  “Mary Josephine? Everybody calls Mama JoBelle now,” I said.

  Oh boy. This is gonna be good. I could listen forever to Mr. Jackson talking and I wouldn’t even have to say much.

  “She changed a lot when she left here.” He picked up his dog and I reached out to pet her. “Go ahead, she won’t bite.” Tiny looked at my fingers and I swear she turned her nose up. “Your parents coming soon, Azalea?” he asked.

  “After Grandma Clark gets better. We were supposed to go to the Grand Canyon on vacation.” I slammed shut my grandmother’s dopey magazine for emphasis.

  “Paris Junction’s not the Grand Canyon, that’s for sure. But maybe you’ll enjoy us.” Now he held Tiny so tight she’d stopped barking and frowning. But she was shaking every bone in her body. “Your grandmother’s got some good help, right?”

  “Never lived in a place where everybody helps so much.”

  “That’s the nice thing! You’ll see.” Then his eyebrows went straight up in a question. “You like to ride a bike?”

  Mr. Henry Jackson was about the easiest person in the universe to talk to. I took a big breath and let it out with what Mama calls a lot of drama. “Bike’s back home in Texas. Won’t be here long enough to need it.”

  “We’ll see about that.” He laughed and put Tiny down next to him, real close. “Your grandma resting?”

  “Maybe. Want to come in?” I scooted up one step from his dog, who was now grinning. Or maybe baring her teeth at me.

  “Miz Clark don’t allow dogs inside. You got pets, Azalea?”

  “A cat. Named for my favorite cartoon character, Little Lulu. Even though she’s bigger than Tiny.” Thinking about that made me laugh. “Daddy says we’ve moved around way too much to have a dog. But I love all animals.”

  “That’s nice.” Tiny started yapping again. “Hush, Tiny! You’re liable to disturb most of Paris Junction.” He calmed down his dog, then said, “Thought I’d get some work done on the shed out back today.”

  “The shed?” I stood up and quietly closed the front door. I was about to learn something good.

  “Promised I’d give the place a fresh coat of paint, and the windows need ivy pulled away. Not like anybody goes in there no more.” When Henry Jackson laughed, his hand went to his mouth, covering up a place where a tooth was missing near the back. But his bright brown eyes made it easy to smile with him.

  “Willis DeLoach was here with the garden helpers this morning, snooping around the shed. Grandma Clark shooed him away.” I kicked a little rock off the sidewalk with my sandal and followed Henry around back, two steps to every one of his big strides. “Grandma Clark claims spiders live in her shed.”

  He clamped his lips together, shook his head, then said, “Uh-huh. You don’t say.” Now Tiny was stretched out next to a tomato plant, chewing on a stick bigger than she was. When she stood up and growled, Henry pointed his finger, saying, “Tiny, sit.” She kept dancing on her dainty little feet. “She’s thinking about it.” He laughed again and I did, too.

  “I’m getting good at pulling weeds. Want me to help?”

  “You can watch for now.” He wiped his bald head with a red bandanna, then took out sharp garden shears and attacked the thick vines. “I imagine you’re good for your grandma. Maybe better than Mary Josephine ever was.”

  “Mama sure didn’t learn about growing flowers and vegetables from my grandmother.”

  Mr. Jackson swiped his bandanna across his head again, then started back clipping and talking. “Your mama wasn’t one to sit still for long. She enjoyed her dancing. And going to a picture show with Johnny Morgan. Aggravated Mrs. Clark. Your grandmother’s an artist, don’t you know.”

  “My grandmother’s an artist?”

  “Used to be. Ask her about it.”

  Well, I’ll be. Grandma Clark and I had one thing in common.

  After Henry Jackson cleared
most of the ivy off the windows, I tried to peek through a dirty pane. “What’s in there? Besides spiders? My mama’s old books or something? Wonder why Grandma Clark told us to stay away.”

  “Your grandmother has her own ideas about things, Azalea.”

  And that was all he said about that.

  See if I cared about this falling-down old shed.

  But I did care. Something about it was important to my grandmother. Grown-ups are always saying tell the truth. Then sometimes they up and tell bald-faced lies themselves. Grandma Clark claimed nothing was in there but bugs? I bet there was something more.

  Mr. Jackson handed me Tiny’s skinny red leash. “If you really want to help, Tiny might appreciate a walk down the street a little ways.”

  Okay, even if Tiny’s not the friendliest dog in the universe, sooner or later, all dogs loved me. But I hardly got two houses away before a bike zoomed past and Willis DeLoach skidded to a stop. Of course, Tiny started barking again.

  Willis backed up like he was worried he’d get his leg gnawed off. “Get that mutt away from me!”

  I wanted to grab Tiny and run back to my grandmother’s. I did not want to stand here on the sidewalk with Willis. But I picked up Tiny, willed my heart not to jump out of my shirt, and said as loud as I could, “If you weren’t so mean to her, she’d be friendly.” Though truthfully, so far she hadn’t gotten real friendly even to me.

  Willis took off his cap, and it was all I could do not to laugh at his smushed-down hair, his bright red ears. Puffing up his chest and looking down at me, he announced, “I can outrun a dog. I’m faster than anybody you know. But she’s a barker. Probably bites, too.” He shook his cap at Tiny and the dog yipped even louder. “You don’t know whether she’s a bad dog. You don’t live in Paris Junction.”

  He peeled off on his bike, almost knocking me and Tiny off the sidewalk.

  “Watch where you’re going!” But my voice disappeared in the dust turned up by Willis’s tires. Now Tiny was shaking like a big wind had blown through, and really and truly, so was I. “It’s okay. You’re safe now,” I said.

  When we walked into my grandmother’s yard, Henry Jackson was packing up his tools. He held his shivering dog and looked her straight in the eye. “You okay, Miss Tiny?”