So Leo picked up Junior that morning at first light and brought him home to breakfast. As Junior took his place at the table, Leo took Marge by the elbow and guided her out onto the back porch. He argued a final time that it would be sufficient that she attend the hearing without him. They did not shout, but spoke loudly enough for Junior and me to hear from the kitchen table.
I watched Marge through the glass in the top half of the door. She stood with her face in profile, looking up at Leo. She wiped her hands on her apron and folded her arms across her breasts.
“The judge said us both, and I told Ted and Lorraine it’d be us both, Mr. Woodard. You want me to tell that judge somebody was too busy puttin’ up storm windows to do for their own grandbaby? I will. Then we’ll see what’s what.”
“In the first damn place, it ain’t none of our business. Margie, you ought to know by now, you go sticking your nose in between Ted and Lorraine, one or the other’s going to bite it off. It’s just like some head-up-his-ass judge to go mixing everybody’s business in everybody else’s. It just beats the hell out of me what he’s thinking of.”
“He’s thinking of what’s good for that boy, not what’s good for Ted or Lorraine or Leo Woodard. And, I’m thankful of it. Things is way out of hand over Teddie. It shows, Leo. Every time we get him back it takes a week to peel him off the ceiling. So if Teddie’s grandpa ain’t got the gumption to spend an hour or two looking out for his own grandbaby …”
Leo pushed past Marge and returned to the kitchen. Marge came behind and asked what he wanted for breakfast, but Leo waved her off with a chop of his hand. He walked to the stove and filled a thermos with coffee and sugar, then tramped back out the kitchen door, closing it softly behind him. A few minutes later, we heard the sound of screens being pried from the living room windows and then thrown into stacks on the ground.
Junior and I sat across from each other at the kitchen table, heavy-eyed and irritable, staring hard over our coffee. I tightened my grip on my cup and kicked the table leg each time Marge spoke to Junior.
“Hold your britches on, Teddie,” she said when I rattled my spoon in my empty cup. “Junior’s our workin’ man today. We got to feed the workin’ men so’s they can get about their business. Your grandpa’s only got half a day, and if we don’t get Junior out there lickity-split, the poor old man’ll blow a gasket.”
Marge shoveled a spatula of scrambled eggs onto Junior’s plate, and forked over three strips of ham, hot and popping from the skillet. Junior had not acknowledged Marge all morning, but when she put the ham on his plate, he looked up, wide-eyed and smiling.
“You like pancakes, don’t you, Junior?”
Junior nodded.
“I like pancakes,” I said.
Marge scooped three small pancakes from a second skillet, stacked them on a saucer that had been warming in the oven, and put them next to Junior’s coffee. She put a large pat of butter on top and tucked two more between the bottom cakes.
“You like jam or Kayro?”
“I’m workin’, too,” I said.
“Kayro,” Junior answered.
Marge twisted the cap on the syrup, soaking the cakes to the edges of the plate.
“I like pancakes,” I said.
“I’m fixin’ yours, Teddie.”
“He can have one of mine,” Junior said, digging into his eggs. He chewed with his mouth open and pointed with his fork. “That there one on top.”
I shook my head and rattled my spoon in my cup. “Had your mouth on it.” I kicked the table leg so hard that coffee splashed down the sides of Junior’s cup. “I’m having fourteen.”
“Hold your britches on, Mr. Fourteen,” Marge said.
Junior cut a fat wedge from his pancakes, soaked it in the syrup at the edge of his plate, tipped back his head and, with a flourish, forked the dripping mess into his mouth.
I kicked the table again, but Junior picked up his cup before it could spill.
Rattling my spoon in my cup, I clanked it hard, like a dinner bell.
“Teddie,” Marge said, “you don’t settle down, I’m going to paddle your behind.”
Junior winked and sucked syrup from the back of his hand.
After Junior and I had eaten, Leo put Junior to work raking leaves into piles and hauling them to the alley in the wheelbarrow. When Junior had filled the burn barrel to the top, Leo took rolled newspapers soaked in gasoline and stuffed them into the bottom of the barrel. He lighted the newspapers from the air holes at the bottom, and threw a screen over the top when the leaves caught. When the fire burned low, it was Junior’s job to remove the screen and add more leaves.
Each time Junior left the yard to haul a load, I would kick my way through the piles he had made, pretending I was a road grader, plowing them flat. I had just tunneled through the bottom of a large pile next to the fence, the one Junior had just finished, and as I came bursting out the end, engine roaring, I stumbled over a pair of steel-toed boots. Leo picked me up by the shoulders and held me at arm’s length. Junior stood behind him, peering at me from around Leo’s waist.
“Tol’ you, Mr. Woodar’,” Junior said.
Leo rolled his cigar to the corner of his mouth and looked at me over the tops of his glasses. I went limp and rocked my feet back and forth as if I were in a swing.
“What you up to, booger-boy?”
“Workin’.”
“He ain’t,” Junior said. “He’s messin’ my piles.”
“You messing up Junior’s piles?”
“Workin’,” I said.
“He ain’t,” Junior said.
Leo tucked me under his arm and carried me to the garage. He had backed his truck into the alley, into the sun, and it was parked over the sewer, radiator fluid splashing down the grate. He had pulled both valve covers, and they were leaning against the front tire next to a small wash tub containing a paint brush, a wire brush, and a coffee can filled with gasoline. He put me down next to the valve covers and began unbuttoning my coat.
“Plenty warm out of the wind. Grandma’ll have a shit fit you get gas on your coat.”
He pulled me out of the coat and picked up a valve cover. He held it in his hands, turning it over and over between us as he spoke.
“This here’s a valve cover. And this thing on the inside’s the gasket. Gasket’s supposed to keep the oil from runnin’ all over hell, but this one got old and boogered up. Feel.”
I ran my finger where he pointed.
“All snaggily, ain’t it?” he said.
I nodded my head.
“Clean her up for Grandpa, slicker’n a whistle, so’s he can put a new one. Shine her up slick as a new baby’s butt.”
I laughed. “Baby’s butt.”
“That’s right. That’s you’re part. Watch now.”
He put the valve cover and the gas can in the tub, dipped the brush into the gasoline and worked it over the grime along the edges of the cover. He picked up the wire brush and attacked the stubborn places, then wiped it clean with a rag.
I watched Junior as he rounded the corner with the wheelbarrow, stopped next to the smoking barrel, and dumped in an armload of leaves.
“You watching?” Leo said.
I looked back to Leo and nodded.
“Okay, then. You’re off and runnin’. Clean her up good, Teddie. The other one, too. I got to finish the faucets.”
Leo stood and watched me for a moment, massaging his lower back with his hands.
“That a boy.” He walked toward the house.
I scrubbed hard for a few minutes, until my arms ached, until the place where I had nicked my finger with the wire brush began to sting from the gasoline. I dropped the brush into the gas can and wrapped a rag around my finger. Walking to the end of the truck, I squatted next to the fender and watched Junior as he fed leaves into the barrel. If he thought Leo was not watching, Junior would feed the fire in small handfuls, sprinkling leaves steadily, careful not to smother the flames. Soon the fire would
be crackling high over the barrel top, and Junior would watch as a few of the leaves would ignite and fly down the alley, twisting and tumbling in the breeze.
It occurred to me that Junior was always given the fun jobs. And, after Leo, he was always served first at the table—Marge singing his praises for being a good boy, such a hard worker. It was a situation I had been aching to rectify.
Although I was younger than Junior, a third of his weight, I had attacked him on each of his previous work visits. Once, while he was sitting on the porch steps eating pie, I had jumped from hiding and kicked him in the back. The force of the blow had caused him to drop the plate, and it shattered on the steps. I had run inside and hidden behind the couch, but after Junior stopped crying and Marge understood what had happened, she searched until she found me. She spanked me and sent me to bed for the rest of the day. This did not deter me, however, from hitting him in the head with a hoe on his next visit. The blow did not break the skin, but Junior cried lustily—overmuch, I thought—while Marge applied the ice. Marge sent me to my room and said that she had had enough, that my grandfather would come deal with me. I suffered for hours until he arrived. I pulled the covers over my head when I heard his bootsteps come slowly down the hall.
Leo came straight to the bed, sat down, and pulled the covers away from my head. I lay rigid as a pole, hands at my side, eyes shut tight, pretending I was dead. I heard him light his cigar. I heard his fingers working the denim as he returned the matches to the top pocket of his overalls. He smoked for awhile, then tapped me on the shoulder.
“Look at me.”
I opened my eyes and looked at the ceiling.
“At me,” he commanded.
I turned my head on the pillow and looked at him. Leo took his cigar out of his mouth. “Quit pickin’ on Junior.” He got up from the bed and walked to the window. “I mean it.”
“He gone now?”
Leo stood with his hands on his hips, staring outside. “I took him back to his grandma’s.”
“Don’t want him over.”
“He helps Grandpa. He don’t bother you. You don’t bother him. I mean it.”
“Okay.”
“You got to promise.”
I nodded.
“That a boy.” Leo came to the bed and held out his hand. I took it, and he pulled me to my feet. I bounced a few times on the mattress, holding one of his fingers in each of my hands. At the peak of my best jump, he pulled me across the empty space and into his arms. I shrieked and grabbed his neck.
“Grandma says come eat,” he said.
I had done well after my promise to Leo, confining the expression of my displeasure with Junior’s visits to face-making, occasional trippings, rocks thrown from such distances that there was little hope of hitting the mark. Junior ignored me if Marge or Leo were near, or made a fist in my direction if a rock went whizzing past his head. But I felt particularly restless and contentious this particular Saturday morning: the tension between Marge and Leo; Junior’s teasing at breakfast; a sense of Leo’s anger about the meeting with the judge.
I watched as Junior put the screen back on the smoking barrel. He threw the rake in the wheelbarrow and went back to the yard for another load. If he saw me hiding next to the truck’s tire, he made no sign.
Hunkered beside the front wheel of the truck, watching Junior as he headed for another load of leaves, I surrendered to the old, exhilarating solution. The hair rose on my arms and at the back of my neck; I bolted upright, fists clenched. My body seemed buoyant and electric. I felt a surge of excitement bubbling up my spine, and, fearing to give myself away, I brought my thumb to my mouth and grunted as I sucked.
I remembered something perfect for the occasion, something Marge thought to be safely hidden on Leo’s tool bench. I ran inside the garage and propped an empty beer case against the bench’s thick, wooden legs; I jumped up on the case, standing on tiptoes, and reached for the broken radio antenna Leo had removed from his truck. The day before, Marge had caught me in the basement using the antenna as a sword, thrusting it between stacks of newspapers where I had cornered the cat. The space between the stacks was narrow, and it was impossible to swing the antenna the way that I desired. But if I pulled out the telescoping sections, making the antenna as long as possible, if I plunged my arm straight down until it caught at the shoulder, the metal tip would now and again hit something soft. I checked the end of the antenna after each contact, but there were no signs of blood or fur. Still, the cat made a great racket each time the metal hit home, and Marge soon came clomping down the basement steps, breasts swinging in time to each jolting step. She ripped the antenna from my hands and took me across her knee.
Marge grieved throughout the rest of the day, making numerous trips to the basement, hoping to sweet-talk the cat out of hiding. She wagged her finger at me after each empty-handed return and sat me down, lecturing about Jesus’ love of little boys and the helplessness of poor animals. That night, she had cracked the basement door and left food and water on the top of the steps; but the food had gone untouched, and we had yet to see signs of the cat.
I had to stretch as far as I could reach across the tool bench, but I finally got hold of the antenna. I jumped down from the beer case and ran outside to the corner of the garage, and, falling on my belly, I wiggled like a soldier until I could poke my head around the bottom and spy on Junior.
Junior was standing at the far end of the yard, next to the fence, heaping a last armful of leaves into the wheelbarrow. He fell on top of the pile and crushed down the leaves with his body, then picked up the rake and began to balance the end of the handle in the palm of his hand. He bobbed and weaved as the tines caught in the wind, and, as the rake fell, he whirled suddenly and pointed it like a gun in my direction. I pulled my head back around the corner, hoping he had not seen me. I stood and took the antenna in both hands, and, hidden by the wall, made killing noises as I whipped it back and forth; I was pleased by the silver flash it made, by the zipping sound as it cut the air.
When I heard the squeak of the wheelbarrow coming along the side of the garage, I put my back to the wall and cocked the antenna like a baseball bat. I imagined slashing the antenna across Junior’s midsection as he rounded the corner. He would drop to his knees, guts in hand, screaming for mercy as I hacked and hacked him. I would taunt and mock him all the while, as I chopped his body into quivering chunks.
But the sound of the wheelbarrow had stopped somewhere mid-fantasy, and, as I was about to stick out my head to ascertain the victim’s whereabouts, Junior leaped around the corner with a great shout.
“Hi-yah!” he said. “Hi-yaaah!” He came for me, laughing, his arms upraised like huge wings.
I screamed, and without premeditation, whipped the antenna across his face. Junior’s head snapped back, and he twisted away, covering his mouth with both hands. When I saw the blood leaking between his fingers, I knew I was in trouble. I threw down the antenna and ran for the house.
But Junior was too quick. He lunged forward and punched me in the shoulder with the heel of his hand. The force of the blow whirled me about, pitched me headlong into the garage wall. I heard the thud as my forehead hit the wood, and the noise of the impact was so loud that I was surprised there was no pain. There was, instead, an odd film of spotty whiteness before my eyes which became agitated and swam crazily whenever I turned my head; I blinked and blinked, but was unable to clear it away. I was aware that Junior was shouting no more than a few inches from my face, and yet, it was as though he were far away, calling to me as I lay at the bottom of a hole.
“Bus’ my lip!” he shouted. “Bus’ my lip, boy!”
There was a sudden pain in my side, and my vision cleared instantly. Junior was standing above me, screaming unintelligibly, spraying blood with each invective. He was punctuating each bloody spattering by jabbing the antenna between my ribs. Although the metal could not penetrate my shirt and long johns, there was a sharp bite each time he lunged, and I cried
out. Protecting my ribs with my arms, I rolled away and attempted to rise. Junior threw the antenna far out into the yard and was on me the moment I reached my knees. He grasped the front of my coat and dragged me to my feet. Still spraying blood, he screamed into my face and pushed hard, pounding my back against the garage wall. I was shocked by how easily Junior handled me—as if I were no more than an empty, wagging sack. He had never before answered my violence with violence, so I had assumed that, even though he was larger, he must be weaker.
I do not know how long we continued in this way, for my mind replays this moment as a slow-moving tableau—a dance of puppet children whose limbs move at the end of strings. I remember that I was thankful that the pounding was less painful than an antenna between the ribs, but the rocking of my head made me dizzy. The whiteness began to creep again along the periphery of my vision.
Junior continued to slam me against the garage until Leo arrived and pulled him away. I would have fallen to the ground, but Leo lifted me up and put me under his arm. He picked up Junior in the same way and carried both of us to the house. On the one side, Junior was twisting and yelling in Leo’s grasp, swinging his fists, still trying to get at me. On the other, I hung from my belly over Leo’s arm, dangling limp as a dead rabbit about to be skinned and skewered. Again, there is no memory of pain. Only nausea from the jostling motion of Leo’s gait. I vomited on his boots when he put us down on the back porch.
Marge opened the door.
“My Lord and God! Teddie Durbin! Junior Gilliam!”
I wiped my mouth on my shirt sleeve. “Sick.”
Leo was holding me by the scruff of the neck, at arm’s length, and he had enfolded Junior in his other arm, restraining him by crushing him to his chest. But there was no need. Junior had knocked all the fight out of me, and he had quieted the moment Marge appeared.
The Violent Child Page 17
