"I know you're happy in Grandville, Gordy," Stu cut in, "but I'm taking classes at the university, I have a job. I can't drop everything and come down there. I—"
This time I interrupted him. "There's a college just a few miles from Grandville, Stu. The University of North Carolina in Chapel Hill. William says it's much better than the University of stupid Maryland. He says—"
"I'm sorry, Gordy," Stu said, "but I can't do it. You'll have to come here."
And that was that. I slammed the phone down and went upstairs to William's room. Mrs. Sullivan put out a hand to stop me but changed her mind. Maybe she figured I needed some time alone. She was right.
I flung myself in a chair and pondered my future. In College Hill I'd have to face a bunch of people who knew everything there was to know about the Smith family—the dump we'd lived in down at the end of Davis Road; my father being hauled off to jail, drunk and ugly and smelling like a skunk; Mama's busted arm and black eyes. Poor white trash, that's what they thought of us. I'd be as welcome as a dog with rabies.
I must have fallen asleep worrying because the next thing I knew, William was shaking my shoulder and telling me it was time for supper.
Mrs. Sullivan had fixed fried chicken and mashed potatoes, but they weren't anywhere near as good as Grandma's. We sat at the table and picked at the food, but nobody ate much. Didn't talk, either. Every now and then June let out a sob, and Mrs. Sullivan tried to comfort her. Although there was cherry pie for dessert, nobody wanted any.
The next day, Donny met us at the funeral parlor for the viewing. He'd seen plenty of dead people in the war, but neither William, June, nor I had ever had the experience. From the look on their faces, I knew the two of them were just as scared as I was.
The first thing I saw was flowers, lots and lots of flowers, smelling as sweet and strong as perfume, so many of them they almost hid the coffin. I remembered driving past a cemetery once with Grandma. They'd just finished burying somebody, and the new grave was covered with flowers—funeral sprays. Grandma called them. "Dead flowers for dead people," she'd said. "How appropriate."
The funeral director beckoned to June and me. "Come say good-bye to your grandmother, children," he said, as if we were too young to understand the difference between dying and going on a long trip.
My sister hung back, her hand in mine as cold as death, but Mrs. Sullivan gently nudged her forward. "Go on, honey," she whispered.
The two of us walked slowly to the coffin. Grandma lay still, her eyes dosed, her long, thin hands clasped on her chest. Someone had curled her hair and made up her face with rouge and lipstick. Grandma would have been as mad as the dickens if she could have seen what they'd done to her.
When June started crying, the funeral director touched her head and whispered, "Your grandmother looks so peaceful, she could be sleeping."
June stared at the man, her eyes wide. "Is she going to wake up?"
"Why, no, dear, I'm afraid not. I only meant—"
I put my arm around June to hush her. It seemed to me the fool ought to have known better than to tell a little kid something like that. Get her hopes up and all. Maybe I'd come back tomorrow and write a few cuss words on his sidewalk.
The funeral director frowned at me. "Kneel down and say a prayer," he whispered. "It's the proper thing to do."
Keeping a firm grip on June's arm, I dropped to my knees beside the coffin, but I swear I couldn't think of a thing to say to God. He who was supposed to hear the sparrow's fall had let Grandma die long before I was ready to let her go. Long before she was ready to go, too.
Instead of praying, I studied Grandma. This close, her face looked more like wax than flesh, and her sweet talcum smell was gone, replaced by a whiff of something not quite so nice. Even though her eyes were closed, I was suddenly scared she was watching me from beyond, measuring me, worrying I was going to forget everything she'd taught me.
Jerking June to her feet, I backed away from the coffin and went to stand beside Donny. I silently promised Grandma I'd try to behave, I'd do my best to stay out of trouble. No smoking, no cussing, no fighting. But there was no hiding the fact I might not be able to keep my word once I was back in College Hill.
After the funeral director thought we'd had enough time alone with Grandma, he began ushering other people into the room.
The crowd was bigger than I'd thought it would be. Grandma had never been what you'd call sociable. She didn't throw dinner parties or play cards or belong to the Women's Club, preferring to work in the garden or sit on the porch and read, but she'd taught school in Grandville for over forty years before she retired. It seemed none of her students had ever forgotten her. They gathered together, talking in hushed voices about how she'd acted out the witch scene in Macbeth every year when they studied Shakespeare. She'd never raised her voice, she'd never shamed anybody, she'd been strict but fair, she'd had a dry sense of humor. In short, they'd learned more English from Mrs. Aitcheson than from any other teacher they'd ever had.
It made me feel good to hear them, and I hoped somehow Grandma was listening, too. She'd have been tickled pink.
The funeral was Friday. Since Grandma hadn't been a churchgoer, the service was held at the undertaker's. I don't know where they found the minister, but he obviously hadn't known Grandma. For one thing, he called her Flora Atkinson instead of Florence Aitcheson. I was about to stand up and correct him, but Mrs. Sullivan grabbed my arm and shook her head. Later I decided she was right to stop me. Saying something would have just made it worse.
Afterward, we followed the hearse across town to Cedar Hill Cemetery. The line of cars was so long it must have tied up traffic for blocks. Or maybe all the cars in town were in the procession and there wasn't any traffic to tie up.
At the cemetery, we gathered around the grave, and the minister read a part from the Bible that tells about man's being born of woman—how short his life is and how full of trouble. At least he got that part right.
When the minister finished saying his piece, we each dropped a handful of dirt on Grandma's coffin. The thud made my insides ache. I hoped Grandma couldn't hear it. Overhead, the sky seemed bigger and higher than usual. Emptier, too, as if all the clouds had shrunk away from the earth. Crows cawed in the woods. The wind made a high, sad sound in the treetops. It was the lonesomest day of my life.
The others walked back to their cars and began to drive away, but I stayed where I was. How could I leave Grandma here?
Mrs. Sullivan touched my shoulder. "It's time to go, Gordy," she said softly.
"Let me stay awhile," I said. "I'll walk home later."
She shook her head. "I know how you feel, but Florence isn't alone, Gordy. See the names on the tombstones? Your grandfather's resting place is right beside hers."
I looked at the headstone. Joseph H. Aitcheson, Beloved Husband of Florence Mary Aitcheson, 3 February 1875—11 March 1931. My grandfather—I'd never even laid eyes on him.
Mrs. Sullivan pointed to a nearby cross, carved with the name Myers. "Florence's mother and father are buried there—her grandparents, too," she told me. "The Aitchesons and the Myerses go way back in Grandville. Your grandmother has plenty of company."
I read the names and dates on the stones. Aitchesons here, Myerses there. My relatives, too, all of them, but considering they were dead, I didn't see how they'd be any comfort to anyone, least of all to Grandma.
"We'd better leave now," Mrs. Sullivan said softly. "The wind is blowing hard enough to give a person double pneumonia."
Though I still didn't want to go, I let Mrs. Sullivan lead me to the car. I looked back once and was sorry I did. Tvo men carrying shovels came out from wherever they'd been waiting and started filling in the grave. Too heartsick to watch, I put my arm around June and let her sob on my shoulder. I wished I could cry, too, but all the tears in the world wouldn't bring Grandma back.
Besides, I had to be brave for June. That's what Grandma would have expected.
3
"Everything is to be divided equally between you, Stu, June, and Gordy," Mrs. Sullivan told Donny, "but it will take a while to settle matters. The house and furniture must be sold, the taxes paid, and so on."
Taking a deep breath, she added, "Your grandmother was a wealthy woman and she had no debts, so you should each receive a fairly large sum."
Beside me, Donny tensed. As much as he'd loved Grandma, it was clear he was excited about money coming his way.
Turning to June and me, Mrs. Sullivan said, "Some of your share is available now to help Stu take care of you. Your grandmother put the rest into a trust fund."
"What about Mama?" June asked. "Didn't Grandma leave her anything?"
Mrs. Sullivan rearranged the papers the lawyer had given her. "I'm afraid not," she said in a low voice.
"Poor Mama," June whispered, her eyes brimming with tears.
Donny and I glanced at each other. It was no surprise to us. Grandma hadn't mentioned Mama's name once since Mama had gone to California with the old man.
"Mama should've stayed here with us," I muttered, "like Grandma wanted."
"No sense worrying about it now, Gordo." Donny got to his feet. "Mama did what she did, Grandma did what she did, and that's that."
I watched him walk to the door. With his hand on the knob, he looked back at Mrs. Sullivan. "You got any idea how long it will be before the estate's settled?"
Donny spoke like he didn't especially care, it wasn't really important, but he didn't fool me. I knew darn well my brother could hardly "wait to take his share of Grandma's money out to Tulsa and throw it all away gambling and drinking. It made me sick, but I didn't say anything. Like he'd just said—he'd do what he'd do, and that was that.
"At least two or three months," Mrs. Sullivan said. Something cold in her voice told me Donny hadn't fooled her either.
Donny nodded and slid out the door like he was oiled. The silence he left behind was broken only by the ratcheta ratcheta ratcheta of the Ford's engine cranking slowly to life.
After we went to bed that night, William and I lay awake talking for a long time. Since June and I were leaving the next day, we had lots to say to each other, but we started out with ordinary stuff—baseball, football, and the row of brand-new television sets we'd seen lined up in the Pep Boys' store window. Nobody we knew had a television yet, so the only way to watch stuff like horse races and wrestling matches was to stand on the sidewalk outside the shop and stare through the glass.
I'd tried to interest Grandma in buying a television, but she'd said she had better things to do than watch fat men jump up and down on each other. William hadn't had any luck with his mother, either.
Next William brought up his uncle Pete's new Studebaker. "It's the neatest car," he said. "Sleek and modern as all get-out. It makes Fords and Plymouths look like old-lady cars. And the engine's so quiet—just like a cat purring."
"Donny's worked on lots of cars," I said, "and he says nothing can beat a Buick."
After that there was nothing to talk about but the thing we'd been avoiding all night.
"I wish you weren't leaving tomorrow," William said softly.
"Me, too."
"I'm really going to miss you."
"I'll miss you, too, William."
"No, you won't," he said, getting mad all of a sudden. "You'll go back to College Hill and forget all about me. I'll just be this dumb old crippled kid you knew down in North Carolina."
"William, you do beat all," I said. "You walk so good now, hardly anyone would guess you wear a built-up shoe. And you're far from dumb. If I had half your brains, I'd be dangerous."
"Yeah, yeah," William muttered, "but what about your old friends? You'll meet up with them and never give me a thought."
"How many times have I told you I have exactly two friends in College Hill? Toad Sutcliffe and Doug Murray. For all I know, they've moved away by now. They could be jerks, they could be boring, they could even be in reform school. Maybe I'll hate them, maybe they'll hate me."
I inched farther over the edge of the bunk to see William better. He was squinting up at me, his eyes big and soft without his glasses. "Maybe you're the one who'll forget me," I said. "Did you ever think of that?"
"Don't be stupid, Gordy. Every time I look next door, I'll think about you not being there anymore."
"Suppose a family moves into Grandma's house," I said, though it pained me to picture such a thing, "and they have a kid our age and you get to be friends with him. Suppose he's smart like you, suppose your mother likes him better than me—which won't be hard. Pretty soon you won't even remember my name. Smith—easy to forget."
I don't know how long we would have argued if Mrs. Sullivan hadn't come to the door and told us to go to sleep. "You have to get up early tomorrow," she reminded us.
After his mother left, William said, "I bet you won't write me one measly little letter. Not even a postcard."
"You know how hard writing is for me," I said. "It makes my hand hurt, plus it wearies my brain."
"I'll write to you," William muttered. "Whether you write to me or not."
"Okay, okay," I grumbled. "I'll write—but you better not make fun of my spelling or anything. It's not like you're the teacher. I don't want you giving me a grade."
That seemed to satisfy William. He gave a little grunt, turned over on his side, and fell asleep, leaving me lying there, wide-eyed in the dark. If William hadn't been sound asleep, I'd have leaned over the edge of the bunk and told him he was the only real friend I'd ever had. Toad and Doug didn't even come close.
The next morning, Mrs. Sullivan drove June, me, and William to the station. The sky was a dull gray, not much different from the way it was the day we'd arrived in Grandville two years ago. The cold, damp air stunk of old soot and cinders, damp wood, and something worse. Dog pee, maybe.
While Mrs. Sullivan entertained June, William and I settled ourselves side by side on a baggage cart and waited for the northbound train. We didn't say much just sat there swinging our legs and staring down the tracks. I guess we'd talked ourselves dry the night before.
William sighed loudly, and I chucked a stone at a crow hopping along the edge of the platform. I didn't try to hit him, but the stone came close enough to startle him. He flew a few feet farther down the platform and kept on hopping, looking for breakfast, probably.
"Where's Donny?" William asked. "I thought he'd be here."
I spit hard. "He was probably out all night raising hell. Now he's sleeping it off."
William gave me a shrewd look. There was no fooling him. He knew I cared more than I was letting on. But he had the sense not to call me on it.
Just as I was about to give up hope, Donny's old Ford rounded the comer and screeched to a stop, spraying cinders and gravel. June ran to meet him. I watched him swing her up in the air.
"I'm going to miss you, June Bug," he said.
"How about me?" I asked. "Are you going to miss me, too?"
"Miss that ugly mug of yours? Are you crazy?"
For a second I thought Donny was serious, but he grabbed me in a half nelson and roughed me around. "Of course I'll miss you, you little twerp."
June hung on Donny. "I wish you were coming on the train with us."
"You have Gordy to look after you," he said. "And Stu. You don't need me."
June held him tighter, her face scrunched like she had a bellyache. "Will you send me a postcard from Oklahoma?"
"Sure thing, June, sure thing." Donny grinned down at her, and I hoped he was telling the truth. We'd already lost Mama and the little boys. I didn't want to lose Donny, too.
"You better send us your address," I told him.
Just as Donny opened his mouth to answer, the train came thunderin
g into sight, puffing a cloud of smoke as gray as the sky. Its whistle drowned out every word he spoke. June put her fingers in her ears and drew closer to Mrs. Sullivan.
Silently we watched the locomotive slow to a stop. The conductor hopped off and helped an old lady down from a car. A man with a briefcase hurried past like he had important business in Grandville. A couple of women followed him, chattering and laughing.
"All aboard," the conductor hollered, looking straight at us.
I picked up my suitcase and shook William's hand. Like June, he had tears in his eyes. Or maybe it was just a cinder.
"Don't forget to write," he said. "You promised, Gordy."
Mrs. Sullivan put June's hand in mine. "Tike care of your sister. Make sure she doesn't talk to strangers. Don't you talk to them, either. Even if they offer you candy."
Donny laughed. "Fat chance anybody would offer Gordy candy—he'd never be that lucky."
Mis. Sullivan nudged us toward the train. The conductor helped June into the passenger car, and I struggled up the steps behind them, lugging both suitcases. As soon as we found a seat, we pressed our faces against the window and waved. Donny leaned against the baggage cart, a cigarette dangling old man-style from his lower lip. Mrs. Sullivan stood beside him, her hair blowing, one hand clutching her purse and the other raised in farewell. As the train began to move, William hobbled along beside us, shouting things I couldn't hear.
Suddenly the train picked up speed and William dropped out of sight. I got a glimpse of the Winn Dixie where Grandma used to shop, the Amoco station where Donny worked, the boardinghouse where he lived, the elementary school, a church or two, and, high on a hill just outside town, the cemetery.
Then, like a magician's trick, Grandville was gone. Fields and farms streaked past. Brown land under a gray sky. No color anywhere.
Like it or not, I was on my way back to College Hill.
4
IT WAS A LONG RIDE TO COLLEGE HILL. I SPENT THE FIRST part of it trying to explain things to June. She didn't remember much about Stu or Barbara or Barbara's little boy. Brent, so it was up to me to fill her in on the details.
As Ever, Gordy Page 2
