The Unsung Hero of Birdsong, USA

by Brenda Woods

  Patrick shrugged and smiled.

  The sign on the house said 127. It was white with gray trim and a yellow door. Two cars were parked in the driveway; both had their hoods popped, and one was jacked up.

  Suddenly, a girl jumped from behind a tall hedge that was covered with blue morning glory flowers, nearly scaring the life out of me, and I flinched.

  “What’re you lookin’ for?” she asked.

  She was colored, with braided hair, and looked about ten years old. For someone her age, she had a big voice. “I said, what’re you lookin’ for, scaredy-cat?”

  “This where Mr. Meriwether Hunter lives?” I inquired.

  “Why do you wanna know?”

  Patrick tugged my shirt. “Let’s go!”

  Suddenly I heard noises from underneath one of the cars and a man’s voice called out, “Abigail?”

  “Huh?” she replied.

  “Who are you fussin’ at?” the man asked.

  “These two white boys, that’s who. A tall one and a short one, and the tall one’s a scaredy-cat!”

  Sounds of tools clanking were followed by the commotion of him getting out from under the car. He stood up, and as soon as he saw me, a smile brightened his face. “Gabriel,” Mr. Meriwether Hunter said. “Fine day to be alive, isn’t it?”

  I grinned and nodded.

  Patrick tugged on my shirt again. “That him?”

  “That’s him.”

  Meriwether Hunter grabbed a rag, wiped his greasy hands, and strode toward us. The girl hurried to his side, took his hand, and asked, “You know them, Daddy?”

  “Just the taller boy, Abigail. He’s the one almost got hit by that car yesterday.”

  “Oh . . .” Her attention turned to me. “Better be glad my daddy was there when you were actin’ a plum fool on that bicycle.”

  Patrick chuckled at that, and an embarrassed look pasted itself on the face of Mr. Meriwether Hunter.

  “Plum fool,” Abigail repeated.

  “That’s enough now,” he scolded. “Gabriel’s his name.”

  He reached out his hand, I extended mine, and we shook. “Hi, Mr. Hunter,” I said.

  “Was hardly expectin’ to see you again so soon,” he said, then glanced at Patrick. “Your friend got a name?”

  “I’m Patrick . . . Patrick Kelly,” he replied.

  Mr. Meriwether Hunter reached out to shake his hand. Patrick glanced at me like he needed an answer to a question. I glared at him and jabbed him with my elbow. Finally, Patrick took his hand and they shook.

  “Pleased to meet you, son. Very pleased indeed,” Meriwether told him.

  “Thank you, uncle,” Patrick replied.

  This was what plenty of white people in Birdsong did—instead of calling grown colored people by their names, they called the men uncle and the women auntie. Or, regardless of how old they were, colored men were called boys and the women called girls. But my mama and daddy had taught me differently. Every adult, white or colored, unless I’d been given permission to call them by their first names, was a Mister or Missus or Miss.

  “The Haberlins are different,” I’d heard some folks say about my parents. “All that time spent up there at that northern college must have caused it. Neither one’s been quite the same since.” Folks around town had made it sound like northern ways were a contagious disease that both my parents had caught.

  My parents had met at Oberlin College in Ohio, married as soon as they’d graduated, then headed back to Carolina and settled in Daddy’s hometown of Birdsong.

  Meriwether gestured toward his daughter. “This is my girl, Abigail.”

  Greetings were spoken, but I could tell Patrick and Abigail were both leery.

  “Well, unless y’all have some good reason to stand out here on the sidewalk, c’mon inside,” he beckoned, and then stared up at the sky. “Clouds beginnin’ to scatter. Gonna be a scorcher when they do. Y’all are welcome to have a glass of cold lemonade.”

  We trailed him up the path to his porch. Patrick nudged me and whispered, “Don’t tell my mama, promise?”

  “Promise.”

  The screen door opened and we were ushered inside, where a pretty colored lady wearing a white apron and pink-and-white-checked dress greeted us. “This is my wife, Mrs. Hunter. Phoebe, this is the boy had the bicycle accident yesterday.”

  Abigail giggled. “The plum fool.”

  Mrs. Hunter frowned and placed her hand on Abigail’s shoulder. “What’d I teach you ’bout saying things that might hurt people’s feelings?”

  “Not to,” she replied.

  “And if you go and forget that?”

  “I should beg pardon.”

  Mrs. Hunter rested her hands on her hips and waited.

  Somehow Abigail’s apology came out sounding like an insult. “Sorry for callin’ you a plum fool like my daddy did yesterday.”

  There was a brief silence followed by Abigail informing me, “Well . . . now you’re supposed to say you accept my apology.”

  “I accept.”

  Mrs. Hunter took two glasses out of the refrigerator and poured the lemonade. “Keeps it colder this way.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” I said.

  “Thank you, auntie,” Patrick told her.

  I sipped and studied the house. “Nice place you have,” I commented.

  “Oh, we’re just rentin’ here. But it’s my dream to have a house of our own someday,” Mr. Hunter replied.

  Abigail turned to me. “I’m not trying to be rude, but can I ask you a question?” she blurted.

  “Ask.”

  “Why’d you come over here?”

  I’d almost forgotten. I turned to Mr. Hunter. “Are you still lookin’ for a job, sir?”

  “Yessiree. Been lookin’ for a real job ever since I got back—”

  His wife interrupted him. “Not now” was all she said.

  They held on to each other’s eyes for a while before he continued, “I sure am. Right now, I grab a little work here and there, fixin’ some of the neighbors’ cars and other odd jobs.”

  “Then you oughtta come work for my daddy.”

  “And what makes you say that?” he asked.

  “Because I owe you . . . for savin’ me, ’least that’s what I was told.”

  Meriwether shook his head. “You don’t owe me nuthin’, son.”

  “Sure I do. Plus, one of his mechanics quit Saturday . . . just ran off to be near his lady friend, and my daddy’s been bellyachin’ ’bout it. And, like your sign claims, you’re good at fixin’ things. You know the place. Everyone does. It’s called Jake’s.”

  “Jake’s? The gas station? One with the garage and car lot?” he asked.

  I nodded. “He’ll give you a job. I promise.”

  His eyes flickered with doubt. “You sure about that, Mr. Gabriel?”

  “As sure as can be,” I said confidently.

  Some of the uncertainty disappeared from Meriwether’s face. “I suppose it’s a fine way to repay a small favor. Thank you, Gabriel.”

  “You’re welcome, but you’re wrong about one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Fixin’ a bicycle is a small favor, but savin’ a life is the biggest favor of all,” I informed him.

  “Those are mighty wise words for someone your age,” he commented.

  “Twelve. I turned twelve yesterday.”

  “Twelve—in some places that’s practically a man.”

  Practically a man? I stood up straighter, puffed out my chest, and beamed.

  “And the bicycle was your present?” he asked.

  “Yessir.”

  “Well then. Isn’t that something.” Meriwether patted my shoulder in that fatherly way. “Happy birthday, Gabriel.”

  “Happy birt
hday, Gabriel,” Mrs. Hunter added.

  Abigail finally smiled at me. “Happy birthday for a third time.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Folks ever call you Gabe?” Mr. Hunter asked.

  “Nossir, not even my mama and daddy . . . Can’t say why neither.”

  Abigail chimed in, “My name means ‘a father’s delight,’ in case you were wonderin’. And most folks never call me Abby neither, but sometimes Mama and my daddy’s friends call him Meri and he doesn’t mind when they do.”

  “Sometimes people call me Pat but mostly I don’t like it ’cuz it sounds like a girl’s name,” Patrick said.

  To me, right then, the Hunters stopped feeling like new clothes and instead they felt like clothes I’d had awhile—comfortable, like I’d known them a spell.

  And by the time we’d finished our lemonade, Mr. Meriwether Hunter had decided to skip his lunch and come with me to Daddy’s.

  “Can I please go too?” Abigail begged. “I wanna see where you’re gonna work.”

  “Not today,” Meriwether replied. “And Phoebe, this might be what we’ve been waitin’ on . . . Say a prayer, you hear?”

  “I hear,” she replied.

  “Thank you for the lemonade, Mrs. Hunter,” I told her.

  “Yeah, thank you, auntie,” added Patrick.

  And that was how we left them, Mrs. Hunter standing on the front porch in her pink-and-white dress, Abigail at her side, waving. The man whose wife and friends sometimes called him Meri turned back to them once and waved.

  CHAPTER 11

  “So, where’s your new bicycle today?” Mr. Hunter asked as we walked to my daddy’s station.

  “Can’t ride it for two weeks,” I replied.

  “Oh, a fortnight is all,” he said.

  “Huh?” I asked.

  “Same as two weeks.”

  “Did you really call Gabriel a plum fool?” Patrick asked, smirking.

  “Well, young one, I’m not prone to lyin’ or even stretchin’ out the truth. If I recollect, those were my exact words, and now that I think back on it, I should have been more kindly.”

  “So, all that means you did?” Patrick asked.

  He nodded yes. “And it shames me to admit it.”

  My feelings should have been hurt but they weren’t. “I didn’t really pay it any mind . . . It’s likely what most people been thinkin’ anyhow.”

  Our talk turned to the weather, and then I asked how he’d learned about fixing engines.

  As if he were searching for just the right answer, he took a while to reply. “Picked it up here and there. Was told I have something called mechanical aptitude.”

  “Where’s here and there?” I continued.

  “Round and about,” he replied. Right then I realized he was giving me what Mama calls cloudy answers. Answers that don’t really tell you anything and keep you in the fog.

  But that didn’t stop me from asking more. “I been wonderin’ somethin’ ’bout your name.”

  “What might that be?”

  “Did your folks name you after Meriwether Lewis . . . the one who led the Lewis and Clark Expedition?”

  “No. ’Twas my daddy’s name and belonged to my granddaddy too, likely given to him by the slave master.”

  “Your granddaddy was a slave?” I asked.

  “Yes, and my daddy was a sharecropper . . . someone who rented land from the man who owned it, and grew and harvested crops. Then they shared the crops.”

  “Oh, I understand,” Patrick spouted. “Share . . . croppers.”

  “You been livin’ in Birdsong long?” I asked.

  “Since right before Christmastime. Was born and raised in Charleston. My wife took a job at the Baptist church here, secretary to the pastor, and director of the choir. It’s her callin’ in life.”

  “Abigail your only child?”

  “So far.”

  Mr. Hunter shot me a look that told me he was getting tired of questions. And Patrick must have seen it too, because he said, “Don’t mind Gabriel askin’ all them questions, uncle. He’s just been listenin’ to too many detective shows on the radio.”

  That made Mr. Meriwether Hunter laugh.

  When we got to Daddy’s, Mama was outside. Her car door was open, and she was getting ready to climb in when she saw us.

  Quickly, I began the introductions. “Mr. Meriwether Hunter, this is my mama, Agatha, and Mama, this is Mr. Meriwether Hunter, the man from yesterday who pushed me out of the car’s way.”

  “The man who saved a plum fool’s life is more like it,” Patrick told her.

  According to Daddy, Mama is as soft as a ball of cotton with tenderhearted ways, and her tears, whether a reaction to sadness or joy, come easily. That day was the same. Instantly, water dripped from her eyes, and her arms embraced Mr. Meriwether Hunter. “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” she said between sobs.

  I knew from experience that her clasped arms were strong enough to force almost every iota of air out of a person’s lungs. Mr. Hunter squirmed, but Mama only squeezed him tighter. “An angel sent from above!” she squealed. And that was how they were when Daddy showed up. His face spelled confusion.

  Seeing Daddy made Mr. Meriwether squirm even more, but he was still firmly in her grip when Daddy said, “Agatha?”

  Finally, she released Mr. Hunter and turned her attention to Daddy. “Jake, it’s him. The man who saved our Gabriel’s life. Thank him and shake his hand!”

  Daddy stuck out his hand and Mr. Hunter found it. “Mighty good thing you did for my boy, riskin’ your life for his. Thank you kindly, Mr. . . . Meriwether. Is that right?”

  “Hunter, Meriwether Hunter,” he replied.

  “Thank you kindly, Mr. Hunter.”

  “Right thing to do was all. I have a girl of my own. Our young’uns are mighty precious to us all.”

  Mama started up again, her enthusiastic words of gratitude bringing the attention of everyone within earshot, including Lucas, Daddy’s station attendant and automobile mechanic. “What in tarnation is goin’ on out here?” he yelled.

  Lucas Shaw was skinny with bowed legs and had hair that was usually in need of a shampoo and a brushing, and Mama and most of the women in town accused him of not having any couth, which was the same as saying he didn’t have any manners. As if he was determined to maintain his reputation, he always chewed with his mouth open, spit tobacco, and up close reeked like someone badly in need of a bath.

  There was a rumor that he tried three times to enlist after Pearl Harbor got bombed but for some reason was turned away. And the previous year his wife had up and run off, so now he lived with his older sister, who’s a dressmaker, and together, they resided in a two-story Victorian house, which was left to them by their mama and daddy. However, couth or no couth, there were two things everyone agreed on: Lucas Shaw was an expert mechanic—but he was also as mean as a raccoon with rabies and for that reason, I didn’t like him much.

  “This is the fella who saved Gabriel from the accident,” Daddy informed him.

  “Yeah, from what I heard, it woulda been bye-bye time for you, Gabriel. That Roadmaster woulda mowed you down same as a speedin’ train.” He cracked a snide grin, showing crooked, tobacco-stained brown teeth.

  Mama placed both hands on my shoulders protectively and cried out, “Lucas Shaw, don’t you have a speck of kindness in you?”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Haberlin. Been told I need a muzzle.”

  “Nice of you to admit it,” Mama replied.

  I barged in. “Well, can he have the job, Daddy? He knows all about fixin’ cars.”

  “All about fixin’ cars, who?” Lucas asked.

  I looked toward Mr. Hunter. “Him.”

  Lucas cut his eyes at Meriwether and sneered at him while fidgeting with the wrench he was holding. Then he spit a spo
onful of tobacco juice right on Meriwether’s shoes.

  I knew that there were people in Birdsong who were against colored people just because they’re colored, but I was shocked to witness this, just the same.

  “More than your hands are filthy, Lucas Shaw,” Mama lectured him.

  Meriwether stared at his shoes, then glared at Lucas.

  “Ain’t nobody taught you not to stare no white man in the eyes, boy?” Lucas asked.

  “That’s enough, Lucas,” Daddy warned.

  Meriwether’s hands were at his sides, but I saw him ball the right one into a fist.

  Lucas displayed the wrench for all to see.

  Mama’s face was dressed in worry, and I started wishing I’d never brought Meriwether here.

  “Y’all ’bout to fight?” Patrick asked.

  Right then a customer drove into the gas station and stopped at the pump. Daddy tapped Lucas on the shoulder and told him to get back to work. Lucas hesitated. “Now!” Daddy ordered, letting him know who was the boss.

  Lucas spit once more, but this time nowhere near Meriwether, and headed back to work.

  Embarrassment crawled into Mama’s eyes. She looked at Meriwether and said, “That man’s mouth and mind are fulla ignorance.”

  “That what you call him?” Mr. Hunter asked. “A man?”

  I faced my daddy. “Can he have the job?”

  “Sorry,” Daddy said. “I’m thinking maybe that’s not the best idea now . . .”

  I’d always been proud to be Jake Haberlin’s son, but right then my feelings began boxing with each other. “Why not? Just ’cuz he’s colored? You’re always claimin’ it isn’t fair the way the colored people get treated. Besides, he saved my life. That’s worth somethin’, isn’t it?”

  “I could work on the cars and clean up ’round here after hours, sir, do anything that needs doin’ . . . Have a wife and a girl at home . . . Been outta regular work for a long spell. Tryin’ my best to stay off relief and get back on my feet,” Meriwether said.

  Daddy hesitated, the way he tends to when he’s trying to make certain he’s making the right decision, then finally replied, “Seems my son is my conscience.” He told Meriwether, “I suppose long as you and Lucas don’t cross paths, it might work itself out.” Mama squeezed his hand.