The Unsung Hero of Birdsong, USA

by Brenda Woods

  “It’s the same as puttin’ food in front of a hungry man and tellin’ him not to eat. Sooner or later when no one’s lookin’, he’s bound to take a bite, isn’t he?”

  “If it was me, I sure would. Pro’bly eat it all up,” Patrick agreed.

  “I just gotta.”

  “What if you get caught?”

  “It’s the worst temptation ever. Almost like they’re daring me, makin’ me look at it day and night. The way I figure, it’s not my fault for givin’ in, it’s theirs for temptin’ me.”

  Patrick thought for a while and responded, “Yeah . . . they’re to blame, that’s for sure. Can I ride it too?”

  “Yeah, but if you breathe a word to anyone, I’ll never let you ride it again. Promise?”

  “Cain’t promise,” he replied.

  “How come?”

  “If someone asks and I lie, then I gotta tell it in confession.”

  “Okay, but not your mama or anyone else. Cross your heart and hope to die?”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die,” he replied.

  Fearing someone might see us and squeal, I only circled the block once and then let Patrick do the same. And then we parked it back in my room.

  “Think that’ll do you until the two weeks are up?” Patrick asked.

  “Can’t say for sure . . . Maybe, maybe not.”

  “Well, if you decide you’re gonna ride it some more, wait for me so I can ride it too, word of honor?”

  “Word of honor.”

  CHAPTER 16

  I’d never had a job before, but from what I’ve heard folks say, there are things a person should do if they plan to keep it—things like being on time, doing your work without complaining, and never stealing anything, even if it’s worth less than a penny.

  Daddy checked his watch when I stepped through the door. “Thank you for being prompt, Gabriel.”

  “Is Lucas here?” I asked.

  “Three o’clock is quittin’ time for him. Unless he’s in the middle of something important, soon as that second hand hits the twelve, he’s in the wind.”

  The clock on the wall read three fifteen.

  My next question was, “Is Meriwether here?”

  “Should be here soon. Usually sticks his head in when he gets here so we can talk about what needs to get done. But c’mon now. Time for you to learn to work the pumps,” Daddy said, “and remember, even if you don’t feel like it, always greet your customer with a smile.”

  As luck would have it, my very first customer of the day was the one who had almost taken my life, Mrs. Betty Babcock. It wasn’t Sunday, but as always, Betty Babcock was, as Mama says, all done up. Her lips were painted bright orange, a gold necklace and earrings sparkled in the sunlight, and a long pink scarf was tied around her neck.

  As soon as she saw me, Mrs. Betty Babcock hopped out of her car. “Hello, y’all!” she hollered.

  As instructed, I smiled. “Hi, Mrs. Babcock. You want me to fill it up?”

  “You ain’t but just turned twelve and your daddy has got you workin’. Shouldn’t you be off enjoyin’ the summer like other people your age?”

  “I wanna work, ma’am. It’s my first day.”

  “Suppose you’ll be takin’ over this business from your daddy someday?”

  I’d actually never thought about that, but the sound of what she’d said felt to me like a piece for the wrong puzzle, something that was never going to fit. “Don’t think so, ma’am,” I replied.

  She winked at Daddy. “Hope you’re at least payin’ the boy, Jake.”

  “He is,” I told her. I was raring to get to it. “Should I fill it up?”

  “Twenty-one cents a gallon? Strange how I never noticed the price of gasoline until I started drivin’. It’s pure thievery, Jake. Can’t you do something about these prices?” she asked, then winked again.

  “Out of my hands, Betty.”

  She turned to me. “I reckon you need the experience . . . so may as well fill it. And check the oil too, and while you’re at it, Gabriel, my windows could use a good cleanin’.”

  I knew how to fill a tank and washing windows was a cinch, but I’d never checked oil. I gave my daddy the I-need-help look.

  “Gabriel, hold off on fillin’ the tank and let me show you how to check the oil.” He popped the hood and yanked a rag from his pocket. As he worked, he schooled me step by step until he was done. “Then you put the dipstick back where it came from and close the hood.” He closed the hood. “Oil’s fine, Betty.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “Where does the oil go if I havta put some in?”

  “Tomorrow’s lesson.”

  “Tomorrow’s Saturday and we’re going to Charleston for the parade,” I reminded him.

  “Next week, then. For now, anyone comes in needin’ anything more than gas and clean windows, have Matthew see to it. And if it’s something major and I’m not around, Meriwether’s inside the garage.”

  “Even air in the tires?” I asked.

  He frowned. “Especially air in the tires. Your first week or so is gonna be mostly learnin’. Got one word of advice: if you find yourself in doubt . . . don’t do anything. Understand?”

  “I do.”

  By the time Betty Babcock climbed back into the Buick, her tank was full and her windows were as clean as I could get them. She screeched away, the scarf around her neck waving in the wind.

  As soon as she sped off, another customer rolled in. “This car drinks up gasoline faster than a thirsty man drinks water,” the man said. I smiled and agreed.

  “Fill ’er up?” I asked.

  “Five gallons oughtta do.”

  Minutes later, Matthew, who’s mostly called Matt, arrived and took over, allowing Daddy to retreat to his office to “shuffle papers.” And when a car drove up that needed oil, Matt sent me to the garage to get some. Resting against the wall outside was an old bicycle I’d never seen before, and inside, Meriwether had arrived and was working. “Hi, Mr. Hunter.”

  He peered out from underneath the hood. The sweat on his dark brown forehead made it glisten, and he wiped at it with the back of his hand. “Hi there, Gabriel.”

  “I’m workin’ here now,” I informed him.

  “So I’ve been told,” he replied.

  “That your bicycle outside?” I asked.

  “Not exactly . . . Friend of mine let me borrow it. Beats walkin’.”

  My eyes searched the shelves for the oil until they found it. “But you have a car. There were two in the driveway at your house.”

  “Not mine—fixin’ ’em for folks is all.”

  “You’ll have a car someday, Mr. Hunter. I betcha.”

  “If you’re worryin’ yourself because I don’t have a car . . . there’s no need,” he said, smiling. “I can see you suffer from the same affliction as lots of folks, Gabriel.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Only bein’ able to see things through the two eyes on your face instead of four or sometimes even more.”

  “But all I have is two . . . same as you.” I wanted to keep talking, but Matt was waiting on the oil. “Be right back after I take him this oil,” I told Meriwether.

  In a jiffy, I rejoined him in the garage and asked, “About seein’ things with more than two eyes, is it some kind of riddle?”

  Meriwether leaned his back against the car. “Not a riddle, just one of those things called a great truth. Let me help you understand it.” He paused and looked upward, gathering the thoughts he was about to put into words.

  I waited patiently.

  “Whenever possible, you gotta try to see the goings-on of life through more eyes than just your own, because that can help you see things more clearly. Sometimes it’ll even let you see things the way they really are and give you peace of mind. You understand?”
r />   I didn’t, so I shrugged.

  “It’s like this. The way you see it has you hopin’ that I’ll have a car someday, right?”

  I nodded.

  “On the other hand, the way I see it allows me to be content because I’m just one of many in South Carolina—in the whole of these United States, for that matter—who don’t have an automobile, and for now that bicycle gets me where I need to go. But when I look at it through four eyes—my two plus your two—I can be both content and have hope. That’s why four eyes are usually better than two. And the more eyes you look through, the better you see things—understand now?”

  “Kinda. Like if there are ten people with cameras and they’re standing around at ten different spots and they all click a picture of the same mountain at the same time, all the photographs are bound to be different. And afterward, lookin’ at all ten pictures instead of just one is gonna show you what that mountain really looks like.”

  Meriwether grinned. “Got a good mind, don’t you?”

  I chuckled. “Mama and Daddy say I think too much.”

  “A talent for thinkin’s a mighty nice thing to have.”

  “Thinkin’s not a talent,” I told him.

  “Sure it is,” Meriwether replied.

  Two car honks came from outside, and I realized Matt probably needed my help. “See ya!” I exclaimed, and made a dash.

  CHAPTER 17

  Matt didn’t talk much, but he smiled and whistled a lot, which I took as evidence of his cheerful nature.

  I watched as he checked engine oil and tire pressure, trying to organize the steps in my mind.

  And that’s what I was doing when the colored pastor drove up and told me, “Fill it up, son—drivin’ clear to Georgia.”

  There were only two gas stations in Birdsong. One was on the way into town and the other was on the way out, depending on which way you were headed. But regardless of your direction, my daddy’s was the only one that served coloreds. Jake’s had a colored bathroom and water fountain, and I’d once heard Daddy claim that Mrs. Masters, who now and then helps Mama at the house, had shown him something called The Negro Motorist Green Book, which lists places, including his, where colored people are welcome to eat, or rest, or get gasoline when they’re traveling around. That was when I discovered that being colored and being Negro are the exact same thing.

  Once his tank was full, the pastor paid, said, “Thank you kindly,” and sputtered off, his tailpipe smoking a little.

  I glanced at the Colored restroom sign and started to wonder about what Tink had claimed about all those things being gone someday, but my thinking was interrupted by a customer and then another after that. Busyness and thinking seem to work against each other—with busyness usually winning.

  Much later, when I saw Meriwether, he was sitting outside beside the bicycle, legs stretched out and crossed in front of him, chomping on a sandwich. A brown paper bag rested beside him. “Suppertime,” he commented.

  I studied the bicycle again.

  “Not much when you compare it with your new Schwinn, is it? Betcha can’t wait to ride it again, huh?” Meriwether asked.

  Before I realized it, I’d opened my mouth. “I already did,” I confessed.

  “So, they took you off punishment?”

  I shook my head no.

  He chuckled. “Oh, you snuck and did it. Was it fun?” he asked.

  I hadn’t even thought about that. I hesitated before I answered. “Mostly, but not the same as the first time I rode it.”

  “Guilt can do that,” he said. “Take the fun out.”

  Quietness settled in around us.

  And then suddenly, a lot of words spilled out of me. “They put it in my room and forced me to look at it. All that did was tempt me . . . until I finally gave in. If they’d made me keep it in the garage, it might have kept it out of my mind and maybe I wouldn’t have done it. Anyhow, I figure it’s their fault for temptin’ me.”

  Meriwether Hunter reached in his bag, pulled out an apple, took a huge bite, and chewed. Finally, he swallowed and spoke. “The way I see it, they put it there to teach you a lesson. That’s what punishment’s for. You bein’ tempted was how the punishment made you feel. And if you hadn’t surrendered, it likely would have made you stronger. Resistin’ temptation builds strength. We fail when we give in to it.”

  “So, I failed?”

  “Yes, my young friend, you failed. But what’s important now is whether you fail again.” He took another bite from his apple.

  I stared at him, and was mulling it over when a car honked, forcing me to make a beeline to the pump.

  And that evening when I got home, I traced the bicycle’s handlebars and counted. Nine days left.

  This was going to be hard, but I was determined not to fail again.

  CHAPTER 18

  A person who hasn’t taken this ride as many times as I have might call the sights along the way interesting. But the drive from Birdsong to Charleston during the summertime is usually the same.

  While Daddy drove, Mama hummed and sang along with the radio music. Now and then they’d talk to each other or me about this or that, but there really wasn’t that much conversation. I imagined that if Patrick had come along like he was supposed to, we’d be busy yakking, but that morning Doc Riley had said his mama was about ready to have the baby, and for that reason Patrick had to stay close. So, for over an hour I mostly daydreamed, but if sometime later a person had asked me about what, I probably wouldn’t have been able to tell them. In that way, my daydreams are much the same as the dreams that happen along when I’m asleep, for the most part—forgotten.

  I knew we were close to the shore when the salty-air smell hit me, followed by the sounds of seagulls. Soon, the Atlantic Ocean came into view and I gazed out to the horizon where the dark blue of the water and the lighter blue of the sky meet.

  “Such a lovely breeze,” Mama noted. “A trifle cooler than Birdsong.”

  Before long, we had turned the corner to Tradd Street, where Cousin Polly and Them live. The American flag flapped from the pole holder on the front porch of their big three-story, cream-colored house. The walkway was lined with blooming rosebushes, mostly red.

  I was just out of the car when the screen door of the house next to theirs opened and a girl about Tink’s age stepped out. She was dressed in a white shirt and blue dungarees rolled up to her knees. Her long curly hair was a color smack-dab between red and brown. She was one of those people who stand out from the rest, a thing you have no choice but to notice first, a full moon in a sea of small stars on a clear night.

  Mama and Daddy glanced her way too. “Must be that friend of Tink’s from New York City,” Mama said.

  I searched through my memories for her name until I found it. “Helene.”

  Like a cat burglar, Helene quietly stole my attention. And my eyes were forced to remain glued on her as I followed Mama and Daddy up the path to Cousin Polly’s. When I suddenly tripped on the uneven walkway and stumbled, I expected her to laugh like Emma probably would have, but Helene only smiled a smile that, maybe because I didn’t want to see it or maybe because it really wasn’t there, contained no meanness.

  “Stop gawking, Gabriel,” Mama warned.

  Daddy turned to me and winked.

  “Seems nice,” I remarked.

  In a blink, she headed inside, and right after her door closed, the doorway to Cousin Polly’s opened. “What’s buzzin’, cuzzins?” Tink said. Her Kodak camera swung from her neck.

  Mama nearly had one foot inside when Teddy, Auntie Rita, and Cousin Polly crowded the doorway.

  “Dang it and a half! Y’all ’bouta make us late to see your own brother!” Cousin Polly chastised my daddy, waving a finger, nearly touching his nose. “And Earl’s only got one day in Charleston b’fore he’s gotta head back to base! Oughtta be ashamed but
I can see from the grin on your face that you ain’t. ’Least I had the decency to make him a party.”

  Daddy barked back. “Saw him just last month, Polly. For a while there when he was in the hospital, I went to see him once a week. Plus, you offered to have the party. So you got no right to have a hissy.”

  Auntie Rita piped up. “You know how she is, Jake . . . could start a fuss in an empty house.”

  “That’s ’bout enough, Mama,” Teddy warned.

  Polly cut her eyes at Rita and yapped some more. “Parade starts in twenty minutes. Lucky for us it’s just a few blocks over. Let’s get crackin’ so we can get a good spot. Wanna make sure Earl sees our lovely smilin’ faces in the crowd.”

  Auntie Rita cleared her throat and chuckled.

  Three colored ladies dressed like maids stood inside and were about to close the door when Cousin Polly stopped in her tracks. “Don’t y’all gals eat none of that food, you hear?”

  “Yes ma’am, Mrs. Polly,” they replied.

  The door shut, and together, we strolled along.

  “Your friend Helene, is she goin’ to the parade?” I asked Tink.

  “Helene?”

  I glanced at Helene’s house as we passed by. “She was outside a minute ago—’least I supposed it was her.”

  “Long, kinda curly hair?”

  I nodded yes.

  “And if you had to describe her to someone, you’d say she’s likely the prettiest girl you ever saw?”

  I nodded again.

  “That’s her, but nossiree Bob, she’s definitely not goin’ . . . Claims parades are provincial and she wouldn’t dare be seen at one.”

  “Provincial?”

  “Unsophisticated,” she explained. “If it weren’t for cousin Earl, I’d be keepin’ my keister home too. But she’s comin’ for the party because she’s dyin’ to have her picture taken with a real live genuine American war hero. I can’t wait for you to meet her. She’s in the know about so many things . . . You’ll go absolutely bonkers over her.”

  I turned to get another glimpse of Helene’s house.