“Let’s get you up to your room before Sook rises.”
I walked her up the stairs and down the hall to the bath. She undressed and stood naked as a jaybird on the cold tile floor. Running her a bath, I helped momma into the cast-iron tub. She slid in to the steaming water, and I sat cross-legged on the floor beside her.
With a wet cloth, she scrubbed the mud from her elbows, arms, and knees. She lathered her hair and blew bubbles from her palm in my direction.
I confessed, “You really scared me, Miss Loretta.”
“I’m sorry, baby.” She reached to me and ran her slender fingers along my jaw. “I’m so sorry. Your momma is always making a mess of things.”
“It ain’t nothin’,” I replied. “Miss Loretta, I’m thinkin’ if your pops wouldn’t have gone and died, he could’ve taught you right from wrong.”
She smiled. “Is that what you think?”
“Yessum. Maybe you wouldn’t have struggled so.”
“My pa was an awfully hateful man,” she said. “He was a low-down scoundrel.”
Cupping warm water in the palms of her hands, she brought it to her face. It spilled from her palms, soaking her muddy cheeks, nose, and chin.
“Grandma Lainey told me Grandpa was a fine, upstanding man. She said that you were like a restless wild pony, born with an untamed spirit.”
“Your Grandma Lainey was a foolish woman, and I was a pitiful excuse for a daughter.” She turned to me. “But baby, there ain’t no good reason for a drunk daddy to ever touch his little girl.” She shook her head. “Ain’t no words for a daddy whose hands go travelin’ where they ought not.”
“Miss Loretta, what did he…”
She interrupted me, “Those days are long gone. I suspect I’ve traveled a million backroads since Mountain Home. I’ve two-stepped in every honkytonk this side of the Mississippi,” she said. “My daddy’s long dead and buried. If I’m dancing in a circle, goin’ nowhere, I gotta own my missteps.”
My grandma Lainey told me never to carry hate in my heart, but I despised the grandpa I never knew. I hated him for touching my momma’s warm and soft places, turning her cold and hard as she fought to forget.
“Your Aunt Sook is gonna cook my goose, isn’t she?”
“I’ll handle Sookie. It won’t take me no time to repair any damage done, but you gotta be careful, Loretta.”
“Baby, the moon could turn blue from cold before I could fix all the damage I’ve done.” Her weary, almond eyes turned up to the plaster ceiling.
“I’ll go put on a pot of black coffee, but you gotta swear that you won’t pull another stunt like this again.”
“I promise you, baby.” Her cheeks were streaked with trails of black mascara. “I promise you.” Loretta closed her eyes for the longest while.
I sat silent near the tub and watched on.
It seemed I’d lost her to some distant thoughts. She ran the soap along her healing arms and over her chest and to the back of her neck.
I believed my momma was one of God’s most lovely creatures. She brought more palms of water to her face, spilling from her hands like a warm rain upon her ivory skin. Beads of water fell from her brows and from her lashes like tiny, translucent pearls. She rested her head against the tub’s edge, closing her eyes. My momma was, all at once, beautiful.
CHAPTER 13
From my rooftop, I spotted Jackson Taylor at our front gate, his hands buried deep in his pockets. Back and forth, he paced the sidewalk and then turned about and traveled the same path again. I watched for the longest while until he spotted me high above on the shingles.
“Hey, Poppy!” he hollered, wildly waving his arms. “I’m down here!”
“Hi, Jackson!”
“Come on down.”
I climbed into my open window and darted down the stairs. I checked my reflection twice in the foyer mirror and headed out the front door.
He called to me from the gate, “Poppy, come on, let’s take us an evening stroll.”
“I gotta ask Aunt Sook for her permission,” I said.
I stuck my head back in the door and hollered, “I’m heading out!”
“What? Where?” Sookie called. “But it’s nearing my supper time!”
I slammed the door shut and dashed up the front path.
“I’m deducting this from your weekly allowance!” Sook threatened through the screen door. “Remember to take a sweater!”
At the gate, Jackson waited with a wide grin and a box of chocolates. His hair had a razor-sharp part, and his white T-shirt was tucked into his belted jeans. He opened the gate for me and gestured with his arm, inviting me through, bowing his head low like he was greeting royalty. An easy smile seemed to always play at the corner of Jackson’s mouth.
I laughed. “Stop it. You’re being retarded.”
Together, we walked along the sidewalk. Jackson smelled like an older man’s cologne.
He gestured back to the house. “Folks say Sook’s old place is haunted. They say they’ve seen ghosts stalkin’ her yard at night. I even heard ’em once, when I was walking by.” He then made a low grumbling in his throat that quickly rose to a high-pitched screech. “It sounded just like that.” He cracked a smiled.
“That’s no ghost. I suspect it was Annabelle.”
“Is Annabelle some tortured kid your aunt has locked up in her attic?” he asked.
“No, Jackson,” I giggled. “Annabelle is Sook’s goat.”
Laughter erupted between us.
He bent down, lowering his head and scratching the ground with his sneaker, readying to charge me like some barnyard animal.
“You’re a fool, Jackson Taylor.”
“I heard your momma has come for a visit.”
“Yessum, for a spell,” I confessed. “My momma is half-crazy.”
He waited a moment before answering, “I’m real sorry ’bout that, Poppy.”
We strolled further along the sidewalk, smiling at nothing in particular.
He inquired, “Do you have a special beau back at Mountain Home?”
I recalled Pearl’s strict guidance on such matters. “Yessum,” I lied.
“Oh.” Jackson’s broad shoulders seemed to slump low, and he buried his hands deeper in his jean pockets.
“My boyfriend is a pitcher at Mountain Home High School.” I watered the little lie, hoping it would grow into something that would make Jackson green with jealousy.
“I’m on the baseball county league,” he boasted. “I’m the first-string catcher. It ain’t nothin’ to throw a ball. Any fool can pitch, but to catch a sizzling cut fastball from behind the plate, now that’s a different matter altogether,” Jackson continued on with his sales pitch. “Pitchers are pussies.”
Hunkering down low on the pavement, knees bent, he pounded his fist into his imaginary glove. “Us catchers gotta be courageous to stare down a hardball as it’s flying right between our eyes.” He repeated, “Yes sirree Bob, all pitchers are pussies.”
“Well, since leaving Mountain Home, my boyfriend and I have grown apart,” I remarked. “I broke the news to him over the telephone that we had to split the blanket ’cuz of the distance between us. He took the split hard, but I suspect he’ll heal from the heartbreak.”
Jackson seemed to have a sudden bounce back in his step. His face smiled in all the right places. Pulling three green apples from Mildred Atkinson’s tree, he began showing off by walking backward in front of me and juggling the fruit in the air. “Can the punk back in Mountain Home, do this?” He grinned broadly as he tossed the apples high over his head.
Mildred’s voice hollered from behind her screen door, “Jackson Taylor, you leave my apples alone!”
“Sorry, Mrs. Atkinson.”
“Them apples aren’t ripe, and they’re gonna sour in your belly,” she warned. “Boy, you’ll have the squirts if you eat ’em!”
“Yes, ma’am,” he answered back.
She continued yelling through the screen, “Just beca
use you see a thing don’t make it yours to take!”
He called, “My sincerest apologies.”
Mrs. Atkinson finally appeared out from her front door. She was a big bull of a woman, the size of Sookie’s upright piano. She came shuffling onto the porch stoop. “Jackson Taylor, you best remember, your pretty young friend ain’t gonna be impressed by no stolen green apples. It’s a man with integrity and proper social graces who will always catch a young lady’s fancy, not some fool juggling stolen green apples.”
“Yes, Mrs. Atkinson.” Jackson took my hand and pulled me along the sidewalk. His palm was warm against mine. Our fingers entwined. We escaped down 52nd Street, laughing from our bellies.
Jackson spoke about the newest single by Ricky Nelson and how the fading sky was the most brilliant color—part lavender and part violet. Brittle leaves scattered at our feet, and the empty street was completely ours.
By the time the sun was setting, folks with any good sense had already gathered around their crackling fireplaces. It was the kind of chilly evening that gave October a bad name, but Jackson and I didn’t care one wit. We laughed at the cold. His hand warmed mine as we walked side by side.
At Frances Watson’s place, we stopped to admire the changing colors of her elms. The top of her blue bouffant bobbed from above her garbage can as she attempted to hide empty whiskey bottles nearer to the bottom.
She spotted us, rapidly closing the bin’s lid. “Good evening, young Mr. Taylor.”
“Good evenin’, Mrs. Watson.”
She asked, “It’s a bit late in the evening for a stroll, don’t you reckon?”
“No, ma’am. I think it’s a perfectly fine night,” he replied.
“You know, son, a proper gentleman always walks on the street side of his lady friend.”
“Yes, of course, Mrs. Watson.”
Jackson stopped on the sidewalk, tipped an imaginary hat, let me pass by, and then gallivanted up to my other side. His Teen Beat dimples made an appearance every time he laughed.
Our shoulders rubbed as we walked along the cobblestone sidewalk, and the street lamps sputtered on.
“Have yourself a lovely evening, Mrs. Watson.”
She waved. “Tell your momma I’ll be sending over some blueberry cobbler for the bake sale.”
“Yes, ma’am. I will.”
We walked on to West Jones.
Jackson told me that after he graduated, he was going to become an astronaut or a cruise ship captain. He chuckled when I told him that I’d never once boarded a ship or ever been to the moon.
“I’ll take you there, Poppy,” he said.
Stopping along the sidewalk, Jackson knelt on one knee and tied my shoestrings into a bow of one of my untied sneakers.
On his knee in front of me, he looked up to the lonely moon. “Poppy, in a just few weeks Apollo 8 will blast our boys clear up there. They’ll be the first astronauts to ever leave earth’s orbit and circle around the moon. We’re gonna kick those commies’ butts. The Russians can’t beat us at nothin’.”
Jackson looked at the stars the way I wished he’d look at me. I wanted to confess that I’d follow his green eyes all the way to the moon and back, but I remained hushed.
He was articulate in ways that other boys his age weren’t. He confessed to me that his pa drank too many bottles of Pabst at the end of a long workweek. Jackson said that’s why he would hate Fridays forever.
“On my eighteenth birthday, I’m gonna hitchhike all the way to the Oregon coast,” he said. “If you’ve ever had a hankering to see that corner of the world, you could travel along with me.”
I smiled but said nothing. Pearl’s advice repeated in my head—a proper girl can never seem too eager about such matters. So, I casually nodded at his passing invitation, remaining closed-mouthed and not daring to confess that I wanted more than anything to see the Oregon coast with him.
By the time we’d made it back to 22 South Digby, the lights in the windows of the old house glowed gold behind the curtains. Sookie was bickering at Loretta about something or other.
Jackson said his good-night and swung the gate wide open for me. As I walked up the front path, I suddenly felt warm and uneasy.
“Child, where’d you run off to at this ungodly hour?” Aunt Sookie stood waiting behind the screen door, her arms folded and with a furiously tapping foot. “Who in the hell is that boy?”
“Jackson,” I answered. “We went for an evening stroll, Sookie.”
“What’s wrong with you?” She asked, looking at me with equal parts anger and concern. “You’re white as a ghost, child. Are you chilling?”
“I ain’t sure, Sook,” I panted. “I’m feeling a bit dizzy.”
“Serves you right! It’s too damned cold to be roaming the streets of Savannah at night.”
A weight was seemingly pushing down heavily on my chest. I complained, “I can’t catch my breath, Sook.”
“Are you choking, child? Did you swallow something wrong?”
“Naw. I just can’t breathe,” I repeated. Feeling flush, I inhaled and pushed a rush of air from my lungs.
“Are you chilling?” She placed her palm on my forehead.
“No, ma’am. I’m burnin’ hot.”
Sook took my shoulders and squared them with hers. Searching my eyes, she leaned in closer and spoke loudly. “Should I call for a doctor? Are you gonna be OK?”
Clutching to my chest, I felt dizzy. My knees grew weak.
“I’ll be fine, Sookie.” I took a seat on the bottom step of the staircase.
“Well, I ain’t payin’ for no doctor’s house call unless you’re lyin’ flat on your death bed. They’re all crooks, ya know? Doctors and lawyers are all crooks.”
“Sookie, he gave me these.” I held out the box of chocolates with the red bow.
“Who?” She asked. “What’s this?” Sook tore at the wrapping and examined the box of chocolates. “Did someone poison them their peanut clusters?”
“No.” I attempted at another deep breath. “Jackson brung me the box of chocolates.”
“Who? That bean-pole of a boy?”
“Yessum, Jackson Taylor.”
Miss Loretta came rushing into the foyer. “What’s wrong, baby? Are you OK?” She, too, pressed her palm against my forehead. “Child, you’re warm. Can I get you a cold soda pop?”
Disgusted, Sook placed her hands onto her hips. “You mean to tell me you’re all flustered over Charlotte and Cecil’s youngest? Jackson Lloyd Taylor?” She tapped her agitated bare foot on the wood floor. “Is that what all this tomfoolery is about? You’re all twisted over some hairy-legged boy?”
Loretta appeared more confused than usual. “Could someone please explain?”
I felt my pulse beginning to ease.
Sookie scoffed, “I ain’t never heard such foolishness in all my days. You’re gettin’ all hot and bothered over the Taylor boy? For Christ’s sakes, the Taylors are from Oklahoma! You’re gettin’ heart palpations over a damned Okie?”
Loretta’s worry melted into a wide smile. “Aww. That’s so sweet. My little baby girl is growin’ up.”
I swallowed a lump lodged deep in my throat and started to breathe with ease.
“Hush up, Loretta,” Sook insisted. “I’ve known that boy since he was no taller than a stump. I believe he’s grown a foot in the last six months. It’s certainly not on account of Charlotte’s cookin’.” Sook crinkled her nose in disgust. “I ain’t got no time for the folly of affairs of the heart. If you’re sweet on that boy, please don’t bring it inside my house. Take it outside, on the far side of my front gate. Even the hint of sappy, unrequited love makes me nauseous. I don’t want that nonsense to stench up my home. Your momma is already tramping around here like an alley cat in heat!”
“Oh, Sookie, you’re heartless,” Miss Loretta whined. “Leave the young lovebirds alone.”
“Shove it up your keister, Loretta! What happens when this boy finds out what’s goin’ on below thi
s child’s gingham skirt? What then? I happen to know that his pa, Cecil Taylor, is a crack shot with a pistol.” She shook her head. “Gimme those peanut clusters!” Sookie snatched the box from my hands and shuffled toward the sitting room. “Now run along. It’s time for Peyton Place on the telly. Keep all the noise down.”
I climbed the stairs and slipped out my window. Sitting on my housetop perch, I rested my back against the roof shingles and smiled under Jackson’s moon.
CHAPTER 14
A white, lacey cry rag was an absolute necessity for any respectable Baptist woman. Every God-fearing female who was easily moved by the Holy Spirit always kept buried in the deepest abyss of her purse a delicate, monogrammed hanky to mop her anointed tears. Never in my days had I known a devout woman who didn’t keep her handkerchief within reach. At the choir’s first note of “How Great Thou Art,” my late Grandma Lainey started slobbering and went digging in her purse for her embroidered hanky. I reckon God created the weeping rag to save the many frilly Sunday frocks from being soaked and soiled beyond repair by the salty tears of the believers.
Donita carried a wadded tissue deep in the bottom of her pocket book. Every Sunday, during the pastor’s welcoming prayer, she would pull from her purse a fresh Kleenex and blot away a few tears from her powdered cheeks. Later during the preacher’s sermon, as fire and brimstone burned inside the little church, Donita, overcome with grief, would use her little tissue to dam her streaming river of tears and blow her running nose. By closing prayers, she was sniffling and snorting, her wadded tissue reduced to a wad of soggy pulp in her palm.
After service, Donita and I would step from the little chapel’s front doors out into the clear light of day and join the congregation among the shade trees. On a row of folding tables spread before us was a potluck of fried delicacies. A spread of chicken, ribs, casseroles, catfish, and cream puffs was offered to the Lord’s faithful flock. Famished children and thick, hungry church women wrestled for their place in line while their husbands stood off near the gravel parking lot, smoking unfiltered Camels and pitched horseshoes.
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