by Lisa Wingate
Good gravy, this kid is quite clever. He’s been hiding that fact from me for two weeks. “I claim proximity,” I say with a smile. “Technically my territory goes to the middle of the hall all along this stretch in front of my classroom. The other side of the hall, now that is science room territory.”
Lil’ Ray grins and backs up two giant steps into the safe zone. “What’d you want them spyglasses for?”
“Answer a question in my class tomorrow—any one of the questions I ask about the reading from Animal Farm—and I’ll tell you after class…about the field glasses, I mean.” It’s worth a try. If I could gain sway with Lil’ Ray, I might start turning the tide. He carries a lot of clout in the high school social structure. “Any question, but you have to give a good answer. Not just nonsense to make people laugh.”
I dream of the day when an actual classroom discussion takes root. Maybe tomorrow will be the day.
Lil’ Ray cranes his head away, giving me the fish eye. “Never mind.”
“Let me know if you decide otherwise.”
They tromp off, jostling and laughing with the abandon of a couple of puppies turned loose in the hall.
I pack up my loaner binoculars and wait for four P.M., the official teacher release time. The binoculars, my notepad, and I have a mission to accomplish, and aside from that, after several days of weather that remained too wet, Aunt Sarge is due at my house at four-fifteen to finally fix the leak around the stovepipe.
I have my keys in hand and I’m grabbing my loaded backpack when I turn from my desk, and, of all people, Granny T from the Cluck and Oink is standing in my doorway with what looks like a case of Mountain Dew on her hip. I suspect that’s not what is in the box, though, because her stooped-over frame supports the weight easily as she hobbles to the desk to deposit the load. She pulls out a note card with something written on it. A stern nod indicates that I should peruse the contents of the box.
I dare not refuse, and when I check, the interior is filled with what look like lumpy cocoa cookies, stacked in layer-cake fashion with sheets of waxed paper in-between.
“Quit buying Ding Dongs from the store,” she commands. “These’re Granny T’s ’nanner oatmeal raisin pooperoos. Easy to fix up. Don’t cost much. Not too sweet. Child is hungry, he’ll eat them. He’s not bad hungry, he’ll turn up the nose. Long as you don’t add more sugar. Keep them just a little sweet. No using chocolate chips in place of the raisins unless you’re doing it for a party. Never in the classroom, you listenin’ at me now? You want pooperoos that’re just good enough for a hungry child to eat. No better. That’s the secret, mmm-hmm?”
She extends the note card. “This here is the recipe. Easy. Cheap. Oatmeal. Butter. Flour. Bit a sugar. Raisin. Old, brown bananas. Ones so ripe, they’re squishy like mud and smell up the kitchen. Get them almost free, end of the fresh aisle in the Piggly Wiggly. Anythin’ else you need to know?”
I peer into the box, dumbfounded. After a full day at school my head is, as usual, pulsating and my body feels as if it’s been run over by a tour bus. My brain is sluggish in coming up with a response. “Oh…I…oh…okay.”
Did I just agree to bake cookies for these little hooligans?
Granny T wags a craggy finger at me and purses her lips like she’s tasted vinegar. “Now, this here…” She circles her lecture finger toward the cookies. “This’s your job, next batch. I can’t be helpin’ you all the time. I’m a old woman. Got the trouble in my knees. Arthritis in my back. Bad feet. Still have my mind, but I forget it sometimes. I’m old. A crippled-up old woman.”
“Oh…okay. This was really a kind thing to do.” A lump rises in my throat and tears needle my eyes in a completely unexpected assault of emotion. I am not usually the crying sort. In truth, practically never. When you grow up staying mostly in other people’s houses, you learn to keep a polite lid on things, not be any bother.
I swallow hard. Think, What is wrong with you, Benny? Stop it. “Thanks for going to so much trouble.”
“Ffff! Wasn’t any trouble,” Granny T spits out.
I pretend to be busy closing the box. “Well, I do appreciate it. A lot. And I know the kids will.”
“All right, then.” She points herself toward the door, her exit as self-directed as her entrance. “You stop feeding them kids Ding Dongs. They are just takin’ you for a ride. Strip you clean, like locusts in a wheat field. I know. Been a Sunday school teacher longer than you been breathin’ air. My departed husband led the choir sixty-nine years before traveling on to glory. Worked the restaurant in the day, practiced music at night and on Sunday. It’s no favor to any child, spoilin’ him. You want a cream cake from the store in a pretty little package, and you’re up big enough to mow grass, pull weeds, wash somebody’s windows, run the checkout at the grocery, you go get you a job, buy your own cream cakes. Only thing you get free, if you really did come hungry, is one old oat mash cookie. And that’s only so the mind ain’t in the belly. So it can learn. You get the chance to sit in a school chair all day, instead of working someplace, you are lucky. Blessed and highly favored. Children ought to appreciate it like we did in my day.” She proceeds to the door, still talking. “Spoiled. Spoiled on Ding Dongs.”
I wish I’d recorded every bit of that speech on cassette tape. Or better yet, VCR. I’d play it for the kids, over and over and over until something changes.
“Granny T?” I catch her before she makes her way through the door.
“Mmm-hmm?” She hesitates, lips puckered again as she cranes upward.
“Have you thought any more about coming to my class to talk to the kids? It really would be good for them to hear your story.”
Once again, she fans off my idea like a giant, annoying gnat. “Oh, honey, I ain’t got anything to say.” She’s quickly out the door, and I’m left with banana oatmeal cocoa pooperoos. Which is more than I had a few minutes ago. So, there’s that.
I’m also late to meet Wonder Woman and get my roof repaired. I put the new cookies in my Ding Dong security vault, otherwise known as the top file drawer, lock it, and hurry home.
Aunt Sarge is already on the roof by the time I pull into the driveway. There is a stepladder propped next to the porch, so I climb it and stand on the top step, my hands keeping balance on the roof, which is still at about the level of my front pants pockets.
I say hello and make my apologies for being late.
“Not a problem,” Aunt Sarge mutters around a nail protruding from her mouth like a cigarette. “Didn’t need you anyway. All the work’s outside.”
I perch there a moment, watching with no small bit of admiration as she slides the nail from between her lips and whacks it into a shingle with four efficient hammer strokes. A small package beside her appears to contain additional shingles, which worries me a little. There’s more involved here than just roofing tar, clearly. This looks costly.
The ladder wobbles underfoot as I hook a knee onto the roof. Fortunately, today is laundry day, and I have on my oldest pair of work slacks, which I’ve decided need to go into retirement anyway. I ascend with all the grace of a performing seal trying to mount a circus pony.
A bothered look flicks my way. “You got something else you need to do, no worries. I’m fine up here.” There’s a sharp defensiveness, as if she’s used to battling for the ground she stands on. Maybe it’s a military thing. An adaptation to surviving in challenging work environments.
I wonder if that’s true of the kids in my class. Could it be that their apparent disdain for me is nothing personal? The thought flutters around the edges of my mind, unexpected and appealing, a bit revolutionary. I always assume people’s behaviors are a reaction to something I’ve done, not that they’re just doing their thing.
Hmmm…
“Roof won’t leak when I’m through,” Sarge assures me. “I know construction work.”
“Oh
, I don’t doubt it for a minute. And I couldn’t tell one way or another, anyway. I have zero experience with roofs, other than living under one.” I crawl up and sit. This thing is steep. And higher than I thought. From here, I can see the entire cemetery and across the orchard to the farm field beyond. It’s quite a view. “Maybe if I watch, I’ll know how to fix it next time. But I thought we were only talking about putting some tar around the pipe or something.”
“Needed more than that. Unless you want it to leak again.”
“Well, no. I mean, of course not, but…”
“You’re looking to have a slipshod job done, I’m not your girl.” She sits back on her heels, regards me with her head tilted away and her eyes narrowed. “If we’ve got some other issue, spit it out. All this”—she swirls the hammer like it’s a plastic dinner fork—“squirrel trailing around is a waste of time. Something needs to be said, just say it. That’s how I operate. Other people don’t like it, that’s their problem.” A chin wag gives weight to the words. I’m immediately reminded of LaJuna. Tough shells must run in the family.
“The money.” She’s right, it does feel good to just put it out there. I motion to the nails and the shingles and so forth. “I can’t afford all this. I thought we were going to patch it a little until I could get in touch with the landlord,” which may not be anytime soon. Finding Nathan Gossett is like chasing down a ghost. I’ve also tried to reach his two uncles via the offices of Gossett Industries. The Gossetts and Gossett Industries have a thinly veiled aversion to outreach from school personnel, as such communications usually involve requests for grants, donations, and sponsorship money.
Sarge nods, then goes back to work. “Already taken care of.”
“I don’t want you to do it without getting paid.”
“Tracked down your landlord. Got the money out of him.”
“What? Who? Nathan Gossett?”
“That’s right.”
“You talked to Nathan Gossett? Today? Is he here?” A hopeful pitter-patter rises in my throat. “I’ve been trying to contact him—or either of his uncles at Gossett Industries—all week.”
“You’re not rich enough for Will and Manford Gossett to bother with, trust me.” There’s a chill in the summer air all of a sudden. She relents a little when she adds, “Nathan’s not so much of a jerk. He’s just…not into the whole Goswood thing.”
“Do you know where I can find him?”
“Not right now. But, like I said, roof’s taken care of.”
“How did you find him?” Good news about the roof, but I want the man. The book hoarder.
“I caught up with him at the farmers market. Goes there first thing on Thursdays. Brings a load of shrimp from his boat. Uncle Gable sells it for him.”
“Every Thursday?” Now we’re getting somewhere. “If I went next week, I could find him there? Talk to him?”
“Possible…I guess.” She pounds a nail, swipes another out of the box in one smooth motion, sinks it as well. Blam, blam, blam, whack. The sound echoes off toward the cemetery and the levee. My gaze and my train of thought follow it.
Silence draws me back. When I return to Aunt Sarge, she’s squinting at me. “My advice…leave it be. Less he’s bothered by it, less he’ll be thinking about kicking you out. Enjoy the fixed-up roof. Lay low.” She returns to her work. “You’re welcome.”
“Thank you.” I mean it with all sincerity. “Although, I’m going to miss the drip bucket thing. I was getting pretty good at timing it.”
A couple of nails escape the box and roll my way after her next grab. I stop them and drop them back into the box.
“He’s not going to give you a donation for…whatever it is you’re raising money for. Gossett family policy is that all requests go through public affairs at Gossett Industries.” Again, that sharp edge.
“I’ve heard. I’m not after money, though.” Just books. Books that are locked away in a closed-up house, decaying. Books nobody seems to want. Books that need a new home. And love. I’d tell that to Aunt Sarge, but I can’t take the risk of anyone warning Nathan Gossett about me. The best chance for victory is a surprise attack. “I only want to talk to him.”
“Suit yourself.” Her tone adds, Your funeral. She shifts another asphalt square into place. “Need to finish this up now. Got kids to watch again tonight while their mama’s gone to work.”
Blam, blam, blam, whack.
“Still sick?”
“Seems like it goes from one to the other.”
“That’s terrible. And right at the beginning of the school year, too.” I butt-scoot downward a bit to indicate that I really do plan to leave her to her work. I have a trek to make before dark, and with a possible line on Nathan Gossett, I’m feeling fairly psyched. “Hey, that reminds me. LaJuna’s been absent from my class all week. Is she sick, too?”
“Not sure.” Her tone lets me know I’ve strayed into uncomfortable territory. “LaJuna’s mama is a cousin-in-law to me…well, ex-cousin-in-law. Has three little kids by two different daddies, plus LaJuna from my cousin she dated in high school. If the little kids are sick, they can’t go to the sitter’s. LaJuna’s probably been home watching the younger ones.”
I’m instantly frustrated. “LaJuna shouldn’t be kept out of school so she can provide childcare.” I think of seeing her with the copy of Animal Farm tucked in her back pocket. “She’s such a smart kid. And it’s the beginning of the year and she’s getting further and further behind.”
Aunt Sarge flicks a glance my way, jerks her head down again, hammers another nail with gusto. “You people are all the same,” she murmurs with just enough volume that I can catch it. And then more loudly, “You ever notice that lots of kids don’t get what they deserve? LaJuna’s mama makes $3.35 an hour, sweeping floors and cleaning bathrooms down there at Gossett Industries. That’s not even enough to cover food and a roof over their heads. You think LaJuna’s working at the Cluck so she can get money for the movies and popcorn? She has to help her mama pay the rent. All the daddies are long gone. There’s a lot of that around here. Black kids. White kids. Grow up the tough way, and then they start making it tough on themselves. Girls get pregnant young, looking for something they missed out on at home, end up left to raise babies on their own. I’m sure that’s not how it is where you come from, but that’s how it is for kids around here.”
My cheeks flame and my stomach turns inside out. “You don’t know a thing about where I come from. I understand a lot more than you think about what these kids are dealing with.”
But as I say it, I realize it’s my mother’s story I’m thinking of. I hate admitting that, even to myself, because it awakens old pain and tests the long-held resentments that have kept us apart for over a decade now. But the truth is, my mother conducted our lives the way she did because she grew up in a family that was like many of the families around here. No money for college, no expectation, no encouragement; neglect, abuse, parents with substance issues and not even a source of reliable transportation most of the time. She saw an ad for flight attendant positions. She’d observed that lifestyle on TV and thought it looked like fun. She packed a backpack and hitched a ride from a dying factory town in the hills of Virginia all the way to Norfolk, where she talked her way into a job.
The world she raised me in was light-years from the one she knew. Everything that went wrong between us, my own wounds and scars, and a dull haze of pain I habitually avoid looking into has blinded me to that fact for twenty-seven years. Now I can’t avoid the truth.
My mother changed her stars. And mine.
Sarge rolls a look at me. “I’m just guessing from the things you say.”
“Yeah, because we’ve had all these heart-to-heart conversations and whatnot,” I spit out. “You know all about me.” I crab-crawl to the edge of the roof. I’m done. She can take her crappy, judgmental attitude and stuff it
.
I know stars can be changed. I’ve seen it.
The hammer echoes after me as I dangle one foot to test the ladder, then climb gingerly back down to the soggy grass, open the front door and ram my feet into my duck shoes, then grab the binoculars and a clipboard from the Bug and start off across the yard.
“House is unlocked,” I yell in the general direction of the roof. “Go inside if you need to. Lock it when you leave.”
For whatever reason, she has stopped to observe my exit, a shingle dangling between her knees. “Where’re you headed with those?” She motions to the binoculars and the clipboard, as if we haven’t just had words.
“Bird-watching,” I snap and start walking.
“Look out for coral snakes,” she calls. “That’s their territory back there.”
A shiver runs under my clothes, but I will not succumb to it. I’m not afraid of coral snakes. I laugh in the face of coral snakes. Besides, I’ve been over to Goswood Grove multiple times, and I have not seen a snake yet.
Even so, tales I’ve overheard at school sift through my mind. Stories of swimming holes, flooded rice fields, chicken coops, swamp boats, the dark spaces under front porches…and snakes. A little poem whispers as I walk. One of the country kids wrote it on a quiz paper in answer to a question about the most important lesson he’d learned from the daily reading of Animal Farm.
How to tell deadly coral snakes from harmless milksnakes, he wrote. Red touches black, friend of Jack. Red touches yellow, kill a fellow.
That detail was nowhere in the daily reading, but it is good information to have right now, because my borrowed field glasses and I are headed for Goswood Grove, no matter what. Even from outside the window, I’m going to be able to make out the titles gracing those rows upon glorious rows of unused books.
Coach’s field glasses, Mr. Clipboard, and I are about to compose a shopping list.
CHAPTER 9
HANNIE GOSSETT—LOUISIANA, 1875
