Mr. Fowler finally came into the kitchen, and Mama pointed him to a chair beside Ross. Maybe he hadn’t seen her gesturing at him ’cause he took Daddy’s chair at the head of the table.
She cleared her throat and said, “Mr. Fowler? I’m sorry, but could you sit here please?”
Mr. Fowler jumped up. “Sure, sure, sorry about that, there was a little more room there is all.”
Mama waited while he moved to sit beside Ross. You ask me, him sitting in Daddy’s chair would’ve been like cheating on his memory. We started passing around bowls, and soon as our plates were filled, we put our hands in our laps. Not Mr. Fowler. He picked up his fork and got to eating. I glanced at Mama. Everybody knows you say the blessing before you dig in.
In a gentle voice, like she didn’t want to embarrass him, she said, “Mr. Fowler, we give thanks to the Lord first, if that’s all right?”
He lowered his fork, appearing flustered as he looked at her from across the table, almost like he’d been caught peeing on the vegetable garden.
He said, “Oh, sorry, it smelled so good.”
Mama nodded, and then bowed her head. We all followed suit. About halfway through I had the urge to peek at him. I kept my head down as I did so. Why, he didn’t have his head bowed at all, instead, he sat reared back in his chair, arms crossed and he was openly staring at Mama, his mouth sort of slack. I dropped my eyes quick, and tried to interpret his odd look.
Mama said, “Amen,” and when we lifted our heads, I looked his way again, and he was still looking at her.
She handed him the butter, and he almost dropped it. I was certain his face went a deeper shade than the sunburn he had, though she didn’t act like she noticed. Once we began eating, it was too quiet for my own sense of ease. Supper time had always been about catching up, our usual chitchat back and forth as easy breezy as a Sunday afternoon. There would have been laughter. Joking around. Mr. Fowler didn’t even offer up polite talk like most guests, but then again, neither did Mama.
The moments went by, with only the sound of the kitchen clock over the stove ticking along, the noises of a meal being consumed, and an occasional, “Pass the salt, please,” or “Would you like some potatoes?”
We were on our best behavior, like when Preacher Moore came by to eat Sunday afternoon dinner. After seeing the way Mr. Fowler looked at Mama, I got to thinking his offer of help might have more to do with her. It grew hot and stuffy in the kitchen, and though I’d been hungry at first, my appetite dwindled. I ate a bite here and there, waiting for the meal to end. Mr. Fowler ate like somebody might snatch his plate away. He finished first, and right when Mama looked like she was about to ask him if he wanted seconds, he reached over and speared another pork chop—with his own fork—even though the serving one sat beside the serving plate. Mama sank against the back of her chair, and put her hands back in her lap, twisting her napkin into a long swirly looking tube.
Finally, Mr. Fowler pushed back his chair, and stretched and rubbed his stomach like he was the only person in the room. I waited for him to belch considering he appeared so unconcerned about where he was. I looked at the counter where Mama had set out the small cut-crystal goblets specially reserved for serving ambrosia, a quick dessert she could put together for such an occasion as this—the unexpected supper visitor. I waited to see if she’d offer him some, and if she did, it meant I had to serve it. I tried to imagine him holding one of those delicate glass dishes, and realized our circumstances were just as fragile and vulnerable as one a them in his hands.
Mama said, “Thank you for joining us for supper, and thank you for what you’re doing. We sure do ’preciate it.”
Mr. Fowler threw up a hand and said, “It’s what any good neighbor would do.”
Mama hesitated and said, “How about some dessert?”
Mr. Fowler appeared to think about it, and then he said, “No, thanks. Got to get on home. Great meal though. Very good, thank you.”
Mama said, “You’re quite welcome.”
She followed him to the door, and he said, “Be back tomorrow, same time.”
Mama nodded. “Fine.”
He said, “Won’t be a problem whatsoever, us all working together, right?”
His eyes landed on each of us for a brief second.
“No, sir,” said my brothers and I, our answers sporadic, fractured, and broken sounding as the odd warble of starlings.
It was only when I could no longer hear his truck did my muscles go lax and my breathing become regular like.
I said, “He’s got to come every single day?”
Ross said, “Yeah, if we’re doing all the work, why does he even need to show up?”
Trent said, “Ha, I get to drive the tractor again.”
Mama sighed and said, “Come on, let’s go have that dessert.”
Ross said, “I was hoping I could take Addie for a milkshake.”
Trent whistled and did a low hoot and Ross shoved his shoulder. Trent shoved back.
Mama said, “Enough,” and then, “Be back by ten.”
“Yes, ma’am!”
Trent and I sat back down at the table where I could still detect the lingering odor of Mr. Fowler’s hair tonic, or his soap. Ain’t nobody ever worked in the fields before ever smelled that good at the end of a day. As I took a bite, I suddenly got hungry again. I looked at my almost untouched plate, and grabbed the pork chop. Mama watched me eat, her eyes gone soft and indulgent, the way they’d looked before Daddy died. She brushed a hand over my hair, and rubbed my back as I chewed and swallowed.
“I couldn’t imagine why you weren’t eating. I knew you had to be hungry.”
I said, “I can’t eat around him, he makes me nervous.”
Trent rolled his eyes and said, “He’s all right. I like him,” while Mama actually chuckled.
I marked it as exactly thirty-three days since we’d got to hear that light, airy laugh. I took another bite of pork chop, and then a bite of potatoes with gravy too.
“Oh, Sonny. He’s just a man,” is what she said.
Chapter 8
Whatever it was that brought Frank Fowler to our supper table every night since the first night wasn’t exactly clear, though I had my ideas. The second, third, and fourth time he sat to eat with us went much like the first, only now he knew to wait for the blessing, and that there would be dessert. Last night we’d had fried fish. Mama made coleslaw and cornbread to go along with it, and I could’ve sworn Mr. Fowler’s eyes rolled back in his head when he took a bite of creamy coleslaw. The butter he’d slathered over the cornbread melted and hit his plate like soft yellow tears. His enjoyment irritated me for reasons I couldn’t put a finger on. The next morning before we had to catch the school bus, I hinted at my disapproval to Mama.
“Is he gonna be here again, tonight?”
“Who? Frank?”
It was Frank. Already. That started on the fourth or maybe it was the fifth night, and likely contributed to my inner turmoil and dismay.
“Yes, him.”
The him came out in a low distasteful tone, like I’d taken a dose of castor oil. Mama sighed, and reached into her apron pocket for her cigarettes and shook one out of the pack. She lit it, blew smoke toward the open kitchen window before she answered.
She said, “Sonny, ain’t no harm in that man eating supper with us. He’s not taking food out of your mouth, is he?”
To hear Mama put it that way made me feel a little bit guilty.
“No, but why can’t he eat at home?”
“Some don’t like eating alone.”
“Geez, what’s he been doing before now?”
“All I know is it’s the least we can do, considering what he’s doing for us, right?”
Mama trivialized my concerns so easy, especially when I couldn’t explain my reasons for thinking of him like he was trespassing on our property and stomping all over Daddy’s memory.
“Yes, ma’am.”
I looked out the kitchen window at
Ross driving our tractor out to the field Daddy had been in that day, and it gave me a twisty feeling in my stomach. He worked carefully around Mr. Fowler’s precious little seedlings. The day they got planted Mr. Fowler was even more uptight than when we’d started on the seeds. He’d also had one of his workers bring one of his tractors over and told Trent to use that one. A brown cloud followed Ross, shadowing him like a ghost, and I imagined it like Daddy’s presence, caught up into a soft formation of our land.
Mama broke my thoughts by commenting, “Them boys are fast at planting.”
If Mr. Fowler was pleased about the progress, you couldn’t tell. You couldn’t tell one thing about him unless Mama was around and he engaged her in conversation, acting natural, not twitchy and irritated. I’d noted her sorrow was deeply layered as the ground beneath our feet, like the soil chart Mrs. Baker recently showed us. Humus, topsoil, eluviation, subsoil, regolith, bedrock. Mama had sunk under the bedrock, I was sure of it. When Mrs. Baker discussed the chart, I remembered what Daddy had said about water underground, and raised my hand.
“Yes, Sonny?”
“What about the water?”
Mrs. Baker said, “Good question! We’re going to talk about that tomorrow.”
A hateful, whispered, “water witch!” came, which I ignored.
Mama rubbed at her eyes, then looked at me close. “How’s Daniel been lately?”
“All right, I guess.”
“Why don’t you invite him for supper this evening?”
“What about Mr. Fowler?”
“What about him?”
“Won’t he mind?”
“Why should he?”
“I don’t know.”
“This is still our house. Tell Daniel I’m fixing his favorite, country style steak.”
Mama smiled, encouraging me.
I perked up at her suggestion and said, “Okay.”
The bus was coming, and I hurried to kiss her cheek, then ran out the back door. Even though I got to see Daniel in school, him turning up out of nowhere at our house several times a week is what I missed most. Daddy used to laugh at his way of describing his mama and sister. How Sarah would sneak into their mama’s room, and pilfer her “gotta find me a good man” clothes, sometimes accidentally burning a hole in a blouse, or she’d spill ketchup or a milk shake on a dress, then return them to the closet damaged or dirty for his mama to find. Daniel said they got into some knock-down, drag-down fights over stuff like that.
At recess, by swing sets, I got him off to the side.
Before I could say a word, he said, “I saw a movie called All About Eve.”
He was pretty excited about it and I listened to him quietly until I spotted Junior and Lil Roy sneaking around the swing sets, clearly up to no good. Junior abruptly hit Lil Roy, signaling him to run, and they came toward Daniel fast. Daniel had his back to them and didn’t know something was about to happen.
I shoved him away from me, and yelled, “Watch out!”
Junior had thrown a rotten apple at his head last time, and it had splattered, covering his hair with a sour, mushy pulp so he’d smelled vinegary the rest of the day. Junior needed a comeuppance, is what he needed, only Daniel wasn’t bold enough. He wasn’t fast enough either. He hesitated, and now Junior was only inches away.
“Ha!” Junior yelled as he whacked his hand against Daniel’s back, and kept running. Lil Roy did the same.
They whooped and hollered, cackling with glee. They stopped several yards away, and Junior bent down to scrub his hand on the ground. He actually gagged, and with a sense of dread, Daniel pulled at his shirt from behind, trying to see what was on it.
I said, “Turn around.”
He did and smeared down his plaid red and blue shirt were two dark marks. That unique Daniel smell I’d come to recognize as a salty, outdoor, boyish odor I really liked was overtaken by another distinct, sharp smell.
I yelled over my shoulder, “Junior! You’re a disgusting creep!”
Junior’s retort floated back. “That’s what happens when you think your shit don’t stink!”
Daniel, his voice shaking, said, “Is it . . . ?”
Damn Junior Odom.
I said, “Hurry, go try to clean it off.”
The bell rang.
“I can’t! Recess is over!”
“Mrs. Baker ain’t gonna allow you in class like that, Daniel.”
“I’m gonna stink up the room.”
“You will if you don’t go get it off. Go!”
He took off while Junior and Lil Roy laughed, falling on each other while pointing at him. Mrs. Baker stopped him and he pointed at his back. Junior and Lil Roy stood hunched together, whispering, waiting to see if Daniel would tattle. They’d know if she looked their way and then they’d really have it in for him. Mrs. Baker only gave an exasperated shaking of her head like it was somehow his fault. I went hot at the way she grabbed his arm, marching him toward the double doors. She let him inside, then waved at the rest of us to hurry it up. I still hadn’t had a chance to tell him about supper.
I ignored Lil Roy’s hooting at my back as I hurried inside. At my desk I tore a piece of notebook paper, and scribbled a note. Daniel came from the restroom and Mrs. Baker even wrinkled her nose as he passed her. His face was pale, looking like he might get sick. He sat two rows over from me, and as the afternoon wore on, an off odor wafted around the classroom while Junior and Lil Roy made sure they complained loudly until Mrs. Baker opened the windows.
I nudged Laurie Ward to get her attention and showed her my little folded square of paper that said, “Daniel.”
She kept her eyes forward, dropped her hand down, and took it. She held it for a minute before she swapped hands, and sent it on to Becky Hill, who sat right behind Daniel. My note said, Mama invited you to supper. She’s fixing your favorite. Poor Becky. Sitting right behind Daniel, there was no getting away from the stench coming off him. She flipped the note over his shoulder while leaning back far as possible, her nose tucked under her shirt.
I side-eyed Daniel as he opened it, read it, and hesitated. I could almost read his mind. What about Mr. Fowler? He glanced at me, then Mrs. Baker, who’d moved to the blackboard. I gave him my best tormented look. He nodded once, barely a flick of his head, then went back to staring at his desktop, letting his hair fall forward to hide his face, his discomfort obvious. You could hear those near him whispering.
Somebody said, “Fee-yew!”
Mrs. Baker interrupted my scrutiny of Daniel and his torment.
“Sonny?”
“Ma’am?”
“Would you care to show us how to conjugate our next set of verbs?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I stood to go to the blackboard, feeling their eyes shift from Daniel to me. Once there, I began until Mrs. Baker threw me a curveball.
“In present continuous, please.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
It was going to be a long afternoon.
* * *
At home I changed from my school clothes to work clothes. The deep rumble of Mr. Fowler’s voice talking to Mama in the kitchen wasn’t hard to miss, and with a good three hours of daylight remaining, it left me questioning why he was already sitting inside. I got my dowsing stick and went to the kitchen. Mr. Fowler sat at the kitchen table looking quite comfortable. I set the dowsing branch by the door, not wanting him to comment on it, and went to the cookie jar. Mama was already busy with supper preparations.
She said, “Daniel coming?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good.”
I bit into an oatmeal cookie.
Mr. Fowler said, “That boy that was here the other day?”
She said, “Yes.”
“What’s his last name?”
“Lassiter.”
Mr. Fowler repeated it. “Lassiter.”
“He lives in town with his mama and sister.”
Mr. Fowler chewed on a toothpick. He pushed against the table
edge with his hands and set the chair on its back two legs. Mama drew up, wanting to say something. How many times had she asked us not to do that very thing?
Instead, she said, “Is there something wrong?”
“No, no. Just trying to figure out what a boy like that does.”
Mama’s voice was carefully inquisitive. “What do you mean?”
“Boys need work to keep their minds occupied. So they stay out of trouble.”
She visibly relaxed. “That’s the very thing Lloyd used to say.”
I swallowed, and then spoke up, full of pride, “Daniel’s going to be a director.”
Mr. Fowler leaned forward, setting the chair on all four legs.
His eyes were intent as he said, “A director? Of what?”
Strangely, Mr. Fowler’s cold, unblinking stare was like that of a snake, and I shivered inwardly. Telling Mr. Fowler what Daniel dreamed of doing suddenly seemed disloyal. I was convinced if I said “direct movies or plays,” he’d dismiss the special thing that set Daniel apart from everyone else. Daniel’s dreams were sky high, as far as the stars, and the moon. Lofty goals, Daddy had said. I hesitated, thinking hard. It meant he’d leave Jones County, maybe go to California or New York, and that meant Daniel would eventually leave me. I’d never thought of it this way before, and this new realization completely stole the words I held on the tip of my tongue. My lack of response caused Mr. Fowler to appraise me in a knowing way, like he’d concluded Daniel held no real purpose worthy of his time.
Mama, her hands coated in flour, turned slightly toward Mr. Fowler and said, “They got themselves a little stage set up in the barn. You know how kids pretend things.”
“Nope. My folks saw to it I stayed on the straight and narrow. Didn’t play no games. Had chores to do.” He rubbed his hands against his thighs and concluded, “Boys got to stay occupied doing a man’s work or else they come to no good.”
Mama said, “Daniel’s a good boy. He and Sonny been friends a long time.”
Mr. Fowler said, “Boy needs a man to show him the way. My own father, he was strict as they come. I only made a mistake once, never again.”
The Forgiving Kind Page 8