Mama went a little pink and said, “Pass bowls to the right and across.”
Mr. Fowler put a couple pieces of chicken on his plate, and passed the platter to Ross. All was going along fine, and then Trent spoke up.
“Daddy Frank, this is one of my favorite meals too.”
Liar. We ain’t never had no buttermilk chicken. Mama had always fixed it like Granny Walters.
Mr. Fowler pointed his fork at him and said, “Button it. Unless you’re spoken to, keep that piehole shut.”
Trent’s mouth clamped shut like a snapping turtle. Mr. Fowler kept looking at him until Trent’s eyes fell to his plate and it was only then he got to passing bowls around again. Mama shook her head ever so slightly, and sat back in her chair.
Mr. Fowler said, “Vi? Darlin’? Ain’t you gonna eat?”
Her eyes narrowed, and she didn’t answer him.
Mr. Fowler said, “Children ought to be seen, not heard.”
Mama joined our ranks, and said not a word.
Mr. Fowler got to looking a little twitchy. “I mean, I’m just saying, it’s how I was raised and all.”
Mama concentrated on a spot on her plate, rubbing it as if she was polishing silver.
“Here darlin’, whyn’t you get you some a this chicken. I declare, if it don’t look just like what my own mama fixed. My, my, you’ve outdone yourself.”
We looked to Mama. Mr. Fowler’s kinder manner was more reminiscent of how he’d acted while at our house, and she finally took the bowl of peas I’d been trying to pass her all along.
She said, “Thank you, Sonny.”
We started eating, although for me, it was more about pushing food about on my plate. I couldn’t eat under such conditions. Then Trent evidently made another mistake. He put his elbows on the table, and quick as a spring-loaded mousetrap, Mr. Fowler jabbed him in the arm with his fork.
Trent yelled, “Ow!” and Mr. Fowler jabbed at him again.
Mama said, “Frank! Stop!”
Mr. Fowler said, “Ain’t these kids got no manners?”
Mama said, “We’re at home, we’re not guests somewhere. He’s hungry, let him eat.”
Mr. Fowler said, “I don’t care if he eats, but no goddamn elbows on the table.”
Mama said, “Trent, mind yourself.”
Trent sat wide-eyed, stunned by Mr. Fowler sticking him. Slowly, we started eating again, but it was in a way like we weren’t sure if we’d draw his eye by making some mistake we were unaware of. Mama had put a saucer of sliced bread on the table. Mr. Fowler folded a piece of bread over like a little pillow, slid food up and onto his fork, and then plunged it all into his mouth. His cheeks bulged, and he ate while smacking his lips the entire time. Mama kept looking over at him, like she was trying to figure out where he’d come from, or how we’d got here. She and I were of a similar mind-set in that regard, let me tell you. Somehow, the rest of supper passed without incident.
The ground rules had been laid. We tiptoed about in stocking feet. We talked in lower voices. We faded into the background. I saw this as a necessity. The only chance to get away from the dark, stuffy smelling house, and his ever vigilant oversight was at school, only there, I had to contend with the curious looks and whispers of my classmates.
“Heard he was Klan.”
“My daddy said he killed somebody several years ago.”
“I heard that too.”
“Shoot, his mama? She was even crazier than he is.”
I had no doubt some of what they said might be true. Daniel and I ate lunch together as always, but even then Mr. Fowler’s presence messed things up. I found myself watching him closer than before, discerning his differences in the way a dog might sniff out a bone in the yard.
Of course, Daniel noticed right away. “Why’re you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”
He made a huffing sound as I answered his question with a question, which he hated. “You know what I mean.”
“I’m not looking at you in any particular way.”
“Yes you are.”
“Geez. Fine. I won’t look at you. At all. Ever again.”
More moody than usual I sat ignoring him, and he ignored me through most of the lunch period and I was sure I kept my eyes everywhere except on him. Even when he talked to me.
The bell rang, and as we stood up to go back to class, he said, “What’s wrong with you anyway?”
I stared at the back of Junior Odom’s head and neck. The buzz cut he wore showed several folds of skin, three rolls to be exact, and it was sort of fascinating how they disappeared, then reappeared every time he looked down, then up.
Without looking at Daniel, I said, “What do you mean, what’s the matter with me?”
He made that aggravated noise again and said, “Never mind.”
He walked off, and I got to feeling kind a bad. We didn’t get much time together like before, and I shouldn’t have been so ill toward him. I trailed behind him until he stopped abruptly and faced me. This time when I looked up at him, my insides went all soft and buttery, and my legs felt about the same way. Daniel had a way about him I found hard to ignore, how he leaned off to his left a little in a slouchy way that was appealing. I caught that scent of his too, and almost bent forward to sniff him. I caught myself and waited for him to speak, while trying to keep the soft spot I had for him vacant from my eyes.
He raised his chin in a knowing way and said, “Ever since you been over there, you’ve been acting different.”
“What do you expect? I hate it there. I ain’t used to it. He wants us to call him Daddy Frank.”
He said, “That ain’t it. It’s something else.”
I shook my head, denying it.
He gave me a disgusted look and said, “Yes, it is.”
I wanted to reach out and grab him, hug him, but I kept my hands stayed at my sides.
“Just ’cause I looked at you? Don’t be dumb.”
“It was a different look.”
I snorted.
He started walking again and I fell into step beside him. I only wanted for things to go back like they’d been before. It seemed like a long time ago at this point.
I said, “All I know is he’s one crazy sumbitch, let me tell you.”
Daniel actually smiled at that and my heart soared. We were almost at our classrooms. I could never tell him Mr. Fowler had forbid him coming. I grew brave with the idea of defying him and his ridiculous rule. My thoughts went in all directions, thinking of all the ways we could get by with it, and he’d never know.
Hurrying, so we wouldn’t be late, I said, “You should see it.”
“His place?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s it like?”
“Why don’t you come over?”
“Am I allowed?”
“I told you Mama said you could come after the cotton was picked. There’s all sorts of places we can go where we ain’t got to be around him. My room’s huge, but he wouldn’t dream of setting foot in there now.”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh, come on. I dare you.”
Even after Mr. Fowler’s direct threat, my wish to be with Daniel outweighed my common sense. I knew this, but I couldn’t help myself.
Daniel said, “Don’t do that doggone dare thing.”
Sensing he was giving in, I pushed. “Double dare!”
“Well . . .”
I pushed on. “Plan on Friday after Thanksgiving, at the pond, about one o’clock.”
Daniel scratched his elbow, hesitated, then said, “Okay. What do you want to do?”
“We’ll think of something.”
Feeling victorious, I went into my classroom to tackle division of fractions.
Later that afternoon, after we got home from school, we found Mama and Mr. Fowler standing in the kitchen admiring her newfangled dishwasher. He was strutting around, his chest poked out as if he’d created the thing himself.
Just delive
red, he was busy telling her, “Figured it would make a good, early Christmas present. Now you ain’t got to stand at that sink washing dishes every night. Anything for my darlin’.”
He spotted us standing in the doorway, and the smile he’d been wearing vanished. I had the impression his day had been going along fine till we showed up.
He looked at his watch and said, “Y’all are home already?”
Mama turned to us. “Look! Isn’t it amazing? I ain’t never heard of such. A machine that washes dishes! What will they think of next?”
Mr. Fowler played with a matchbook, opening and closing it.
He said, “Y’all need to get onto whatever it is you’re supposed to be doing.”
Ross didn’t waste any time and left the room to go and get ready for work.
Mama, still mesmerized, said, “I declare, if this don’t beat all.”
Mr. Fowler glared at Trent, then me, and said, “Go on. Get on with your homework and your chores.”
Trent tried to stall in his usual way. “How’s that thing work, Daddy Frank?”
Mr. Fowler shifted his shoulders around like his neck hurt.
His reply was short. “You put dishes in, shut the door, turn it on. Now go do your homework.”
Trent stomped out of the room while I waited on Mama to ask me how my day was, like she always used to do, but he said, “Go. Do what you’re supposed to do.”
Mama put a hand on his arm, and said, “Was there something you wanted, Sonny?”
“I wanted to talk to you for a minute, if Mr. Fowler doesn’t mind.”
He said, “Your mama’s busy right now.”
Mama said, “Maybe a little later, okay?”
I nodded, and turned to go.
Then, Mr. Fowler said, “Hold on.”
I gave him a puzzled look. “Sir?”
“What’s with the Mr. Fowler thing?”
I didn’t answer.
“Seeing as how I’m putting food in your belly, and a roof over your head, it don’t seem fitting, like I’m some stranger. Ain’t you got used to me by now?”
“No, sir.”
Mr. Fowler’s head went back like I’d slapped him. “No?” He looked at Mama, incredulous, like he couldn’t believe what I’d said. “You hear that?”
“Frank, honey, she’s not ready.”
“What’s to be ready about? It’s a simple thing.”
He put his hands on his hips like we were going to have us a little showdown, yet the idea of attaching Daddy to him wasn’t possible. I’d never do it, and I couldn’t pretend I would.
He leaned forward and said, “What’s the problem?”
“Nothing.”
He said, “Good. Daddy Frank it is, then.”
“No, sir.”
“You defying me?”
“I’m saying you ain’t my daddy.”
Mr. Fowler looked to Mama again, like she needed to handle this. I didn’t get why he was being so insistent about it. What difference did it make what I called him?
Mama twisted her fingers nervously and said, “Sonny, why don’t you go on to do your homework like Daddy Frank said.”
Silently I said, thank you, Mama as I hurried from the kitchen, the sound of my shoes declaring my ascent to the ears listening below. His loud voice carried up the staircase, and I was worried for Mama.
“What the hell, Vi? You let her get away with that? She’s spoiled, is what she is, and ain’t no kid under this roof gonna get away with being sassy.”
“She’s still upset over her father. It’s not been all that long ago.”
“Y’all have had plenty of time for that, and obviously we’ve moved on. We’re married now, and that’s the past. This is the present. Hell, he’s been gone going on seven months. Now, I’ve been patient all along. I want us to have a nice Thanksgiving, everything pleasant. I ain’t wanting to see a bunch a hangdog faces moping around my table.”
Mama continued to try and soothe Mr. Fowler’s irritation, talking to him like he was five years old. “Aw, honey, we’ll make sure everything is perfect,” but it was what she said next that had me wishing I’d gone on to my room. “You’re so good to me, and the kids. We appreciate what you’re doing, and I love you for it.”
Hearing Mama tell him she loved him was even worse than her telling me they were getting married. I’d never heard her talk to nobody in that coddling way before. Did she sense something in him, like I had? Something gone bad, like meat that’s gone off after it’s been setting out too long. If she did, it made no difference considering what took place next. There was a scraping of chairs, and a skidding noise, like they were shifting furniture around.
Mama said, “Oh!” and then mumbled, “Frank, no. Not here!”
There was no answer from him, only more sounds, something like a struggle, a bump, and Mama hissing once again, “No!”
Then quiet. The creak of wood, and next, a sound like hands clapping, and Mr. Fowler grunting like a pig. Uh, uh, uh! I put my hands over my ears and hurried down the hall, avoiding the staring eyes of the gigantic deer head mounted on the wall. It looked just as stunned by what was going on in the kitchen as I was. Once, Junior Odom with his dirty mouth told Lil Roy about seeing two dogs doing what he’d called “forni-catin’” while making sure his description was heard practically across the playground. In my room, I stared at the faded wallpaper, and tried really hard not to think about what just took place.
After a while came slow, steady footsteps of someone climbing the stairs. I could tell it was Mama. She stopped at my door while I held my breath, waiting for the knock. I willed her to go away ’cause I didn’t want to set eyes on her, not after what had just happened. I didn’t think I could pretend. Thankfully she moved away and I had another pang, similar as to when I’d learned we were leaving our home. Mama and I had never had any awkward moments or cause to avoid one another, and Mr. Fowler was doing a real good job of changing that too.
At supper that night, despite the earlier happiness over her new dishwasher, she’d lost a bit of that glossy joy while Mr. Fowler ate like he’d worked up an appetite. He and Trent got into what sounded like a fake polite discussion about his gun collection, as if Mr. Fowler was wanting to pretend he’d not been short-tempered earlier.
He said, “I got’em locked up in a gun safe. I’ll show’em to you one day.”
Trent said, “What kinds?”
“Rifles, mostly. Couple a Remingtons, a Winchester, and a Savage 99.”
Trent looked like he wanted to go look immediately, turning so his feet were pointing at the door like he might leave the table.
Mama said, “You need to go on and eat, Trent.”
Mr. Fowler said, “Later. Maybe we’ll shoot some this weekend.”
“That would be swell!”
Finally, supper was over with and I carried our dirty dishes to the counter, and then watched Mama load them into the new dishwasher. Mr. Fowler leaned against the doorjamb smoking a cigarette, staring as she put plates in their special slots, unable to keep his eyes off her. It was embarrassing to the point I wanted to snap my fingers under his nose. It was only cause of the sound of a vehicle coming up the drive he finally quit ogling her.
Trent looked out the back door and said, “It’s Ross.”
Mama checked the kitchen clock on the wall and said, “He was only gone a couple hours,” while Mr. Fowler yawned.
Ross came in, shook off his coat, and sat at the table. At first no one thought a thing.
Mama went about getting his plate of food out of the oven and as she set it down in front of him, she looked at him and said, “What’s wrong?”
In a glum voice, he said, “I ain’t going back.”
“You mean they fired you?”
Mr. Fowler laughed and said, “Ha, he got canned!”
Mama said, “Frank,” in the same tone she’d use on us if we did something she disapproved of, while Ross gave him a dirty look.
Mama sat down besi
de him and said, “You’ve not been late, have you?”
He shook his head.
“You’ve not missed a day, and I’m sure you worked hard.”
Ross said, “It don’t matter.”
“But, what happened?”
He raised his eyes, and stared at Mr. Fowler for a second before he lowered them again.
“I quit.”
Mama sat back in surprise. “You quit?”
Mr. Fowler said, “A quitter. How ’bout that. We got us a quitter on our hands.”
Ross looked at Mama and said, “People talk too much.”
Mama got a confounded look on her face. “What do you mean?”
Ross looked uncomfortable, and he glanced at Mr. Fowler again, before he let his eyes drop back down to the tabletop.
Mr. Fowler caught the look and crossed the room in a second flat, and got in Ross’s face. “Spit it out, kid. Who’re they talking about?”
Mama said, “Frank. Calm down. It’s all right.”
Ross fidgeted and said, “About my mama marrying the likes of you.”
Frank got even closer to Ross. “What did you say?”
Ross looked at the floor. Mr. Fowler leaned down and got even closer to Ross’s face.
He spit his words out. “Tell me who, goddammit.”
Mama pulled on Mr. Fowler’s shoulder. “Frank, stop it.”
He straightened up and said, “Come on. We’re gonna take care of this.”
Mama was instantly afraid, and her voice shook. “Now, Frank, hold on a minute.”
He ignored her. “Come on, boy, let’s go.”
Ross stood up, but Mama put her hand on his arm. “Ross. No.”
Mr. Fowler yelled at him, “Come on!” and started down the hall. We hurried after him. He went to the gun safe, the one he’d just been talking about with Trent. I thought about what I’d heard at school. He killed somebody several years ago.
Mama said, “Frank! Ain’t no need to go and start no trouble. People are gonna talk and we can’t stop them!”
“Like hell we can’t!”
Trent said, “Can I go too?”
Mama said, “No!” while Mr. Fowler said, “Both of you get in the truck.”
Mama got to sort of half-crying, and begging him.
“Frank, please, please, Frank. Boys! I forbid it!”
The Forgiving Kind Page 23