Getting the Important Things Right

by Padgett Gerler

  “That sure is a fine son you have there, Colonel Tom. Would give my right arm to have one just like him. He’s the hardest working young man I’ve ever known. Catches on real quick, too. You know, I had to beg my girls to go to church with me, but Percy wouldn’t miss a Sunday if he was on fire. When I see him up there on the altar helping Father John with communion, I think how proud you and Mrs. Albemarle must be.”

  Without looking up from the television, The Colonel said, “Yeah, makes me real proud that he pulls all that yellow hair back in a ponytail and puts on a long white dress so he can sing “hominy dominy” and hand out little crackers to folks. Brings a tear to the old man’s eye.”

  Little did Mr. Peterson know that Colonel Tom had never seen Percy assist Father John at communion. In fact, Colonel Tom had never stepped foot in our church, or any church, for that matter, telling all who cared to listen that he was a Heathenterian.

  But every time we moved, Ma’am would rouse Percy, Oops, and me on the first Sunday morning in our new home, dress us in our finest, and shuttle us to the nearest Episcopal church. There she would drop us at the curb and leave us to tend to our own religious education. At the end of services, she’d be waiting to drive us back home. She never asked what we learned, whom we met, what we did in the Episcopal church for that hour.

  I spent my church hour gossiping with my girlfriends while Oops spent hers reading. Percy, on the other hand, dived in head-first, serving as acolyte, assisting with communion, even staying after services to vacuum the sanctuary.

  But Percy also sang. He sang like an angel and was the favored soloist in our church choir. His clear tenor voice made men stop snoozing and women stop making mental shopping lists. It even made my friends and me stop gossiping and Oops stop reading. I’ve seen whole congregations mop their eyes after hearing Percy sing Ave Maria.

  Percy once told me, “Sis, I know I’m a screw-up, but the church reminds me that I’m a good person.”

  It broke my heart. He needed his parents to tell him that he was not a screw-up and that he was a good person. But Mr. Peterson told Percy he was a good person and told Colonel Tom that Percy was a good person. Instead of validating his son’s goodness, The Colonel just made a flippant, sacrilegious remark.

  I could tell that Mr. Peterson was stunned by The Colonel’s response, so, not knowing what else to say, he just stood up, said, “Nice seeing you folks,” and walked out the front door.

  Colonel Tom’s gaze never left the television. Ma’am wandered toward the kitchen to freshen her drink, having forgotten that her son was upstairs tending his wound alone.

  Mr. Peterson had a small apartment over his garage; it had been his home before he and Miss Millie had married and moved to their house on the edge of town. He told Percy that he didn’t want to interfere in his personal life but that he was welcomed to stay in the apartment if he ever felt the need to some time to himself. He had just two rules: no partying and no girls. Little by little, Percy moved his belongings to the apartment over the garage, and before long he was spending most of his time up there. I missed having him at home, but I didn’t miss our father using my brother as a punching bag.

  Colonel Tom and Ma’am didn’t even notice Percy’s extended absences.

  Six

  On our first day at James Madison Junior High, Percy and I walked the ten blocks from home, dropping Oops at Jefferson Elementary along the way. We found the principal’s office and gave our school records to the lady behind the desk.

  She took them from us, peered over our shoulders, then looked back at us, saying, “Is your mother parking the car?”

  Percy and I looked at each other and shrugged, and then Percy said, “I don’t think so. When we last saw her, she was still in bed, asleep.”

  The lady, Mrs. Gunderson, gasped and said, “Do you mean to tell me that your mother didn’t accompany you to school on your first day?”

  I remembered all the other first days that Ma’am hadn’t accompanied us to new schools and wondered why this first day should be any different.

  Percy said, “Nobody told us we needed to bring our mommy. We thought our records would be company enough.”

  I had to look away and bite my lip to keep from laughing at my smart-ass brother. But Percy wasn’t trying to be amusing—or smart-ass, for that matter. He was angry that Mrs. Gunderson had intimated that he was incapable of registering his sister and himself for the sixth and eighth grades. And she wasn’t even aware that he had enrolled their younger sister at her elementary school along the way. He was also angry that we had a mother who didn’t think it was part of her job to get out of bed in the morning, fix her children’s breakfast, and accompany them to their first day of school.

  Recognizing Percy’s frustration, Mrs. Gunderson didn’t even chastise him for his impudence and disrespect. Instead, she softened and said, “Son, your records will do just fine. Sit down, and we’ll have you in class in no time.”

  Percy and Mrs. Gunderson became fast friends that morning. And that was a good thing since Percy spent a lot of time in the principal’s office.

  I found that my teacher’s name was Mrs. Adams and that my classroom was right down the hall from Mrs. Gunderson’s office. Since Percy was in the eighth grade, he would not be spending the whole day with one teacher but would be changing from class to class instead.

  Mrs. G, as all the kids called her, handed Percy his schedule, said, “Y’all know where to find me if you need me,” smiled kindly, and ushered us from her office, patting us both on the back. We didn’t get back pats at home, so a pat from a stranger was welcomed. But it also made me very sad.

  Percy walked me to my classroom, said he’d find me at lunch, and sauntered confidently on down the hall to his homeroom.

  I slipped into my classroom, a little less confidently than Percy, to find Mrs. Adams with her back to the class, writing furiously on the blackboard, her underarm fat flapping back and forth, her died-black-as-coal bun bouncing on the back of her head. All the students were in little clumps, talking in hushed tones. As I came into the room, two girls who looked enough alike to be sisters rushed at me and started jabbering at the same time.

  I couldn’t understand a word either was saying until one snipped, “Oh, hush, Mary Sue, and let me talk,” and Mary Sue whined, “But I was supposed to tell her that, Suzanne.”

  Over the next seven years I lost count of the times I would hear Suzanne say, “Hush, Mary Sue!” and Mary Sue whine, “Let me talk.”

  Suzanne Webb and Mary Sue Robinson were best friends, had been best friends since birth. Their dads had grown up in Waynesville, best friends, had attended the University together, had married University girls, and had built homes side-by-side. They had no choice but to be best friends. And, as I said, they had spent so much time together, they looked like sisters. They were the same size, had the same big brown eyes, and had the same long brown hair held back by identical hair bands. And they were both yelling at me in the same way.

  As they were yelling in my face, Mrs. Adams turned from the blackboard, her gum-soled shoes squeaking on the highly-polished wood floor, clapped her hands, and said, “Let’s get started, class.”

  Once everyone had claimed a seat, I found an empty and sat down. The class stopped talking, all except Suzanne and Mary Sue, who continued to argue even after they were in their desks.

  Finally, Mrs. Adams said, “Suzanne, Mary Sue, please stop talking so we can start class.”

  I soon found that class always started when our teacher (whoever that was at any given time) would say, “Suzanne, Mary Sue, please stop talking so we can start class.”

  It was just part of our morning exercises, like roll call and daily announcements. However, once Suzanne and Mary Sue stopped talking, they continued to send each other messages with eye squints, like some sort of private Morse code.

  When Mrs. Adams finished calling the roll and discovered that she had one more body than she had names, I admitted to being th
e extra body and took my transfer order to her desk. And then the day began. The morning was pretty uneventful, just like any other school day. I was behind the class in math, as I always was, and ahead of the class in English, as I always was. I’d gotten accustomed to it. At morning break Suzanne and Mary Sue, once again, rushed me and started talking over each other.

  I finally said, “Wait a minute! Who are you, and why are you yelling at me?”

  Again, they both started jabbering, and the leader—that would be Suzanne—gave the other—that would be Mary Sue—a squinty-eyed, Morse-code look, and Mary Sue pinched her lips shut.

  Then Suzanne was off and running: “I’m Suzanne Webb and this is Mary Sue Robinson and we’re best friends and all and as soon as we saw you we just knew you’d make a perfect cheerleader and cheerleader try-outs are in just a week and we’ve been practicing all summer and if you want to try out you’re really going to have to start practicing but we’d be glad to help you cause we really think you’d make a perfect cheerleader, but I already said that, didn’t I?”

  And she kept right on chattering until, once again, Mrs. Adams clapped her hands and said, “Suzanne, Mary Sue, please stop talking so we can resume class.”

  As they returned to their desks, they whispered to me in unison, “We’ll talk about it over lunch.”

  When the lunch bell rang, Suzanne and Mary Sue grabbed me and whisked me to the cafeteria where we had a lunch of gloppy spaghetti, green beans, canned peaches, and chocolate milk. My new friends turned their noses up at their meals, but I gobbled mine as if it were fine cuisine. I loved it; it was delicious. They couldn’t understand how I could stomach it, but they had not yet been introduced to Ma’am’s lunches.

  While we ate, Suzanne and Mary Sue mapped out our cheerleading strategy for the next week. We would go to Suzanne’s house after school each day, and the two of them would instruct me in leaps and splits and cartwheels and cheer routines.

  As they were arguing over who was going to teach me what, Percy strode into the cafeteria and scanned the room, looking for me. When they saw him, Suzanne and Mary Sue stopped their yapping mid-word and stared at him with their mouths hanging open. Now, we were in the sixth grade and just beginning to notice boys, but Percy seemed to have that effect on girls of all ages. And he hadn’t even smiled and flashed his dimples yet. He saw me and headed in my direction, and the closer he got, the larger Suzanne and Mary Sue’s eyes got.

  When Percy reached our table, he sat down on the bench beside me, bumped me with his hip, said, “Skootch over,” grabbed my fork out of my hand, and started eating my spaghetti.

  I grabbed it back and said, “Hey, go get your own spaghetti!”

  And Suzanne and Mary Sue continued to stare, mouths open, eyes wide.

  Then Percy smiled (showing his dimples, of course) and said, “Sis, who are your buddies?”

  And, with that, Suzanne and Mary Sue did exactly what I knew they would do: they giggled. It happens every time. Percy smiles; girls giggle. By then I had gotten used to it. I introduced them, and the two girls, who had been chattering non-stop since I had laid eyes on them, could not find a word to say. They just stared and grinned. Percy was used to it, too.

  So he broke the silence by saying, “Save me a seat. I’m going to go get me some of that stuff.”

  Then he winked at Suzanne and Mary Sue, and they were goners. They still are. They love Percy to pieces and to this day talk about the first time he winked at them.

  When my brother returned with his tray of lunch, I asked him about his morning classes. He said that he had played football in gym but couldn’t quite remember what his other classes had been. Suzanne and Mary Sue laughed, thinking he was telling a joke. I knew, however, that he most likely couldn’t remember.

  Percy said, “Coach wants me to try out for football, and since Coach is the guy who picks the team, I think I’m going to be on the football team.”

  When Percy said that, Suzanne and Mary Sue started squealing and telling Percy—at the same time, of course—that we were all going to try out for the cheerleading squad and that, of course, we would make it and that we’d be able to ride on the bus with the football team and wouldn’t that be just the most fun ever.

  Percy flashed his dimples again, assured the girls that it would, indeed, be the most fun ever, and went back to eating his lunch. Suzanne and Mary Sue spent the remainder of our break in total silence, staring at Percy as he ate.

  While Percy was eating and the girls were staring, a group of guys from Percy’s gym class came into the cafeteria, looking for him. After three hours in his new school, Percy had a cadre of new friends hunting him down. It happened wherever we went. One was carrying a football and told Percy that they were going out on the field to pass the ball around and wanted to know if he’d like to come along. And, just like that, Percy was gone, leaving my new friends swooning and calling me Sis.

  Turned out Suzanne and Mary Sue lived just five blocks from our house. I told them that I’d go home, change my clothes, check in with Ma’am, and let her know where I was going. I really didn’t need to report to Ma’am, but I needed for them to think I did.

  When I got home from school, I found Ma’am sitting at the backyard picnic table, drink in hand, working the crossword puzzle at the back of the TV Guide. I told her that I had met two girls at school and that I was going to practice cheerleading with them. Without looking up from three-across, Ma’am slurred, “Mmmmm.” She managed an “okay” when I told her that Percy had stayed at school for football practice. I left her still struggling with three-across and went upstairs to dress for cheerleading instruction.

  When I passed Oops’s bedroom, I found her sitting quietly at her desk, reading, her tongue sticking out, her little-girl legs swinging back and forth.

  “Hey! How was school?” I asked.

  “Okay, I guess,” she said, quietly, not looking up from her book.

  “Do you like your teacher?”

  “Um hum.”

  “Did you make any new friends?”

  “Some,” she said shyly, still not looking my way.

  “Did you ride the bus home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you have trouble finding it?”

  “No, my teacher helped me.”

  “That was nice of her.”

  “Um hum.”

  “Does Ma’am know you’re home?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know where she is.”

  I seethed with anger that our mother had not been waiting for her little girl when she got home from her first day in a new and unfamiliar school. But why should today be different from any other day.

  “She’s out in the back yard,” I told her.

  “Oh.”

  “Would you like for me to fix you a snack?” I asked.

  She bit her lip and thought about my offer for a minute, but then she said, “No thanks. I’m not hungry. Maybe I’ll get a Twinkie later.”

  I thought briefly about inviting her to go to Suzanne’s with me but decided against it. I was the new girl, and I just wasn’t prepared to explain my strange little sister to my two friends. So I left her reading and went to my bedroom to put on my shorts, tee shirt, and tennis shoes.

  As I passed by her room on my way out, I said, “I’m going to a friend’s house. I’ll be home by suppertime. Are you going to be okay?”

  “Sure,” she said, a wan smile on her lips. But there was no smile in my little sister’s big blue eyes.

  A more understanding sister would have stuck around. But Oops was not my responsibility. She was my mother’s. But my mother would not accept the responsibility for her children. I could not change that.

  I ran the five blocks to Suzanne’s house.

  A plump, pleasant woman wearing an apron that said KISS THE COOK answered the door.

  Her entire face smiled as she said, “Sis? You must be Sis. Please come on in, Darlin’. The girls are waiting for you. I’m Deanna Webb, Suzanne’s
mother.”

  And all the way back to the kitchen where Suzanne and Mary Sue were waiting for me with milk and homemade cookies, Mrs. Webb guided me with her gentle hand on the small of my back and asked me questions:

  “Did I hear that your father is affiliated with the University?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Do you have brothers and sisters?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Has your family found a church?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Do you like Waynesville?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I was grateful when we reached the kitchen before Ms. Webb could ask me the really tough questions about my family.

  The smell of vanilla and cinnamon and pot roast and carrots and every other comfort food imaginable assaulted me as I entered the kitchen. I thought I was going to cry because I was certain that this was the one thing that was missing from my family. I was convinced that if our kitchen smelled like Mrs. Webb’s, we would all be so happy that we wouldn’t be able to bicker and argue and drink alcohol.

  I found Suzanne and Mary Sue sitting in front of a plate heaped high with chocolate chip cookies and a pitcher—not a carton—of milk. And it wasn’t that weak blue milk we drank at our house. It was thick, white, rich, real milk. Mrs. Webb placed a plate and napkin in front of me and told me to help myself to cookies. She poured me a tall glass of milk and handed it to me. I took a drink, and it was so cold it made my head hurt. I envisioned Mrs. Webb watching the clock every afternoon, and at fifteen minutes before Suzanne’s anticipated arrival, she would put the pitcher of milk in the freezer so that there would be ice crystals forming on top just as Suzanne walked through the front door. She would also be pulling the pan of cookies out of the oven at that precise moment.

  I could have devoured the entire plate of cookies, but I held myself to five. They were scrumptious—with soft, gooey chocolate chips and toasted pecan pieces. They just didn’t taste like the cut-‘em-from-a-roll cookies I was accustomed to. I found it difficult to pull myself away from the heavenly aromas of Mrs. Webb’s kitchen to practice cheers because I much preferred being a cookie eater to a cheerleader. But I was here to practice cheerleading.