by Lisa Wingate
J. Norm blinked at the man once, twice. J. Norm probably hadn’t ever been treated that way in his life, but it didn’t surprise me. Mama and me had been in enough backwater places for me to know how things were. Mrs. Lora always said to just ignore it. Nasty comes from the inside, she told me. It doesn’t have anything to do with you.
Just to get on the junk shop guy’s last nerve, I took a few more steps away from the door, toward the aisles and aisles of flea market booths in his big old metal building. “Hey, look here, Grandpa.” I pointed to a booth that had old hats like the one J. Norm gave me out of his wife’s closet. “Hats.”
The man at the counter flashed a dirty look, and I just smiled, like, Yeah, what are you gonna do about it? It’s a free country.
J. Norm played right along. “I believe we’ll look around awhile.” He egged me on while I tried on hats and feather boas, and pretended I was going to buy the prettiest dancing dress I’d ever seen. I held it up in front of me and waltzed along the aisle. The dress floated like a patch of blue sky, glittery up top, and the bottom was made of net, like the skirt of a ballerina, only longer. It was in perfect shape, but I could tell it was old. Someone must’ve kept it in a closet, all wrapped up in plastic, like J. Norm’s wife did her clothes.
“Beautiful!” J. Norm said. “You’re a vision, an . . . epiphany, even.” Both of us laughed, and I danced a little more. It was fun having somebody around who wasn’t too tired, too busy, or too ticked off to bother with me. If that’d been Mama standing there, she would’ve told me to put that stupid thing down and quit messing around before I broke something.
But J. Norm just clapped and laughed, and treated me like Cinderella in glass slippers. It felt good.
After we figured we’d annoyed the shop guy long enough, we left without buying anything. On the way out, J. Norm said it was a good thing we hadn’t found our book there, because it would’ve been against his principles to give that guy any money.
“If he’d of had it, we’d of bought it, though, right?” I asked as we walked along Main Street. J. Norm had spotted a sign on a corner store that said, HAND-DIPPED BLUE BELL, and he was in an ice-cream mood again.
“Most likely not.” He was looking up at the buildings, his mind in another place. “A person must have principles, Epiphany. That’s the one thing no one can take from you. The only way you can lose your principles is to give them up. Remember that.” He went on studying the buildings, like that was all he had to say on that subject.
I thought about it while we walked. Principles. I guess I’d always figured those were something for old people and rich people—something you could only afford if you were part of the group who could chunk down nine hundred dollars for a computer and not even bat an eye. The rest of us lived in the real world. Whenever I complained about how things were for us, Mama always said, Well, who do you think you are, the princess and the pea? The way Mama figured it, you did what you had to do to get by. Like putting up with some lousy job or living with some loser who treated you bad. She wanted me to know that’s how it was for people like us and I shouldn’t expect anything different.
But now I wondered if J. Norm was right. Maybe anybody could stand for something, if they wanted to. You could make up your mind that you weren’t gonna drop out of high school and shack up with some loser like DeRon, and have some baby you didn’t even want, and then end up doing a job you hated and spending your weekends camped out at swap meets or in a bar someplace. You could decide that you were gonna have principles and then not let anybody take them away.
We got to the ice-cream shop, and J. Norm opened the door. Like always, he waited for me to go through first. Every once in a while when he did that, he’d say, Any man who doesn’t hold the door open for a lady is no gentleman, Epiphany. You keep that in mind. But this time he didn’t say anything. He didn’t follow me in, either. He sort of hung in the opening with the door pushing against his back.
“J. Norm?” I said, stopping in front of a counter that looked like something from an old-time movie. A long bar with bar stools ran along the wall and curved into a cash register area at the end. Behind the bar, there were old mixers and soda fountains, and lots of wooden shelves with glasses on them, and a big mirror, like in the saloons in those old John Wayne movies Russ liked to watch. The place was empty right now, but I could hear noises in the back. “J. Norm?” I said again, but he was just standing there. Finally, I walked back and waved a hand in front of his face. “Are you all right?”
He blinked, then shook his head. “I remember this place. . . .” His eyes glazed over, and he tripped on the little rim where the wood floor met a square of tiny white octagon-shaped tiles. I jumped to catch him, but he stumbled sideways, grabbing one of the bar stools.
“You mean, like, from when you were little?” I looked around the store, and goose bumps prickled on my arms.
J. Norm put both hands on the barstool, stared down at it, smoothed his fingers across the seat, then twirled it hard enough that it rattled. “I loved to run along here and spin each one, and Cecile would say, ‘Little Mis’a Willie, you best cut out that nonsense, or there ain’t gonna be no soda float for you.’ ”
“But your name’s not Willie.” A cold feeling passed over my skin, like it had when the guy at Ward House told me about the little girl who died when she fell out the window, and about all the slaves they used to keep upstairs in the attic, even little children sometimes. I felt like I was surrounded by dead people.
J. Norm’s face went white, and the rims of his eyes, where the skin sagged tired and red, turned moist and teary. “I think it was. That was my name. Willie . . . William.”
A cloud went across the sun outside, and the room turned shadowy. I touched a bar stool, then pictured a little redheaded boy running along, twirling each one. It was almost like he was really there.
A swinging door smacked open halfway down the counter, and both J. Norm and me jumped. “Afternoon!” A man came through the door carrying a tray of tall drink glasses. “I help you folks?” He tipped his head back, squinting at us through eyeglasses with black rims around the edges. His thick gray hair was slicked back on the sides, and kind of combed into a puffy swirl on top, like J. Norm in that old picture where he looked like a redheaded Elvis. “Y’all from out of town?” he asked when neither of us answered.
“Yes, sir,” I told him, and laid on the manners, because I figured it couldn’t hurt to make a good impression on the guy who was about to dip up your ice cream. J. Norm was still staring at the walls like there was no one else in the room. “My grandpa says he remembers this place. He used to live here when he was little.”
The man braced his hands on the counter and leaned up against it, giving J. Norm an interested look. If it bothered him that there wasn’t any family resemblance between my grandpa and me, he didn’t show it. He just smiled at me and said, “When abouts was that?”
“We’re not real sure.” I looked over my shoulder, and J. Norm was wandering down the aisles of candy and groceries like he was gone in the head. “A long time ago, maybe 1941, but he remembers this store.”
The man seemed proud of that. “Oh, well, lots of kids would. This store’s been in my family since my dad bought it in the forties, but it was around a long time before that. Lots of kids been through here for penny candy, and Coke floats, and ice-cream sun-deys.”
The back of my mouth started to water. I wished J. Norm would snap out of it so we could order. He was just wandering around the store, looking up and down the walls, taking in old metal bread signs and advertisements and a few black-and-white pictures of the town.
The ice-cream man stuck his hand over the counter and shook mine. “Al Nelson.”
I told him my name and stayed on my best behavior. It wasn’t until after I said my name that I thought about the fact that I’d used my real name, and maybe that was a bad idea. But then, really, why would Al Nelson in the corner store in Groveland, Texas, care? Nobody from back
in Dallas even knew I was gone. Nobody’d be looking for me.
Unless the principal and the counselor had called the police after they talked to DeRon, and the police were looking for us . . .
I put that thought out of my head, and since I had Al’s attention, I decided I’d come right out and ask about the house fire. J. Norm acted like he didn’t want people to know why we were here, but I figured at this point we needed to make progress any way we could. It didn’t look like we’d be finding a copy of Mrs. Mercy White’s book anytime soon. “My grandpa remembers something about a big house burning down. Some kids died in the fire. Five kids. We were trying to figure out where that house was, so we could, like, drive by that spot, maybe. Grandpa thinks he probably lived on that same street, but he doesn’t know for sure, and my great-grandparents are dead, so there’s nobody to ask. We just thought if we came here, like, for a little vacation, he could remember some stuff.” The lies slipped right out, smooth as silk, which made me wonder about that talk earlier about principles. Considering all those times Mrs. Lora had brought me to church, she was probably turning over in her grave right now.
But so far, J. Norm and me were getting nowhere fast, and half the day was gone already. We couldn’t stay in Groveland forever, although if it took a few more days, that wouldn’t bother me any. Mama and Russ wouldn’t be home for a while yet.
Mr. Al Nelson drummed all ten fingers on the counter, thinking. “You’re talking about when the VanDraan house burned down, I bet,” he said, nodding. “That was a little before my time, but my sister used to tell that story. Whole family died in that fire, the mama, five little kids, and the black nanny, too. I remember that the old house stood there burned-out for years. Could be that’s why your grandpa remembers it.”
“Was it near here?” My mind tingled with the idea, and I noticed that in the back of the store, J. Norm had stopped and turned our way, finally dialing in.
Mr. Nelson pointed out the door. “A mile and a half down Main, right on Dogwood Street, go three blocks, but there’s a mini storage there now. For years, the lot was empty—nothing but some rocks from the foundation and a three-story chimney. City finally took over the lot for taxes and knocked the chimney down. The town kids used to play a game—see who was brave enough to run up there and touch the chimney. Many a ghost story was told about that place. Passel of tall tales. Not really anything left of the house now, except you can still see where the stone corner posts were, and there’s a bit of the iron fence back there in the weeds. The whole VanDraan family is buried about two miles farther down, in the old Dogwood Cemetery.” Mr. Nelson leaned on the counter, like he had all day to visit. J. Norm came back from the other end of the store, now that the conversation had turned interesting. I decided that maybe we wouldn’t need Mrs. Mercy White’s book, after all.
“Well . . . how’d the fire start?” I asked, because that seemed like the logical next question, as J. Norm would say. “Didn’t anybody get out? I mean, did the whole family die?” If there was nobody left, then how could J. Norm remember the fire? Maybe he didn’t live in the VanDraan house after all, but someplace near it. He could’ve gone over and played with the kids, and that was why he knew them. “Couldn’t the neighbors or the fire department help them get out?”
Mr. Nelson seemed surprised that I was so interested, but he was happy enough to go on talking. “Well, like I said, that was before my day, so I don’t know all the facts. The daddy, Mr. VanDraan, didn’t die until years later. He was playing cards in a poker joint when the big house fire happened. There’s been a lot of rumors and speculation about that whole deal over the years, but mostly, people kept the whispers behind their hands. Mr. VanDraan was a powerful man in this town. Had money. Owned the mill, the bank, the timber company, and this store before my pap bought it. Most of the folks in Groveland worked for him in one way or another, or owed him for the notes on their farms and houses. But a town doesn’t forget about six people in one family lost all at once, you know?”
I nodded, but I was thinking, Six people? He’d said six. But there were seven. The maid died, too. She didn’t count because she wasn’t white? “And the maid.” I couldn’t help it. I said it out loud. I didn’t know why I cared about something that happened that long ago, but I did.
Mr. Nelson clicked his tongue against his teeth, like he was sorry for the maid, too, he guessed. “Yeah, I imagine she’s buried outside the cemetery somewhere. That’s usually how it was done back in those days. The colored families either had to lay theirs to rest in a patch out back of the fence, or go over to the colored graveyard on Hakey Creek. Those were different times, I guess you’d say. Folks only mixed in certain ways. Colored folks’d come over, keep care of the yards, or tend the houses or the kids; maybe live in a maid’s room at one of the big houses, but other than that, they lived over on their side of town, and we lived on ours. Colored kids went to one school; we went to another. They went to the colored movie house; we went to ours. Sundays, we went to our church; they went to theirs. Guess we were all talkin’ to the same God, though.”
Mr. Nelson shook his head, looking out the window of his shop like he was seeing the town how it was before. “Back then, I had a little friend, Gordy. His daddy worked the stockroom and ran deliveries around town for my daddy. Many a summer Gordy and I spent fishing the banks of Rye Creek, or hiking off through the woods, or sittin’ straddle on an old tree branch and riding it like it was a horse and we were Roy Rogers. Gordy always had to be the Indian, but he didn’t mind, I guess. His mama kept house at our place. She packed us the best lunches—fried chicken and corn bread, and homemade biscuits and jelly she’d wrap up in a little bit of butcher paper from my daddy’s store. I didn’t have a mama, so them lunches felt mighty special to me.
“I remember one time when we were about twelve or thirteen, some of the boys from town saw us walking down under the bridge. They chased ol’ Gordy off, and called me Sambo for having him as a friend, and slapped me around pretty good. After that, my pap said probably Gordy and I’d better not run together anymore. It was about time for Gordy to go to work, anyhow. A lot of the black kids quit school and went to work young, back then.” He scratched his head and smiled, his eyes a little sad behind his thick glasses. “Gordy Finn. He died in Vietnam when he was twenty-one years old. Buried in Arlington National Cemetery. Looked up his name on the wall when I visited the memorial once.” He pointed to a pencil rubbing of Gordy’s name hanging in a frame behind the cash register. “Funny thing, he was probably the first one in his family to have his name carved into a granite marker.”
A lump came up in my throat, and I swallowed hard. I didn’t know what I should say, really, or how I ought to feel. In my mind, I could see Gordy—barefoot in overalls with the bottoms rolled up, walking down the creek with his friend, a fishing pole and a sack lunch over his shoulder. It was weird to think that his history was my history in some way. I never thought much about my daddy’s side of the family. Maybe I had people who were buried out back of some cemetery somewhere. Maybe I had a grandpa or an uncle who died in World War II or Vietnam. Unless I found those women from my mama’s photographs, I’d never know.
J. Norm’s mind wasn’t where mine was, of course. He only glanced at the rubbing of Gordy’s name, like it didn’t really matter. “Were there any other family members—of the VanDraans’, I mean? Anyone who might still be in the area?”
Tipping his head to one side, Mr. Nelson pushed his glasses higher on his nose, like he was trying to get a better look at J. Norm. “No, sir. Not that I know of. Mr. VanDraan did marry again, built the big white house up on the hill, west of town, but his second wife died before they had any children. Drowned in the river out behind the house. Can’t remember all the details, but he married a third time after that, and when that wife passed unexpectedly, there was speculation around town, of course, and her family had some political pull in the county. They vowed to do away with VanDraan, either by legal means or some other
. VanDraan up and sold everything then, and left Groveland. That was when my daddy bought the store, but you can still see VanDraan’s name on the header stone of the building, and in the tile there by the door. My mama used to keep a rug over it. She never quite forgave my daddy for doing business with VanDraan. My mama was a good Christian woman and involved in the temperance movement, and everybody knew VanDraan had made a lot of his money running liquor off ships in Galveston harbor.” Laughing, he shook his head. “My daddy was a good man, but he wasn’t above taking a little nip. He appreciated a good smooth Southern whiskey.”
J. Norm and me looked at the tile in the doorway, reading the name VanDraan. I couldn’t tell from looking at J. Norm whether he recognized it or not. It seemed like he was trying to figure that out himself. “I suppose he would be mentioned in books about the area—this VanDraan?” he asked finally.
“Oh, sure.” Mr. Nelson started down the counter, motioning for J. Norm to follow. “We’ve got a few here for sale. Mostly stuff written by folks from around the Piney Woods.” He moved to a bookshelf on the back wall, and J. Norm met up with him there. I was listening, but I took a minute to check out the ice-cream case. That stuff looked good, and come to think of it, the big breakfast at Ward House was wearing off.
I debated ice-cream flavors while Mr. Nelson showed J. Norm some books from the area. After a minute, J. Norm said, “I’ll take one of each.”