I put my arms around my sisters. “Let’s go,” I said. “I reckon we won’t be talking to Momma after all.” I heard my voice shaking. My eyes was stinging and if I wasn’t careful the girls would catch me crying. I had to be the strong one.
But I didn’t feel one bit strong.
We went home by the road. The blackberries was running rampant all over the side ditch. And the bright orange trumpet vine too. The road wasn’t nothing but dry red dust under our feet. It splashed over my toes and covered the hairs on my toes so you could count every one of them if you was of a mind to.
But I wasn’t in a mood for counting toe hairs. That was something I would do on a happy day. And even the blackberries and trumpet vine didn’t make me happy today.
We passed the little church for coloreds that set by the side of the road. Two men was digging in their graveyard. I wondered if polio had killed one of their people. Or maybe it was a soldier that had died.
I thought how I lived less than a mile away from that colored church and I didn’t know none of the people that went there.
Sometimes, on a Sunday evening, when I was sitting on the front porch watching Bakers Mountain turn deep blue as the sun went down the other side, I would hear them colored people singing, their voices floating over the fields. It was different from the singing at my church for sure. But I liked hearing it. And sometimes I’d go walking out the dirt road to catch the sound of it a little better. But I never went too close.
It seemed like there was just some neighbors you could get to know better than others—like Junior’s family, for instance. When we got to their lane, I said, “Let’s go talk to Junior. He’ll know what to do.”
Junior’s hound dogs come out from under the porch and howled like they didn’t have no idea who we was.
“Jesse, you hush and get over here right now,” I hollered. Jesse started wagging his tail all sorry-like and slunk over to us. Ellie scooped him up and Ida sat in the dirt and started kissing on Butch, the other dog.
Junior must’ve been dozing on the porch swing because he looked downright sleepy. “Howdy,” he said, and he give a big yawn.
“Junior,” I said, “I got a predicament. I need to talk to Momma. But the Hinkle sisters won’t let me use their telephone on account of the polio quarantine.”
Junior stood up so fast the porch swing went flying out from behind him and then come frontward and almost knocked him over. “Well, that is plumb ridiculous!” he said. He opened the screen door and stuck his head inside. “Momma,” he hollered, “I’m going to the Hinkles’ to help Ann Fay make a telephone call.” And without so much as another question about what was going on, he started down the steps.
One thing about Junior—whenever there’s a problem, you can always count on him to take over.
I yelled at Ida and Ellie to quit playing with them dogs and catch up to us. While we waited, Junior adjusted the straps on his overalls and tried to make his curly brown hair lay down by licking his hand and smoothing it across his head.
As we was walking I told Junior about Pete disappearing. “You seen him anywhere?”
Junior shook his head and frowned. “He might have run off somewhere to grieve,” he said. “I’ve heard tell of dogs that was so sad when their owner disappeared all their hair fell out. Or they run off and died in private.”
Ellie started crying when he said that. So Junior tried stuffing those words back in his mouth. “Course Pete wouldn’t die,” he said. “He’s got too much spunk. He’s probably out looking for Bobby right now. Shoot! That dog is so smart, he probably already found him.”
Then he changed the subject real quick.
When we got back to the Hinkle sisters’, Junior knocked on the front door and hollered out, “It’s me, Junior Bledsoe. I need to talk to you, please, ma’ams.”
Miss Pauline opened the door, but the instant she seen us standing behind Junior, she covered her face and stepped back.
“Please, Miss Pauline,” Junior said. “Ann Fay needs to talk to her momma.”
Miss Pauline said, “I’m sorry. But the health department put up those quarantine signs for good reason. She can’t be breathing into our telephone. What if she has infantile paralysis and doesn’t know it yet? The girls will have to get off our porch.”
I tell you what’s the truth—I felt downright dirty when Miss Pauline said that. I felt like one of them people in the Bible that had leprosy and wouldn’t nobody but Jesus touch them. I took the girls by the hand, and we went out to stand by the yellow bell bushes at the edge of the yard.
Junior said, “What about I come in and talk to their momma? They can wait at the edge of the yard and I’ll pass the messages back and forth.”
Miss Pauline looked like she might actually let him do it. But then she said, “Maybe you’ve been touching the girls. You might have the germs too.”
I seen Junior’s shoulders sag and knew he was running out of ideas. But then he said, “Well then, can you call for us?”
Miss Pauline didn’t say anything at first. I seen her eyes on us girls and I could see the fear in them. And the sadness too. She wasn’t used to turning people away. Finally she said, “Tell me the number and I’ll make the call for you.”
Junior looked at the number on the letter and repeated it for Miss Pauline. Then he stood close to the dining room window and passed the messages back and forth.
Junior took over the conversation from the beginning. “Tell her Ann Fay is doing real good with them girls. She’s just like a momma herself.”
It wasn’t true, of course. But it made me feel good that he was bragging on me so Momma wouldn’t worry. And bad, because I didn’t want to be a momma. Being the man of the house while Daddy was gone was one thing. But being the woman of the house—that was more responsibility than I could handle.
We couldn’t hear Miss Pauline, but Junior said she told how Momma was going to stay at the hospital with Bobby as long as she could—that is, if Junior and his mother would help look after us. Of course Junior told Momma not to worry, on account of him and Bessie was already watching out for us.
Ellie started crying for Momma then, and Ida went and put her arms around her. I patted Ellie on the head and smoothed down her blond hair, which was full of knots because we was in such a hurry to get to the telephone that we didn’t comb it. She buried her face in my overalls and wiped her snot on them too. But I didn’t fuss at her because I knew she was missing our momma.
And when it come to Bobby, she was probably as scared as me.
“Tell her the twins are doing fine,” Junior told Miss Pauline. “Tell her they’re standing right outside with Ann Fay and all three of them are smiling up a rainbow.”
Junior Bledsoe could sure lie when he needed to. But I didn’t fault him for it. I knew he didn’t want my momma to worry.
I said, “Ask her does Bobby hate that iron lung?”
Junior passed the message on to Miss Pauline and waited for her to answer.
“He loves it!” said Junior, and I knew he was lying on my end too. “Your momma said it saved his life and he’s too weak to be jumping around anyhow. He sleeps a lot.”
Pretty soon Miss Pauline hung up the phone and shut the window. She motioned for Junior to come around to the back of the house. When he come back he had a stack of newspapers.
“Miss Pauline sent these,” he said. “They tell all about that emergency hospital. She says if you come every day she’ll give you the paper from the day before. Just get them off the back steps.” Junior held up one paper so as I could see it.
The headline said YANKS PUSH FOE BACK IN FRANCE. I reached for the paper. I could use some good news about the war—something to make me feel like Daddy could come home alive.
And I did want to read all about the polio hospital.
“Well, it’s not as good as talking to Momma,” I said. “But at least it’s something.” Then I seen a smaller headline, lower on the page: Boy, 12, Polio Patient, Dies a
t Camp Here. My heart sunk to my dusty red toes.
I knew some people died from polio, but seeing it like that right here in my hometown paper and knowing Bobby was in the same hospital put a new fear right through me.
Junior carried most of them papers until Ellie started up whining about being tired. Then he said, “Here, Ann Fay, you take the newspapers and I’ll carry her.” He stooped down and said, “Get on my back, Ellie.” And he carried her piggyback until Ida started asking when it was going to be her turn.
“When we get to that mailbox,” said Junior.
I thought how Miss Pauline was so scared of us and here was Junior letting my little sisters breathe in his hair. Catching polio didn’t seem to bother him a bit.
I hadn’t never really thought of it before, but I figured out right then and there what is the definition of a true friend—someone who knows you might be dangerous to be around and they stick by you anyhow.
9
Hickory Daily Record
July–August 1944
With Momma gone to the hospital, all her jobs fell on me. I figured that included writing to Daddy about Bobby. I didn’t want him worrying about us, but I knew he would want to know something as important as Bobby having polio.
So one day I finally sat down and wrote it straight out for him to see—although I tried to put a good face on it.
Dear Daddy,
We miss you something awful. I don’t know if you heard about the polio epidemic. It got so bad they shut down a camp and turned it into an emergency hospital in Hickory.
Well, everybody says what happened next was a pure miracle. In just three days they had a regular hospital with beds and doctors and nurses. If that hospital needs anything, it just puts out a call. The donations start pouring in like water.
The bad news is, Bobby is there. He collapsed one day while we was working in the garden. He seemed fine one minute, but the next thing I knew, he couldn’t move. Momma is there with him, so me and the girls are taking care of things around the house.
But don’t worry about Bobby. They have polio doctors from all over the country working there—even a doctor from the president’s Warm Springs place. And smart people who study epidemics.
I read in the paper where Life magazine even come and took pictures of the hospital, but I don’t know when it will come out.
Junior looks in on us every day, and of course I’m being the man of the house just like you told me. You would be proud of the garden, even if it does have more weeds than you can shake a stick at.
If Bobby was here he would say, “Good night, sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite.” If I could, I would send you one of his pictures, but I had to burn them and his toys because of the polio germs.
Well, I better go now. But don’t ever forget—I love you better than pinto beans and cornbread.
Your daughter,
Ann Fay
I sent that letter off with a prayer that the war would be over soon and my daddy would be home again. And Bobby and Momma too. All of us put back together.
But for now, I knew I had to make the best of it. In the evenings I read the newspaper—after I was done washing the clothes, cooking meals, and working in the garden.
I read everything in it, even the Colored News, which mostly told about their special church programs, like gospel quartets. And personal news, like who just sent their sons off to the war. It put me in mind of that colored soldier that got on the train the same time as my daddy.
Every day the paper had something on the front page about the polio hospital. One day it showed a picture of an iron lung. It looked like a big metal barrel on a stand. There was lots of buttons and meters on it and some little windows on the side—I reckon so the doctors and nurses could look in or maybe reach in and take care of the patient.
There wasn’t nobody in it, so I couldn’t really tell how my brother would look in one of them. And I for sure couldn’t figure out how it worked. But I remembered how Junior said only a person’s head would be sticking out. It made me feel all lightheaded just to think about my little brother being trapped in one of them. He should be running around in the back yard with Pete right now.
One thing I read in the paper just stuck with me. At the end of an article about that hospital it said, “The first case of polio was reported in Wilson County today. A thirteen-yearold white girl came down with the disease.”
Well, I don’t live in Wilson County, but the rest of it sounded like me. When I went to bed that night, I kept hearing that sentence in my head: A thirteen-year-old white girl came down with the disease. Those words floated in and out of my dreams and kept me half awake until I couldn’t tell what was dreaming and what was real. I spent the night wiggling everything from my toes to my nose just to prove to myself that I didn’t have polio.
When I woke up the next day I almost give up on reading that paper. But then Ida started pestering me to read it to her and Ellie. So sometimes I would tell them what it said. The good stuff, anyway.
“The polio hospital is bright and sunny,” I told them. “It says they have really good doctors. And lots of volunteers—the women from the Hickory Country Club are providing food for the people at the hospital. It says they need baby beds and electric fans, but everything else has been donated.”
“Like what?” asked Ellie.
“Like hotplates and sheets and lots of blankets for the Kenny treatments.”
“What’s the Kenny treatments?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But I’m sure they make Bobby feel better.”
It seemed like the epidemic was just getting worse. Every day the papers told about some camp or special program that was closed because of infantile paralysis. It even said the Catawba County schools wouldn’t open on schedule. And that included Mountain View, our school.
At first the Hickory Daily Record had said the emergency hospital would be equipped for forty patients. But about three weeks later the paper said they had ninety patients. Volunteers was working around the clock, building new wards for all them people who had polio.
The polio news was always right there on the front page. And all around the polio news was articles about the war. I read the parts that wouldn’t scare my sisters. Like when the Yanks—that’s the American soldiers—took some city back from Hitler. If a soldier from Hickory got killed, I didn’t dare mention it because the girls would think Daddy was dead. And to be honest, it always give me that feeling too. I knew it could be him any day.
We kept watching the mailbox for letters from Daddy. Even the girls could tell if he sent one or not, since it come in a special brown envelope. It was called V-mail—V for Victory. It had an oval-shaped window in it for our name and address to peek through. The letter was always in Daddy’s handwriting, but it wasn’t his ink—it was just a picture of the letter he wrote.
On the radio they said V-mail saved lots of money on stamps. They said the army could take pictures of the mail and send it to the United States on a roll of film. Then they printed it out and sent it to the soldiers’ families.
Daddy wrote back fast after I told him about Bobby.
My dear little children,
I know you have a heavy load to bear right now. But you know you can do whatever you put your mind to. Ida and Ellie, I’m counting on you helping Ann Fay. Don’t make her do all the work.
Your momma is doing the right thing staying so close to Bobby, even though it’s hard for you. If you need anything, be sure to call on Junior or Bessie. They’ll do good by you.
Don’t worry about me. The good Lord is keeping me safe, and I will come back to you just as soon as we get done fighting this war.
I reread your letters every chance I get. I pray for each one of you by name and I can see your sweet faces in my mind. Don’t forget to pray for me.
Love,
Daddy
Daddy was right about Junior and Bessie Bledsoe. Junior come by every day to drop off some food Bessie had fixed or j
ust to help me in the garden.
Sometimes the girls would help real good. But other times they come up with excuses like headaches and tummy pains. If they argued with me the least little bit, I’d back right down. I knew if I had let Bobby play when he wanted to, maybe he wouldn’t be in that hospital right now.
The first corn and tomatoes got ripe while Momma and Bobby was at the hospital. I hated that because I knew Momma had a hankering for tomato sandwiches and corn on the cob.
And speaking of tomato sandwiches—one day I broke a promise I made to Peggy Sue a long time ago. I took my little sisters for a picnic in Wisteria Mansion.
I don’t know what got into me. I guess I got to thinking, what if Bobby never got to see that place? It would be a crying shame if a body had to go through this world without a glimpse of how beautiful it can really be. Not that I expected Bobby to die or anything. But the thought would cross my mind once in a while—especially at night when the house seemed so empty and quiet, when all I could hear was the twins stirring in their bed and the clock ticking on the wall and the crickets singing outside my window. Sometimes I would go curl up on the girls’ bed just to feel them breathe.
I reckon I took the girls to the mansion on account of I was scared I might miss my chance if I didn’t do it now. And then again, maybe I was just trying to escape to a place that was free of trouble.
Anyhow, we made tomato sandwiches. I even sprinkled a tiny bit of sugar over some blackberries and we packed them up and went off for some adventure.
“Where are we going?” asked Ellie.
“Back behind them vines to a special place where bad things don’t happen.”
Well, I reckon them girls needed to see a place like that as much as I did, because the next thing I knew, I was leading them with their eyes shut through the tangle of wisteria vines.
“Now,” I said when we was inside the mansion with the thick wall of wisteria vines and the pine trees all around us. “Open your eyes.”
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