Precious Bones

by Mika Ashley-Hollinger

  “Mama, I know you been gathering clothes and stuff up from all our neighbors for a week now. Can’t you just drop those boxes off by yourself?”

  Mama’s eyes were soft and mirrored as she quietly said, “Because you are too busy, those poor, innocent little children will have to do without?”

  Without thinking, I opened my mouth and blurted out, “Mama, those Reems boys are meaner than a cornered polecat. I nearly hate being around them. I don’t want to go out to that white-trash place. Everybody knows—” Before I could finish my act of stupidity, Mama reached over and pulled so hard on my ear I thought my face would be permanently lopsided.

  “Bones,” she said, “I better never hear that come out of your mouth again. Just because someone doesn’t have as much as another person doesn’t make them trash. And don’t you ever forget that.”

  “Yes, ma’am. But Mama, it was you yourself told me anyone that didn’t have at least one copy of the Saturday Evening Post just wasn’t civilized and could be considered white trash.”

  “Bones, I do not recall ever having said such a thing, although it could be true. Now, let’s just move on. After you finish your dinner, you help me put those boxes in the truck and we are going to the Reemses’. And you are going to act civil.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  After we loaded the back of the truck with boxes of clothes and canned vegetables, we started the butt-bruising ride out to the Reems compound.

  The Reems family had a hundred-acre track of land that bordered ours. Most of their land consisted of scrub palmetto and pine trees. As we pulled into the bare dirt yard, a couple of half-starved hound dogs and two dirty-faced little boys came out to meet us. Mama looked in my direction and whispered, “Bones, you will be kind.”

  With my ear still red and burning, I answered, “Yes, ma’am.”

  The main house, where Peckerhead Willy and his young wife, Miss Alvie, lived was a dilapidated two-story clapboard structure. A board was nailed across one broken window and another had a piece of tar paper hanging over it. Off to the side was a barn with both doors missing and an old smokehouse that leaned so far to one side it was propped up with logs. Past the old barn, I could see the smaller house where Whackerstacker Joe lived with his three boys. Their mama, Miss Alice, died when the youngest boy was born. The boys—Fats, Skeeter, and Smokey—ranged in age from seventeen to nine, and each one of them was meaner than a bee-stung bull.

  On the sagging front porch, old Ma Reems sat in her rocking chair. The screen door squeaked open and Miss Alvie stepped out. Mama got out of the truck, walked up to the porch, and spoke to Ma Reems. “Morning, Miz Reems.”

  Old Ma Reems didn’t even look in Mama’s direction, just rocked back and forth, chewing on her wad of tobacco. Mama turned her attention toward the screen door. “Morning, Miss Alvie, how are you doing today?”

  Miss Alvie held Baby Teddy in her arms. She came down the steps and walked out into the sunlight. A small bulge in her belly poked at the front of her thin cotton skirt. The two dirty-faced boys, Tim and Tom, rushed over, dug their faces into her skirt, and wrapped their arms around her like little octopuses.

  In the bleak front yard, Mama looked as out of place as a peacock in a henhouse. She wore a white blouse and a pair of blue corduroy pants; her honey-blond hair fell to her shoulders and sparkled in the bright Florida sun. Miss Alvie stood next to her in a skirt and blouse that had been washed to drabness; she resembled a little gray rag doll.

  The screen door opened again and two girls walked down the steps. I recognized Martha and Ruthie from school and from other non-charity visits to this house. Mama turned to me and said, “Bones, you get out of the truck and come say hello to Miss Alvie and the kids.”

  The girls, like their mama, were frail and small-boned; they reminded me of little whooping cranes wearing dresses. Their skin was the color of fresh milk. Huge brown eyes peered out from their thin faces. Their coal-black bangs were cut straight across their forehead, and their hair hung down to their bony shoulders. Martha was two grades ahead of me; Ruthie was two years behind me. We had an unspoken pact. Sometimes, when Martha wasn’t around to protect her, Ruthie was tormented on the playground by Betty Jean Davis and some of her butterfly girls. They made fun of Ruthie’s worn clothes, the muck sores on her legs, any flaw they could open and pick at. There were a couple of times when me or Little Man had stepped in and put a stop to it.

  “Hey, Martha,” I said, “Hey, Ruthie.”

  “Hey, Bones,” Ruthie said. “You want to come see some kittens? My calico had five babies a couple days ago. They still got their eyes closed. They’re in the barn, you want to see ’em?”

  “Sure, Ruthie, I’d like that. Mama, we’re going over to the barn.”

  “Bones, before you go, just help me carry these boxes inside the house.”

  Mama went to the back of the truck, handed a box to me, one to Martha, and picked up another one. Ruthie ran up the steps and opened the screen door for us.

  Miss Alvie said, “Just put them right there on the floor. I’ll tend to them later on. Thank you so much.”

  “Don’t stay too long now,” Mama said. “We have to get back and finish up our chores.”

  Inside the barn, the air was filled with the pungent smell of hay and manure. Thin gray lines of light crept in through cracks in the roof and walls. Ruthie took us over to a corner where a small calico cat lay nestled in a box, nursing her kittens. As the three of us squatted down to see the kittens, the bottom of Ruthie’s thin cotton dress got caught on some hay and rose above her skinny thigh. Several purple marks, the perfect shape of a belt buckle, stained her white skin. Martha reached over and quickly pulled the dress down. I had seen those marks before, at school, only then they had been on Martha’s legs.

  Ruthie stood up and said, “I only see three kittens. Two of ’em are lost; we gotta look for ’em.”

  “Then you better go out and dig in the pig muck, ’cause I done fed ’em to my hawgs.”

  Startled, we looked up to see Skeeter, Whackerstacker Joe’s twelve-year-old boy, saunter toward us with his younger brother, Smokey, in tow. Their greasy, freckled skin glistened as they walked through the dim rays of light. The boys were the mirror image of their father, both in looks and disposition. They resembled fat, brown-haired possums. Skeeter hooked his chubby thumbs in the tops of his dirty overalls. “My hawgs et ’em up like little gumdrops. We don’t need no more mouths to feed round here. I’m a-gonna take the rest of them little rats and drown ’em in the creek. Might take the mama this time, too.”

  Ruthie’s huge brown eyes filled with tears, and she began to sob and plead. “Please don’t hurt ’em, Skeeter. I’ll take care of ’em. Please don’t hurt ’em.” Skeeter swaggered toward the little nest. I stood up and stepped in front of him. He stopped and leveled his beady eyes at me.

  I stood my ground. I could hear Nolay’s voice echo in my ears. “Remember, Bones, it don’t matter the size of a man, it only matters the size of the situation. A man’s fear can be bigger than he is. Never show your fear, and you’ll always be bigger than your situation.”

  Skeeter squinted down at me. “What you gonna do, swamp monkey, you gonna stop me? You ain’t nothin’ but a puny little ol’ swamp girl. I’ll break your scrawny neck and feed you to my hawgs.”

  Smokey stood behind his big brother and chimed in, “Yeah, you ain’t nothin’ but a swamp monkey, a girl swamp monkey.”

  I took a deep breath and puffed myself up like a barnyard rooster. “Skeeter Reems, you possum-faced pig head, you’re lower than a dried-up booger. If you want those kittens, you’re gonna have to come through me to get ’em. You might win, but you’re sure gonna know you tangled with somethin’ bad.”

  I saw movement from the corner of my eye and felt something warm move close to my side. I looked to see Martha standing there with a pitchfork. She looked directly at Skeeter and whispered, “Get on outta here, Skeeter. If you touch Ruthie’s kittens, I’m go
nna stick you, I’m gonna stick you good.”

  Skeeter stepped back so quick he stumbled into Smokey, and both of them almost fell down. He glared at us and said, “I ain’t scared of you girls. I’ll get my knife and gut you like dead mullets.”

  “Shut your mouth, Skeeter!” The doorway to the barn filled with the hulking frame of Fats Reems. Fats was the oldest brother. He also looked like a possum, just a fatter one. As Fats ambled toward us, the two younger boys began to back away. “Get on back to the house and keep your stupid yaps shut.” Fats turned toward us. “You girls take them cats up to the house and keep ’em out a sight.” He turned and waddled back toward the door.

  Silently, the three of us gathered up the mama cat and her kittens and walked back up to the house. Ruthie got a wood box and we made a nest for the kittens on the far end of the sagging porch. Ma Reems sat in her rocker like an old sack of potatoes and slowly squeaked back and forth. Her only other movement was an occasional twist of her head as she spat out a black stream of chewing tobacco. Thin brown lines of tobacco ran down the wrinkles on both sides of her craggy old face.

  Just as Mama and Miss Alvie walked out the screen door, Peckerhead Willy staggered around the corner and leaned up against the stair railing. His body reeked of stale sweat and sour mash. He spoke to Mama in a voice thick and slurred. “What kind of charity you bringin’ to my house this time?”

  Mama softly replied, “I haven’t brought any charity, Mr. Reems, just sharing an overflow of abundance from the good Lord.”

  He glared at her. “The Lord ain’t never give me nuthin’ but trouble. I don’t care for nuthin’ he got to give out.”

  Mama turned toward Miss Alvie. “It’s been a pleasure, Alvie, and we’ll have to get together again soon. Bones, you say goodbye to Miss Alvie and the girls.” Then she brushed past Peckerhead Willy as though he were a pile of dried dog poop and curtly said, “Good day, Mr. Reems, and I hope the good Lord continues to rain his blessings on you.”

  On the drive home Mama gripped the steering wheel so tight her knuckles turned white. I broke the silence and asked, “Mama, do you think there is a Saturday Evening Post at the Reemses’ house?” She glanced at me sideways but did not reply, so I continued. “I like the girls, it’s just those boys. I would rather have a boil on my butt than spend time with them.” Mama continued to look straight ahead and drive in silence. “Seems like they get pleasure out of being hurtful to things. I don’t know why Soap Sally hasn’t turned them into a bucket of soap by now. And Mama, why does Miss Alvie look so much younger than Mr. Peckerhead?”

  “Because she is younger, Bones. There are some things that you are just too young to understand.” Almost absently she muttered under her breath, “I don’t understand some things myself.” The rest of the ride home was made in silence.

  That night after supper, I lay in my bed, surrounded by several cats and Nippy Raccoon purring contentedly. The muffled voices of Mama and Nolay drifted out over the quiet and into my room. “That poor woman,” Mama said. “She’s been with that awful man nearly her whole life. In a couple of months, she’ll give birth to their fourth child. Although she had powder on it, I could still see the bruise around her eye. No one should have to live like that. That hateful old man!”

  Nolay said to Mama, “Lori, Honey Girl, I’ve known that family my whole life. Seems like every one of those Reems boys grows meaner than the one before. You be careful, Lori. They ain’t stupid. Every one of them is slicker than a slug and twice as nasty. They ain’t never been up to no good and they never will be. I know how you feel about Alvie and them kids, but you stay clear of them Reems brothers.”

  It was too bad Nolay was better at giving out advice than he was at taking it.

  Little Man was over visiting the next day, when Mama asked if we would walk to the Last Chance to buy her some Lucky Strikes. We had just started down our dirt road when Nolay drove up in the Champion. He had left early in the morning to go fishing with Ironhead.

  He stopped and called out to us, “Where y’all goin’?”

  “Down to the Last Chance,” Little Man replied.

  “We had a dang good fishin’ trip. I brought home some extra fish, and I’m gonna go drop some off for ol’ Blue and Chicken Charlie. If y’all want to wait a few minutes, I’ll give ya a ride.”

  Me and Little Man answered at the same time. “Yes, sir!”

  “Y’all get in, I just want to go to the house and give this fish to Honey Girl.”

  When Nolay returned, he was carrying a small sack with him. “You kids jump in the front seat of the truck. I don’t want to take the Champion out to Charlie’s. It’ll get scratched to pieces.”

  Nolay placed the sack in back of the truck and smiled as he told us, “Some of your mama’s abundance that she wants to share with ol’ Charlie.” I slid in the front seat between Nolay and Little Man.

  Nolay turned right on the county road and took another right when he got to the railroad tracks. A small, sandy road ran along the side of the tracks. On the left-hand side, between the tracks and the road, sat a one-room church painted bright blue; a white wooden cross stood sentinel on its pointed roof. Past the church was a row of neat whitewashed shanties. The yards didn’t have a sprig of grass; the iron-gray sand was raked smooth and flat in the form of a giant sandbox.

  The door and window frames of each shanty were painted a different vibrant color: blue, green, orange, and yellow. Curtains the same color as the frames fluttered in the open windows.

  At one end of the sandbox-yard stood an enormous oak tree. Its huge limbs stretched out and reached up into the clear blue sky. A swing hung from one of its gnarled branches; under its protective shade sat a wooden table and an assortment of chairs.

  As we pulled into the immaculate little yard, Nolay lightly tooted the truck horn to announce our presence. Like little jack-in-the-boxes, an assortment of faces popped up in windows and open doorways.

  From one of the doorways emerged a tall, thin black man. He wore the blue-striped overalls of a railroad worker. His shiny skin stretched so taut over his sharp cheekbones it gave a blue tint to his face. His head was covered in a mass of white cotton-candy hair.

  As he approached the truck, he kept his eyes cast downward. “How do, Mista Nolay?” he said in a soft voice.

  “Howdy, Blue. I been out fishing and come back with more fish than we can handle. Thought you and the family might like some fresh mullet.”

  “Yessah, shore ’preciate it.” He turned toward one of the shanties and called out, “Jackson, come on over here.”

  A younger version of the man walked across the yard. Where his left arm should have been, the sleeve of his blue shirt was tucked neatly inside his overalls. Unlike his father, Jackson held his head up and looked straight into Nolay’s face. “How do, Nolay.”

  “Howdy, Jackson. Grab that sack of fish in the back of the truck.”

  A smile creased Jackson’s face and exposed white teeth. “Shore do thank ya. You can count on us having a fish fry with hush puppies tonight.”

  As Nolay turned the truck around and we pulled away, an array of people spilled out of the little shanties and into the yard. As we drove toward Chicken Charlie’s, I asked Nolay, “Why does ol’ Blue call you mister, but Jackson doesn’t?”

  “ ’Cause Blue is older and he’s experienced things that Jackson has never had to. An older colored person would never call a white man—or an Indian for that matter—anything other than mister.” Nolay glanced over at me. “Bones, I know you been taught to mind your manners with adults, but if you were to ever call Blue or even Jackson mister or sir, they would be mortified. And I ain’t got an answer for that, either. It’s just the way it is. For now.”

  “Nolay, what happened to Jackson’s arm?

  “He lost it in the war.”

  “He fought in the same war with you and Mr. Speed?”

  “He fought in the same war, but not with us. Colored folks didn’t fight alongside whit
e people. They were sent someplace else.”

  “Nolay, did you fight alongside white people?”

  Nolay let out a little laugh. “Now, that did become a funny situation. Same as when I went to school. Seeing that I’m a pretty watered-down Indian and really wasn’t living on the reservation, they didn’t know what to do with me. I wasn’t dark-colored enough to go with the blacks, so they just put me in with the whites.”

  Little Man asked, “You mean there was colored people in the United States Army? I sure never knew that before.”

  “Oh yeah, there were lots of colored people, but they were separated from the whites.”

  I squirmed in my seat and said, “Well, that just don’t seem right. If they could fight in the same war, and I reckon for the same reasons, why were they separated?”

  Nolay shook his head and said, “You do ask some interesting questions, Bones.”

  “And Nolay, I have another question—why are they called colored people? They’re not colored, they’re just different shades of black and brown.”

  Nolay looked at me and winked. “You got me on that one too, Bones. I ain’t got a clue. I just know that’s how it is.”

  Little Man said, “You just said they’re different shades of black and brown. That’s colored, ain’t it?”

  “No, it’s not,” I said. “Colors would be blue or green or something. And I have never seen a blue or green person, and I know you never have either.”

  Little Man rolled his eyes. “Bones, where do you come up with some of this stuff? You don’t think it’s right to keep a hog in a pen and kill it for food.”

  “If you go out and hunt something that’s been wild all its life and use it for food, that’s something else. But I sure wouldn’t put Pearl in a pen and then eat her.”

  “That’s because she’s a pet,” said Little Man. “Nearly every animal you set eyes on becomes a pet. I reckon if it was up to you, all the animals in the world would be pets and us people would eat vegetables and dirt or something like that.”