Precious Bones

by Mika Ashley-Hollinger

  Nolay laughed and said, “Bones, there’s a lot of things in the world that ain’t quite right. Maybe it will take you young’uns to change things. All I know is the way things are now.”

  Out past the Reems place, Nolay began to slow down so he could find the nearly hidden entrance to Chicken Charlie’s. He turned off the county road and said, “Y’all roll up the windows. You know Charlie grows some mighty big skeeters. They can eat us when we’re outside, but we’ll try and keep ’em out of the truck.”

  The road wasn’t much more than a tunnel that led through a massive tangle of guava trees. The truck bumped and scratched its way along until we pulled out into a clearing. Rays of sunshine leaked in through the thick guava trees, sending down long gray ropes of light into the little yard.

  In the middle of the clearing rested a small ramshackle house. The front yard was a living carpet of chickens. On the sagging front porch, fat hens nested in boxes, crates, and broken-down chairs. White icicles of chicken manure dripped from the lower branches of the surrounding guava trees.

  Parked in front of the house was a rusty pickup truck. Nolay said, “Looks like Charlie has company.”

  Little Man leaned in for a closer look. “That looks like Peckerhead Willy’s truck.”

  “I think you’re right, Little Man. What’s that ol’ cockroach doing out here?”

  The screen door opened and Peckerhead Willy sauntered out. He glared in our direction, walked to his truck, got in, and drove off into the guava-tree tunnel.

  Nolay mumbled to himself, “Wonder what that was all about.” He looked in our direction. “Y’all ready to give some blood to Charlie’s skeeters? Little Man, grab that sack in the back from Lori. Let’s go say howdy.”

  We stepped out of the truck and were immediately assaulted by the sharp smell of chicken manure and rotten guavas. A black cloud of hungry mosquitoes swarmed toward our face and hands.

  The screen door opened and out walked a man so large his body wobbled from side to side. When he saw us, a broad grin split his chubby face. A wave of fat rippled under his chin and down his neck, disappearing inside his faded overalls.

  “Howdy, Nolay,” he said. “Whut y’all doin’ over these parts?”

  “Just got in from a few days fishin’. Brought in a big catch, too much for us to eat. Thought you might like some fresh mullet.” Nolay placed some fish wrapped in newspaper in one of the old chairs alongside a clucking hen. “And of course Lori canned up too much stuff again, so she sent a few things. Just put that sack over there, Little Man.”

  Charlie rubbed a puffy hand over the top of his balding head. His pale blue eyes wandered in our direction. Inside that huge body lived the mind of a child. “Well, I sure do thank ya, Nolay. Miz Bones, Little Man, how y’all doin? I ain’t seen y’all in a heap a Sundays.”

  “Just fine, Mr. Charlie,” I said. “It’s been a busy summer. I can’t believe it’s almost over.”

  “Now, if y’all want some guavas, you just go pick as many as you want. Nolay, you wait right here, I’m goin’ in the back and get you a sack a dried chicken ma-newer; I know how Miz Lori loves her garden. You wait right here.”

  Charlie wobbled around the back of the house; his huge, flat bare feet padded softly in the dirt. When he returned, he had a croker sack in one hand and a little basket woven out of dried guava branches in the other. He handed Nolay the croker sack. “This here ma-newer is already dried, so Miz Lori can put it right in the ground.” He handed the little basket to me. “Now, I know you got your own aigs, but these here are special. Every one of ’em has a double yolk. I got a special hen only lays double-yolk aigs.”

  I said, “Thank you, Mr. Charlie. I know we’ll enjoy them.”

  “Miz Bones, you still got that big ol’ rooster of yourns? It’s been a while since I was last out to your house, but I won’t never forget what a beautiful fella he was. I shore would like to have one of his babies, if ever you could let go of one.”

  “Don’t you worry, Mr. Charlie,” I said. “There’s a hen sittin’ on a nest right now, and if one of the biddies is a rooster, I’ll make sure you get it.”

  Nolay picked up the croker sack and said, “Sorry we cain’t stay longer, Charlie. I gotta get down to the Last Chance and get in a few supplies. Just wanted to stop by and say howdy.”

  A huge grin filled Charlie’s face. “Well, I sure am proud you did. Y’all come back again.”

  As Nolay walked away, he turned and said, “Charlie, ol’ Peckerhead come out and visit you very often?”

  The smile disappeared. Charlie lowered his head and said, “Naw, just sometimes.”

  “Everything all right, Charlie?”

  “Oh yeah, everything is fine.”

  “Okay then, we’ll be seein’ ya. You need anything, you let me know, okay?”

  “I’ll do that, Nolay.”

  Little Man and I sat in the truck and scratched the welts on our arms and face. “Do you think Mr. Charlie is happy living like he does?” I asked Nolay.

  “Well, I cain’t say if Charlie is happy or not, but I would think that he is content. He has everything he needs: his chickens, his house, and half the dang skeeters in the state of Florida. I reckon happiness is what you make it. I’ve known Charlie pert near my entire live, and I ain’t never heard him complain.” Nolay pulled up to the Last Chance and handed me a dime. “You two get a moon pie or something.”

  As we dashed inside the store, I waved to Mr. Speed sitting on his bench. “We’ll be right back,” I called out to him.

  I heard Nolay say howdy to Mr. Speed before he walked inside the store.

  We bought our moon pies, came back outside, and sat down on the steps next to Mr. Speed’s bench. Little Man took a bite and said, “Howdy, Mr. Speed. I can’t believe it’s almost the end of summer. We’ll be starting back to school soon.”

  I said, “Me and Little Man are going to the movies this Saturday. It’s a double feature; one is a war movie, but I’m sure it will be good, because it has John Wayne in it.”

  Mr. Speed tilted his head to one side and said, “During the war, America made a bomb, called the a-to-mic. Dropped it on Japan. Two times, two times. It melted people, like Popsicles in the sun. Yes, sir, like Popsicles in the sun.”

  “Mr. Speed,” I said, “we did that? We dropped a bomb that melted people?”

  “Yes, sir, like Popsicles in the sun.”

  “That don’t sound like a nice thing to do.”

  Little Man shook his head and said, “Good Lord, Bones, it was during the war. What you think people do during a war, come out shakin’ hands?”

  “Well, of course I know it was a war, but it still don’t seem like a nice thing to do. I mean, melt people with a bomb?”

  A car with a New York license plate pulled up to the gas pumps. The car door opened and a thin man got out. He wore a white shirt and blue plaid shorts that reached down to his skinny knees. His white legs and arms were blotched with patches of pink and crimson where the sun had burned away the top layers of skin. He walked past us and into the store.

  Little Man made a clucking sound. “I swear, some of these Yankees wear the dangest things. Did you see them shorts he had on?”

  “Of course I saw ’em, and I know what they’re called: Bermuda shorts. Ain’t that right, Mr. Speed?”

  “Yes, sir, Bermuda shorts, they are called Bermuda shorts.”

  Little Man scrunched up his face and said, “Why are they called that?”

  “I don’t know why,” I said. “I just know that’s what they’re called. Maybe they were made in Bermuda or something.”

  “Well, I swear you never will see me in a pair of them things.”

  The Yankee man walked out of the store, got back in his car, and drove away.

  Little Man nibbled on his moon pie and said, “Now, that man’s sunburn looked like it would be mighty painful. I can’t believe people come down here and just sit in the sun like that. I like going to the beach, turtle hunt
in’ and fishin’, but I sure ain’t gonna lay down and fry like a piece of sausage.”

  Mr. Speed bobbed his head up and down and said, “Florida got thirteen hundred miles of beach, thirteen hundred miles. Most of it fish poop. Just plain ol’ fish poop.”

  Little Man and I exchanged looks before he replied, “Lordy, Mr. Speed, you mean to say all that sand is no more than a fish outhouse?”

  “Most of it. Just parrot fish poop. They eat the coral and turn it into sand. Gets washed up and makes a beach, thirteen hundred miles of beach.”

  Little Man slapped the side of his leg and let out a little hoot. “Now, if that ain’t a sight, all those Yankees come down here and pay money to get sunburned while lying on top of fish poop.”

  Nolay walked down the steps carrying a cardboard box of supplies. “Be seein’ you later, Speed. You kids ready to go?”

  “Yes, sir,” I replied. Turning back to Mr. Speed, I said, “I’ll try to stop by this Monday and tell you all about the movie picture. Okay, Mr. Speed?”

  Mr. Speed was having a good day, the pages in his mind dry and turning nicely.

  He tilted his lopsided head in my direction. From under his green baseball cap he looked at me, his bright brown eyes shimmering with little flecks of gold. His head slowly bobbed up and down. A crooked smile crossed his face. “The movie picture, the movie picture.”

  I didn’t know it then, but Mr. Speed and John Wayne had a lot in common.

  All Saturday morning, me and Little Man patiently waited for Mama to drive us up to the railroad tracks so we could catch the train and go to the movies. We finally got her out to the truck, only to look up and see Ironhead’s pickup bouncing its way along our driveway.

  He got out of his pickup and walked, stiff-legged, over to our truck. We could tell by the way his breath came in little spurts that he had some important news to share. He leaned one hand against the car and scratched his fiery red hair. “Morning, Miss Lori. Is Nolay around?”

  “No, Ironhead. Actually, I thought he was off fishing with you.”

  “No, ma’am, Miss Lori. I ain’t seen Nolay for a week or so.”

  Mama cocked her head to one side. “Well, he must have changed his plans.”

  Ironhead huffed and puffed and shuffled his feet in the dirt. Finally he said, “I tell you what, I just tell you what, I don’t know what’s goin’ on in these parts anymore. Early this morning, Jackson, Blue’s boy, found ol’ Peckerhead Willy lying across the railroad tracks, cut plumb in two. Deader than a doornail.”

  “Good Lord, Ironhead,” Mama said, leaning against the truck. “Where about did they find him? What happened?”

  “Ain’t sure, Miss Lori. They found him up near where the shortcut goes back of Charlie’s place and into the Reemses’. They figure he musta passed out, and the early-mornin’ freight train run ’im over.”

  Mama shook her head. “Alvie, that poor woman. What will she do now? Good Lord, I have to go see Melba. We have to start getting stuff together for Alvie and the kids.”

  Me and Little Man looked at each other. It was plain to see that Mama’s mission was no longer to get us to the railroad tracks. Her sole intent now was to gather up an abundance of comfort food to share with that poor woman and those poor kids. I cleared my throat and said, “Mama, maybe Ironhead could give us a ride to the railroad tracks. That way you could get started on what you need to do.”

  “Well, that would be fine, if it’s no bother for Ironhead.”

  “No, ma’am, I’m headin’ back that way right now.”

  As we got out of the truck, Mama said, “Now, you remember to catch the six o’clock Greyhound bus back home. I’ll meet you two at the Last Chance.”

  On our ride to the tracks, Little Man asked Ironhead, “What do you think happened?”

  “Don’t rightly know. He musta got liquored up and stumbled onto the tracks. I don’t know. There’s just too much strange stuff happenin’ around here, I can’t keep track of it anymore.”

  When we arrived, Blue and a group of colored kids were already standing at the railroad crossing. When we were going to catch a ride on the train, Blue was always there to make sure everyone got on board safely.

  As we got out of the truck and walked toward the group, the air was thick with excitement. We chattered about Peckerhead Willy’s body and our big adventure going to the movies. The movie was a double feature: Roy Rogers in The Golden Stallion and John Wayne in Sands of Iwo Jima.

  One of the older colored boys told us, “It was my pa that found ’im this morning. He went out to check on rail spikes and come across the body. He went down to the Last Chance and asked Mr. Ball to call the sheriff to come out.”

  Little Man let out a whistle. “That musta been something, coming across a sight like that in the morning.”

  Even though it was Saturday, everyone wore their Sunday best—we were going to town to see a movie! The colored girls had on bright starched dresses; their hair was braided in multiple pigtails and adorned in a rainbow of colored ribbons. The boys’ overalls were clean and crisp, a knife-sharp crease ironed down the front of each leg. Me and Little Man had on our best dungarees and polished cowboy boots.

  At the sound of the train whistle, Blue took out a white handkerchief, stepped up to the tracks, and began to flag down the approaching train. The huge locomotive slowed, its steel wheels screeching and whining against the tracks.

  As the train came to a stop, an invisible wall of separation silently slid between us and the colored kids. Me and Little Man handed the conductor a quarter and boarded the first car. The colored kids walked down to the last car.

  We picked a window seat in the middle of the car and sat down. As the train jerked and squeaked to a start, I looked around the nearly empty car and said, “It don’t seem right that they can’t just sit up here with us.”

  “You know whites don’t sit with coloreds.”

  “Well, it still don’t seem right.”

  “I swear, Bones, I don’t know where you get some of your ideas from. It’s just natural. You don’t see blue birds mixing up with red birds. And whites don’t mix with coloreds. Next thing, you’d have us marryin’ up with ’em.”

  “I didn’t say I wanted to marry one of ’em, but I don’t see no harm in sitting together or even going to school together. Blue birds and red birds sit in the same birdbath, don’t they?”

  Little Man’s big brown eyes rolled around in his freckled face as he groaned, “Good Lord, Bones.”

  Suddenly, he pointed out the window. “Looky yonder, there’s the sheriff’s car and the funeral car. We must be going over the very place where ol’ Peckerhead got run over. I bet his body is in that funeral car.”

  I looked out the window and saw Sheriff LeRoy and several other men as they stood by a big black hearse. The sheriff was looking down into his right hand at something bright red. Something that looked very familiar.

  “Little Man, that is a terrible thought. I don’t want to have that picture in my mind. I don’t want to think about a train running over ol’ Peckerhead’s fat body. Let’s talk about something else.”

  “Well, it did happen.”

  “I know it happened, but I don’t want to think about it.”

  “What do you want to talk about?”

  “I don’t care, anything but that.”

  “Okay, suit yourself, I don’t have to talk about nothing. I can just sit here and be quiet.”

  It wasn’t that I didn’t want to talk to Little Man. I just couldn’t get my mind off what Sheriff LeRoy was holding in his hand.

  Me and Little Man leaned back in our seats, and the rest of the ride was spent listening to the steady click-clack of the train wheels speeding along the steel tracks.

  When the train finally pulled into the Melbourne train depot, Little Man and I started the short walk to the theater. The colored kids followed at a respectful distance. We paid our dime, got a box of popcorn, and entered into the dark, damp, magical world o
f the Van Croix Theater. At the front entry was a sign with black letters that said Colored Section, with an arrow pointing toward the balcony.

  For the next few hours, we sat spellbound as John Wayne and his loyal band of Marines smoked hundreds of cigarettes and killed thousands of Japanese. The auditorium filled with sniffles and tears when John Wayne died. At the end, when the American flag was raised in all its glory, we clapped and cheered.

  We watched as Roy Rogers went to jail before he would let his best friend, the beautiful palomino Trigger, be killed. All too soon, Roy and Trigger rode off into the sunset while “Happy Trails” played. The lights inside the theater came on, and reluctantly, we got up and slowly moved with the throng of kids toward the doors.

  Once outside, like ducks in a row, with the colored kids a respectable distance behind us, we headed toward the Greyhound bus station. Being that there was only one passenger train a day, we had no choice but to catch the bus back home.

  At the bus station, we purchased our tickets and sat on a bench out front and waited for the bus to come. There were two water fountains along the outside wall. A sign above one said Whites Only, and above the other one it said Coloreds Only. I had no idea what would happen if someone white drank out of the Coloreds Only fountain, but I always wanted to sneak a try. The picture of all those different-colored birds splashing around in the same birdbath popped up in my mind.

  Finally, the bus arrived, belching gray smoke and gasoline fumes. Me and Little Man got on and sat in the front seats and watched the colored kids silently walk by, heading for the back of the bus.

  “Little Man,” I said, “do you know when I was little, I thought I was going to grow up to be Roy Rogers?”

  “You cain’t grow up to be somebody else.”

  “Well, I know that now, but when I was little I didn’t. Anyway, when I grow up I’m gonna be a veterinarian. I’m gonna open up an animal hospital and live right here for my whole life. Do you know what you want to be?”

  “I sure do, I’m gonna join the army and be a soldier. I’m gonna go out and see as much of the world as I can.”