Precious Bones

by Mika Ashley-Hollinger

  That afternoon, when everyone returned to class after recess, a small package sat on Betty Jean’s desk. It was wrapped in white paper with a pink ribbon. There was a note written in red crayon: “From your secret admirer.”

  Betty Jean picked up the little box, placed it next to her ear, and shook it. The butterfly girls fluttered around, twittering, “Open it, open it. Who’s your secret admirer? What’s inside?”

  Betty Jean sat down at her desk and, with exaggerated prissiness, began to untie the pink bow. She leaned her face in as she slowly lifted the cover. A gigantic black and yellow spider leaped out of the box and onto her elbow. It ran up her arm, across her horrified face, and onto her springy brown curls.

  The room filled with shrieks and screams. One of the butterfly girls fell down, and two others trampled her. Betty Jean sat at her desk, stomped her feet, and screamed hysterically. By the time Miss Watts reached her, the spider had scurried down Betty Jean’s back and dashed toward an open window and freedom.

  Betty Jean sobbed uncontrollably as Miss Watts led her out of the classroom.

  At the end of the day, as I was leaving the classroom, Miss Watts called me over to her desk.

  “Bones, would you know anything about that spider today?”

  “Yes, ma’am, that’s what we call a garden spider, or a writing spider. You know, like in the story Charlotte’s Web. They make big pretty webs. But they don’t bite.”

  “Do you have any idea how it got in that box and onto Betty Jean’s desk?”

  “I reckon, like the note said, it was from a secret admirer.”

  “I guess you’re right, Bones. Let’s hope her secret admirer doesn’t give her any more gifts. I’ll see you on Monday.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  On the bus ride home, Little Man made me tell him the story over and over. Each time he laughed harder and said, “I wish I coulda seen it. She was blubberin’ in front of everyone? I wish I coulda seen it.”

  “Well, I don’t know. Maybe it was sort of a mean thing to do. I didn’t think it would scare her that bad.”

  “What are you talking about, Bones? You feel sorry for Betty Jean? She deserved even worse. That girl ain’t never done one good thing for anybody. Don’t go feeling sorry for someone like that.”

  “Well, I reckon so. Maybe after this, she won’t be so mean.”

  As I was about to get off the bus at my stop, I turned and said, “Thanks, Little Man.…”

  He crinkled up his freckled face and replied, “Aw, it wadn’t nothing. I’ll see you tomorrow, Bones.”

  That evening I was helping Nolay tie up the airboat after one of his trips to the swamps. He still wasn’t wearing his red handkerchief; he had a blue one tied around his mop of black curls.

  He got out of the airboat and pointed to a stand of reeds. “Bones, can you see that little bittern over there?”

  A small brown-speckled bird walked cautiously through the reeds. Nolay threw a pebble in the bird’s direction. It immediately pointed its beak in the air and stood as still as a stick. It all but vanished as its little brown body blended in with the reeds.

  I looked at Nolay. “You know, I been thinking. Maybe if things don’t work out—I mean, you know, it could turn out to be bad for you. Bad for all of us. Maybe we could just move into the Everglades. We could go where nobody would ever find us. We could disappear into the swamps, just like that little bittern did.”

  Nolay stopped what he was doing. “Bones, do you think I killed those two men?”

  “No, sir, I’m not saying that. I just don’t want you to go back to jail. I don’t want Mama to be sad. I just want us to live together and for things to be the way they were before all this happened.”

  “Bones, I wish things were different, too, but they ain’t.”

  “Nolay, what happened to your red handkerchief, the one you used to always wear?”

  “Lost it out fishing one night. Why you ask?”

  “Just wondering is all.”

  “Bones, I know it’s a confusin’ time right now. It’s confusin’ for me, too. All we can do is be patient and see what ol’ LeRoy comes up with.”

  “I don’t know about Sheriff LeRoy, he’s so big and clumsy. He just don’t seem to be very smart. And he moves slower than pond water.”

  “Now, Bones, don’t go faulting LeRoy ’cause he’s big. And being slow don’t mean he ain’t smart. Pond water can fool ya. It can be smooth and still on the top, but you don’t know what all is goin’ on underneath. Still waters run deep.”

  Nolay put his arm around my shoulders. “Come on, Bones, we best be getting back to the house. Your mama will have supper ready.”

  At the dinner table as the conversation circled around things like court, lawyers, and Sheriff LeRoy’s investigation, I asked Nolay, “What if Sheriff LeRoy don’t come through? What will happen to you? Will you go to prison forever?”

  “Bones, I ain’t gonna beat around the bush with you, I’m gonna be truthful. Now, I’m trusting in LeRoy that he’s gonna come through with some solid evidence, ’cause I ain’t done nothing wrong, but if things don’t work out, I could end up in prison, or even worse, sittin’ in the electric chair.”

  Like a slap upside my head, I realized that Betty Jean could be right. Just the sound of the words electric chair felt like someone pouring ice water down my back.

  Mama’s eyes snapped over in Nolay’s direction. “Nolay, for heaven’s sake, don’t talk like that. You don’t need to make things worse for Bones. It’s hard enough for any of us to understand.”

  “I ain’t tryin’ to scare Bones. That ain’t my intention. But I don’t want to hide the truth from her, either.”

  Mama looked over at me. “Bones, right now we have to trust in the Lord and pray that LeRoy will find the right answers.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I will try harder to do that.”

  I sat at the table and tried to picture LeRoy’s big clumsy body working alongside the Lord to keep Nolay from being strapped into the electric chair. But the more I thought about it, the bigger that ugly old chair got, empty and waiting for someone to sit in it. How could someone think up something as mean as that to do to people? Then I thought of something that reminded me of mean, and that was those Reems boys.

  “Mama, do you know what happened to Martha and Ruthie? Since school started they haven’t showed up for one day.”

  “Why, no, I don’t, Bones. This is the first I’ve heard of it. Why didn’t you mention it before?”

  “I just had so many other things on my mind, I forgot.”

  “Well, of course, that’s understandable. Maybe you and I can go pay them a visit tomorrow.”

  “Are you sure, Mama? Remember Sheriff LeRoy told Nolay to stay clear of the Reems. I just thought you might have heard something.”

  “Don’t worry about that. I am not your daddy, and I am not going out to see any of the Reems men. I am going out to see Miss Alvie.”

  Nolay looked at Mama. “I don’t know, Honey Girl. You might want to stay clear of that family.”

  “I just want to know what’s happening with Alvie and her kids.”

  “Promise me you’ll be extra careful. And don’t be getting into no arguments with them brothers. I don’t want to have to come out there myself.”

  “I will be very careful. It’s the neighborly thing to do, and I will be doing it. The sheriff said you had to stay away, not me.”

  Mama picked up her fork, took a bite of food, and that was the end of the conversation.

  Saturday morning, soon as I walked into the kitchen, Mama said, “We’re going out to the Reemses.”

  “Mama, are you sure?”

  “I am not going to get into trouble. Now, get your chores done and let’s get going.”

  As soon as we pulled into the decrepit yard, the pack of half-starved dogs came to greet us, but not the dirty-faced little boys. Mama looked around and said, “Something is not right out here.” The house stood dark and forebo
ding. Old Ma Reems sat in her rocking chair chewing on her wad of tobacco and staring out into nothing.

  Mama gave a neighborly toot on the horn, but the house remained silent. Finally the screen door squeaked open and Whackerstacker and Fats, his eldest boy, ambled out onto Willy’s front porch. I squirmed in my seat and whispered, “Mama, maybe we should just go and come back some other time.”

  “No, we are here now. I am not afraid of that mean old man. And I don’t want you to be, either.”

  The two of them swaggered down the steps and up to Mama’s window. Whackerstacker spat out a long stream of black tobacco juice and said, “What y’all doin’ here?”

  “I came to give my regards to Miss Alvie. Do you know where she is?”

  Whackerstacker hooked his thumbs in the tops of his ratty overalls and glanced into the back of the pickup. Seeing the box he said, “Looks like you come to my house bringin’ more of your dag-blasted chairtee.”

  “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Mr. Reems. That is not charity; God provides some people with an abundance to share. Now, do you know where Miss Alvie and the children are?”

  “Yeah, I know where they are. I done sent her and all them brats packin’ back where they come from. I put ’em on the Greyhound bus with one-way tickets back to her mammy and pappy.”

  Mama sat in silence; I felt the air thicken in the cab of the truck. She looked directly into Whackerstacker’s bloated face and spoke almost in a whisper. “Why, you heartless old dog. You put that poor woman and those poor children out of her own house! They were your brother’s children!”

  “Ain’t her house. That there is my family house. My land. Not her’n. Them two girls ain’t no blood of mine. Ain’t my cause to take care of ’em. That’s her blood.”

  “You old skunk, that poor woman was married to your brother. She had three children with him and another one on the way. She was slave to him and your mother for all these years. She deserved better; she deserved to stay here for the rest of her life. She deserved to be treated decently.”

  “Ain’t none of your bizzness what I do. Now you get off my land before I send my boy here for my shotgun.”

  I grabbed Mama’s arm. “Let’s go. Remember what Nolay said.”

  Mama slowly and deliberately turned the ignition key; the old truck engine sputtered to life. She put her head out the window and said, “You cockroach-brained slug. One day I will look down from heaven and watch you roasting on a spit.”

  She jammed the truck into first gear, shoved down on the accelerator, and did a sliding U-turn out of the desolate yard. I looked back to see Whackerstacker and Fats standing in a cloud of grimy dust.

  Mama drove over the bumpy dirt roads so fast I had to hold on with both hands to keep from banging my head on the roof. I kept my mouth shut so if slipped I wouldn’t bite my tongue off.

  That night at supper, I finally got up the nerve to ask, “Mama, what did ol’ Whackerstacker mean about the girls not being his blood?”

  Mama gave a sly glance in Nolay’s direction. “I guess if you’re old enough to ask the question, you’re old enough to understand.” She took a sip of her ice tea. “Martha and Ruthie are Miss Alvie’s baby sisters. Old Peckerhead Willy met her family one time when he was in South Florida selling moonshine or some such shenanigans. Alvie’s family were dirt-poor migrant farmers.”

  Mama stopped and took a deep breath. “Her parents gave—or maybe I should say sold—Alvie, along with her two younger sisters, to Peckerhead. As far as I know, the agreement was that the girls, along with any children Alvie had with Peckerhead, could live in that house for as long as they wanted or needed to.

  “Those two little boys, Tim and Tom, and the baby, Teddy, and the one she was about to give birth to were Peckerhead’s children. They were Whackerstacker’s true blood kin.” She shook her head. “And now that heartless old man has sent her and all those poor children back to another dirt hole.”

  I stared at Mama in disbelief. “That’s why the girls look so different from the boys. That’s why they were treated so badly.” A picture floated across my mind of Martha and Ruthie standing in the yard with the Reems boys. “They really were cranes living in a pigpen.”

  Like a big rock, the full meaning of what Mama had said dropped on top of me. My eyes darted back and forth between Nolay and Mama. “They sold their own kids? People can’t be sold. You can’t just buy and sell people. Can you?”

  Nolay was the first to reply. “It wadn’t that long ago, Bones. Surely you’ve read up on slavery in school. Colored people were passed around like old used-up rags. It shouldn’t of happened then. And it sure shouldn’t be happening now. But I guess in certain ways it does go on.”

  “But they sold their own kids. How can anyone do something like that?”

  “Desperation. Ignorance. Being so poor you can’t put food on the table. I don’t know, Bones. I ain’t gonna judge nobody else’s actions, no matter how wrong they may seem to be.”

  “Why didn’t y’all tell me this before? I would have been nicer to them.” I hung my head. “I could have been nicer to them.”

  I looked across the table and met Mama’s soft gaze. “Bones,” she said, “just be nice to everyone. Treat people the way you want to be treated and you’ll never live to regret it.”

  That night as I lay in bed, I pictured Martha and Ruthie, the bruises on their legs, the secondhand clothes they wore. The sad, blank look that lived in their eyes. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to erase the pictures. But they wouldn’t go away; they just hovered there in my bedroom.

  It was mid-September and already a family of whooping cranes had returned to nest in the swamps. Every evening they flew over our house, their mournful cries announcing the end of the day and the coming of darkness.

  Sunday after me and Mama returned from church, I was in the kitchen helping her knead some dough for our supper biscuits. “Mama, right before the sun sets, me and the dogs are going out to see if we can find the whooping cranes. Mr. Speed told me that just when it starts to get dark and they think nobody can see them, they do a magical dance with each other. He said it is just enchanting.”

  “Bones, I would rather you didn’t go out in the swamps, especially by yourself.”

  “I won’t be by myself; I’ll have the dogs with me. And I’m not going in the swamps, just to the edge where the cranes come and nest. You know Silver won’t let anything happen to me.”

  “Well, I guess it’s all right as long as the dogs are with you. And don’t be too long, get back here before dark. And be real careful. Watch out for snakes.”

  “Don’t worry, Mama, I will. And Mama, did you know that Florida has over forty-seven different kinds of snakes?”

  “Forty-seven? I’m guessing you heard that from Mr. Speed.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I did. He told me that out of all them different kinds of snakes, the smartest one is the cottonmouth moccasin. He said when the babies are born, they have a little yellow tip on their tail and they use it like a fishin’ worm. They wiggle it around and bait bugs and stuff to come close so they can eat ’em. And he said the rattlesnake is the best mama. She goes back to the same nestin’ hole every year to have her babies, and she is a kind and loving mother.”

  “He said a rattlesnake is a kind, loving mother?” Mama smiled. “I do wonder where that man gets all his information.”

  “Well, sometimes he gets things a little mixed up and I have to listen real hard to try and understand. But I think he always knows what he’s saying, even if we don’t. Me and Little Man think he has a special connection to God.”

  “That could be, Bones, that could very well be.”

  Right at dusk the three cranes flew over our house. I whistled for the dogs, and we set out on our journey. At first we followed the well-worn path that led to the small landing where Nolay kept the airboat. From there we veered off and followed along the edge of the swamp. On one side were huge stands of cattails and saw grass; on the other was a
field of tangled, twisted scrub palmetto.

  The dogs ran ahead and sniffed their way along the trail. Before long we came to a wide stand of cypress trees that grew along the edge of the swamp. The trees stood tall and forlorn, like old forgotten soldiers, their trunks bent and gnarled from a lifetime in swamp water. I knew the cranes nested somewhere in this area.

  I stopped to listen for the whooping cranes’ melodious song. All I heard was the wind playing with the dry grass and leaves. That was when I saw Silver crouched down on her haunches, the hairs along her back raised straight up in the air like a rooster’s tail. Paddlefoot and Mr. Jones stood still as statues; the three of them stared straight ahead.

  I peered into the misty stand of cypress trees and thought I saw the shadow of something or someone move. From inside the darkness, something stared back at me; it stopped and waited for me to move closer. The air filled with a stale, sour odor. I stood as though my feet were frozen to the ground. The shadow shivered and moved forward. I turned, yelled for the dogs, and began running as fast as I could back toward our house.

  Behind me I heard feet thrashing through the dry undergrowth. From the corner of my eye I saw Silver loping protectively by my side. Suddenly Paddlefoot veered in front of me and the two of us tumbled down. I rolled over and fell into a thick tangle of palmetto roots. The razor-sharp palm branches scraped and cut my bare arms.

  Silver came to me where I lay on the ground. She faced behind me, growled, and bared her teeth. Too terrified to look back, I jumped to my feet and raced forward. My heart pounded like a drum inside my chest.

  Me and the three dogs hit the yard running. Through the window I could see Mama in the kitchen cooking supper. I ran inside and collapsed at the kitchen table, wide-eyed and breathless.

  She turned and looked at me. “Bones, what on earth is wrong with you? My goodness, look at your arms. What happened? I’ll get some kerosene and iodine to put on those cuts.”

  Mama left me panting at the kitchen table. She walked back in with a rag dipped in kerosene and a small bottle of iodine. She began to wash my cuts. “Bones, what happened out there?”