A Month of Sundays

by Ruth White

  Aunt June is wearing a broad-brimmed straw hat. She is pouring sweat in the sun, and she takes off the hat to fan herself with it. Her face is brick red, and I think if people around here would get out of bed before noon, we wouldn’t have to work in the hot sun. We could do it early in the morning. But I manage—with considerable effort—to hold my tongue. Then Aunt June quits before finishing her row and goes to the hammock, which is shaded by the apple trees. She looks like a little girl lying there.

  I am surprised when Emory goes to where she is and bends over her. They speak for a few moments; then Emory goes into the house and brings out water for her. I gotta admit that was a pretty sweet thing for him to do.

  Aunt June recovers after resting and has supper ready when Uncle Otis comes home from work around five-thirty. As it turns out, filet mignon is nothing more than cow meat, but it’s so tender, even if you were toothless you could gum it to pieces.

  The evening goes about the same as yesterday. We eat. Then we go to the television room. When it’s time for pop and candy, Avery asks me if I want to go to the store with him. I say I guess so.

  “Y’all be careful crossing that road,” Aunt June hollers after us. And we are.

  The store is cramped and dark. It smells like old wood and something pungent—turpentine, maybe. There’s not much on the shelves.

  Mr. Richards laughs when he sees me. “Well, there she is! August’s little girl!”

  “Her name’s Garnet,” Avery says.

  “Pleased to meet you, Garnet,” Mr. Richards says. Up close I can see that he’s a tall, thin, white-headed old geezer with flabby jaws hanging like a bloodhound’s.

  “It’s a pretty name,” Mrs. Richards says. She is short and humpbacked, a funny-looking wee woman. Her hair is dyed a reddish brown, but there’s about an inch of gray at the roots.

  “We knew August when he was a boy,” Mr. Richards says. “He was a ball of energy.”

  “I’ll pick the pop, Garnet,” Avery says as he peeps into the drink cooler, “and you can pick the candy.”

  I look over the selection of candy. Not much to choose from. I decide on Hershey bars as Avery pulls five bottles of Royal Crown Cola out of the cooler. Mrs. Richards places everything in two brown paper pokes.

  “Charge it,” Avery says as we head out the door.

  “How long you stayin’ for?” Mrs. Richards calls, but Avery and I are darting across the road before the words are out of her mouth.

  7

  It’s Thursday morning, and I’m sitting on the ground facing Mitzi with the wire fence between us. We’ve been meeting each morning, and I like her more every time I see her. Oh, I know it—she’s not all together. She looks like Raggedy Ann, and she has a hillbilly drawl thick enough to spread on a biscuit, but she’s my friend. She’s easy to talk to. I just hate that she can’t go to school with the other kids. That’s what she told me. People say she’s too dumb to get educated. That hurts her feelings.

  “Emory’s not friendly with me,” I am telling her. “But Avery is sweet.”

  Mitzi is chewing on a ham biscuit. It looks so good. I’m hungry, and Aunt June is still in bed. I think I might have to start finding my own breakfast.

  “Yeah, Avery’s tenderhearted,” Mitzi agrees. “Emory’s got thangs weighing on him.”

  “Like what?”

  “Beats me, but I kin tell. Emory’s burdened in his mind.”

  “About what?” I persist.

  “Dunno. He useta laugh till he pooted,” Mitzi says.

  At that I laugh.

  “It’s the truth,” Mitzi says. “Him and his daddy too.”

  “Uncle Otis?” I say. “I can’t imagine him laughing much.”

  “He kin act the fool good as anybody,” Mitzi tells me.

  I think about it all day. They used to laugh, and now they don’t. Wonder how long ago that was? Could it be only last week, and now they don’t laugh on account of me?

  When Uncle Otis comes home from work he brings in a handful of mail and begins to sort it on the kitchen table.

  “Postcard for you, Garnet,” he says to me, “from your mom.”

  Well, what about that. He has finally spoken directly to me. And he sounds almost friendly. The postcard shows a picture of Daytona Beach, addressed to Garnet Rose, in care of Otis Bill, State Road 460, Black River, VA.

  Hello, Garnet.

  We got here all right, and Grace has got herself a job already. I’m still looking. You will like it here. Write to me at the address below and tell me what’s going on. I hope you are having a good time. Tell your aunt and uncle hello for me. See you soon.

  Love, Mom

  I’ll like it there? Sure, whenever she decides she wants to claim me as her daughter again. She hopes I’m having a good time? Well I’m not, but what does she care? And if she thinks I’m going to write her back, she can think again.

  In the evening I can’t keep my mind on the TV, so I get up to go to bed before Playhouse 90 is over. Aunt June asks me if I’m feeling okay.

  “Just a little tired,” I tell her.

  I’m guessing it’s about three o’clock in the morning when I have a bad dream about a dark room of secrets, and I come awake drenched in sweat. I’m breathing too fast, and my heart is flying. At first, I don’t know where I am, and when I remember, I don’t feel any better.

  It’s lonely here in the night. The sky is full of stars, but there’s no moon. My windows are open to let in the breeze, so I can hear the frogs and the katydids. All the lights are out in the neighborhood, and the cars have stopped running. I could be the last person in the world and not know it. Maybe the Martians came and wiped everybody out. They missed me because I don’t belong here. They are looking for me in Elkhorn City.

  In the past Mom was always there to comfort me when I had a bad dream, but now she’s in Florida having a good time. I look at the mountains dark against the sky, and it comes to me that this narrow valley is like a cradle. It’s a comforting thought.

  Now, I have to go to the bathroom. I am quiet as I open my door and go down the hallway. Just outside the bathroom a sound comes to my ears, and I can see a light below the stairs. Yeah, somebody’s down there.

  I fuss about the neighbors being nosy, but I’ll have to admit it, I am naturally that way myself. Mom says I get it from her, so I can’t help it. I tiptoe to the head of the stairs and listen. I hear a muffled voice—no, two muffled voices. I creep down the stairs. Now I know the sounds are coming from the log room. The door is open and that’s where the light is coming from.

  I cover more steps, and I am so still I can hear my own heartbeats. Near the bottom of the stairs I bend over the railing, and I can make out two figures in the secret room. One is Aunt June sitting in a rocking chair with an open Bible on her lap. There’s a candle burning on a table beside her. There are sure-enough logs in the wall, and a lot of shelves and old furniture. The other person is Emory. He is kneeling on the floor beside her. And he’s crying.

  At that moment he lifts his face up to her and says, “But what will we do without you?”

  And she says nothing, just rubs his hair. He sobs and buries his head in her robe. But I should be ashamed of myself. This is too personal. I should not see this. So I go up the steps even more quietly than I came down. I go to the bathroom and back to bed. I lie there listening, but I don’t hear anything.

  What will we do without you? What will we do without you?

  Is Aunt June going away? Is she coming back? Or is she leaving her family for good? That does not seem likely. But how can I ask about it without giving away that I was on the stairs eavesdropping? Sleep is a long time coming.

  8

  This is my Father’s world,

  and to my listening ears

  all nature sings, and round me rings

  the music of the spheres.

  Here I am on Sunday morning at the Joy Creek Church of Jesus, listening to some children singing. Aunt June and I are sitting three ro
ws from the back and four from the front of the sanctuary. She is all dressed up, but I’m wearing one of my school dresses, and I don’t think she approves of it.

  At breakfast, she asked me if this was my best dress.

  “Yes, it is,” I told her. “It looked a lot better on Mom when it was hers. She had to take it up for me, a tuck here and a tuck there.”

  That’s when I caught Uncle Otis eyeing me, and I felt like crawling under the table. But he surprised me.

  “It’s a nice-enough dress,” he commented, and I nearly choked on my food, “but maybe you should get something fancier for church.”

  Oh, yeah, sure, I thought, I’ll just go right out there and pluck some twenty-dollar bills off that money tree of mine. And what does he know about dresses anyhow ?

  The voices of the children are as bright as the chrome on Uncle Otis’s Plymouth. Aunt June drove us here in it. We traveled deep into the hills for nearly an hour, and finally stopped in front of this tiny pretty white church house beside a babbling creek. Someone was ringing the steeple bell and it echoed through the clear morning into the hills and hollers.

  People were hurrying in the door as Aunt June parked the car on the shoulder of the dirt road where a few other cars were parked. But it was apparent that most of these folks walked to the church house. When we went inside, they were already singing a hymn, and everybody stared at us while we found a seat. I could see that my dress was about as “fancy” as some others.

  Now the singing is done, and the preacher grins at his congregation like he’s so happy to see us he could just bust.

  “Praise God!” he says. “‘This is my Father’s world’!”

  “Amen! Amen!” the people say. Aunt June says it too.

  It is so hot in here that I am actually fanning myself like an old woman, with a cardboard hand fan I found on our bench. On one side of the fan is a picture of Jesus, and on the other side there’s an advertisement—“Crump Funeral Home, for all your bereavement needs since 1904”—and the words to a hymn:

  Farther along we’ll know more about it,

  Farther along we’ll understand why;

  Cheer up, my brother, live in the sunshine,

  We’ll understand it all by and by.

  From his Bible, the preacher reads the Sermon on the Mount. Blessed is this, blessed is that.

  When he’s finished, he says, “Today we’re going to invite the Holy Ghost into our humble little chapel. And should he oblige, he might bring his heavenly language with him.”

  “Amen! Amen!” the people say, and smile and mumble things to each other.

  Aunt June leans over and whispers to me, “He’s talking about speaking in tongues.”

  Well, hallelujah! I am thinking. That’s sarcastic, I know, but I don’t say it aloud. What I wouldn’t give to be out there wading in that creek instead of sitting here on this hard bench listening to a hillbilly preacher.

  “Now, some people might say we are all cracked!” the preacher says with a glint in his eye.

  Again the people react with smiles, nods, and comments.

  “And that’s something that is not in the Sermon on the Mount, but should be—‘Blessed are the cracked, for they are the ones that let in the light!’”

  This brings a roar of laughter. Yeah, this preacher is on a roll today. Next comes the sermon. It’s not too long—just long enough to put some people to sleep. Then a cherub in a white dress appears out of nowhere—maybe from heaven. Her eyes are china blue, and her hair is as golden as butter. She stands before the congregation, folds her tiny pink hands in front of her, and starts to sing in a voice that pierces the heart.

  Soft as the voice of an angel,

  breathing a lesson unheard,

  hope with its gentle persuasion,

  whispers her comforting word.

  When the child ends her song and sits down, people start standing. They also begin to hum and sway with their eyes closed. A whisper ripples through the congregation like a warm breeze. Then this teenager acts like he’s been struck by lightning, and falls out. Right beside him a woman with a big old goiter on her neck does the same thing. Both of them are flat on the floor, crying like their hearts are breaking in two, but they are smiling. At first I am startled and wonder if they are all right, but nobody else seems concerned. So I relax and keep watching.

  The preacher reads some more scripture in a loud, clear voice. “And suddenly there came a sound from heaven as of a rushing mighty wind, and it filled all the house where they were sitting. And there appeared unto them cloven tongues like as of fire, and it sat upon each of them. And they were all filled with the Holy Ghost, and began to speak with other tongues, as the Spirit gave them utterance. Acts 2:2–4.”

  No sooner said than done. About five or six people, including the two on the floor, begin to talk in an unknown language—leastways, it’s unknown to me. After they have uttered strings and strings of unintelligible words, they seem to run out of steam, and others take up where they left off. The sound of these separate monologues all going on at the same time creates a tuneless chorus of praise to the Lord. Even in the closeness and heat of so many bodies in one place, I think I feel that “rushing mighty wind,” as I get chill bumps on my arms. Yeah, this is definitely weird.

  I steal a look at Aunt June and see that she is totally spellbound. After what seems like hours, but maybe it’s only forty-five minutes, the service breaks up, and the people go back to normal. They start milling around speaking to each other with everyday words, and some people talk to us and welcome us to Joy Creek.

  All the way back home Aunt June talks about what we saw.

  “Wonder if it’s really the Holy Ghost,” she says at one point.

  “Wonder if he would ever come to me like that,” she says at another point.

  “Wonder if anybody understands what they’re saying.”

  “Wonder if they’re putting on?” I mumble, but I don’t think she hears me.

  “Look at that!” Aunt June cries as we pull into the yard beside a new blue Chevrolet. “Your poppy’s here!”

  9

  And there he is coming out on the porch. Poppy is tall with a gray mustache and a bald head. He’s smiling, and his blue eyes are twinkling as he watches me get out of the car.

  When I reach the porch, he says, “Just look at you! As pretty as a spring day.”

  “Hello, Poppy,” I say, and smile up at him.

  He takes me into his arms for a big hug, then releases me, but keeps one arm across my shoulders. “I’ve been watching for you to come home. I couldn’t wait to meet you.”

  We all go inside to the kitchen where Uncle Otis and Emory are reading the Sunday paper.

  Emory glances up from the funnies and says, “Well, Princess Garnet, did you get saved?”

  But nobody pays him a lick of attention.

  We sit around the wooden table and talk while Aunt June cooks Sunday dinner. Mostly it’s just me and Poppy talking. Avery chimes in once in a while. Though Uncle Otis and Emory act like they’re reading, I know better. They hear every word. Poppy asks me almost the same questions Aunt June asked that first day. He keeps looking at me and grinning.

  “A granddaughter!” he says, like he can’t believe it. “I have a granddaughter.”

  And I do some serious wondering. When a man’s wife is expecting a baby, it’s not something he would simply forget to mention. Could it be that my dad was too ashamed to tell his family he left my mom like that? Well, he should be ashamed.

  “Can I call you April?” Poppy asks me.

  I know it’s the family tradition to be named after the months of the year, but for some reason I feel like if I say yes, I will betray Mom. And even though I am mad at her, I still don’t want to do spiteful stuff to her.

  “Mom always told folks to call me Garnet,” I tell Poppy.

  “Okay, Garnet it is!”

  I feel he is disappointed, and silence falls over the room for a moment.


  “So!” Poppy finally says. “Do you know how your mom and dad met?”

  I glance around at the others. They all pretend to be absorbed in what they’re doing, but you can almost feel their curiosity. It makes me self-conscious.

  I shrug. “Not exactly. At some square dance, I think.”

  “Down at Pikeville, wadn’t it?” Poppy says.

  “Yeah,” I answer. “I think so. And Mom said he could have charmed the black off a crow.”

  Poppy and Aunt June laugh.

  “She told him a funny joke, didn’t she?” Poppy goes on.

  “No, it was him told the joke,” I say.

  “Yeah, that’s right. It was August. What was that joke? I don’t know if I ever heard it.”

  Of course I know the joke. I’ve heard my mom tell it. But now I feel shy about repeating it. What if nobody laughs?

  Poppy is persistent. “Didn’t your mom ever tell it to you?”

  Everybody is looking at me. They expect me to tell that dumb joke.

  “Okay,” I say with a big sigh, like I’m bored with the whole idea. “This woman rushed in to see her doctor. She was wringing her hands because she was worried sick.

  “‘Doctor, Doctor,’ she says. ‘Tell me what’s the matter with me. When I woke up this morning, I looked at myself in the mirror and saw that my hair was all wiry and frazzled up, my skin was wrinkled and pasty, my eyes were bloodshot and bugging out, and I had this corpselike look on my face! What’s wrong with me, Doctor?’

  “And the doctor looks her over for a couple of seconds, then he says in a calm voice, ‘Well, I can set your mind at ease on one thing. There’s nothing wrong with your eyesight.’”

  You might think Jack Benny himself told that joke, the way the kitchen nearly explodes with laughter. Aunt June has to stop mashing the potatoes so she can bend over to catch her breath. Avery and Emory are practically on the floor. Poppy is slapping the table with the palms of his hands, and Uncle Otis? Well, he has tears rolling down his cheeks.