Summer of the Guns

by Justin Daniel Herman

  “Sorry,” she said, “I forgot you kids don’t know any signing.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “Me and Kelly are headed for the trash dump anyway. We’ll come back when you’re finished.” Then Kelly and I started to leave the room, but Ace stood in the door and blocked us.

  “You’re both stayin’ right here. I know it’s boring but it’s for Sara’s sake. She can’t learn signin’ by herself—we all have to learn some of it. That’s the only way it will work. Do you understand?”

  We stayed inside for all the signing lessons after that, but we didn’t have our minds on learning. At least not at first. Only Thelma forced us to pay attention whether we wanted to or not. After her second visit, we were all picking it up except for Ace. Thelma told him to quit trying because he was slowing down the rest of us. Then Kelly and I exchanged a wink. We felt like we’d pulled one over on him.

  One night when the lesson was over, Thelma went into Ace’s bedroom and didn’t come out until morning. After that she started staying over almost every single night. I would lie on my bed listening to their talking. I wasn’t trying to spy but the walls were thin.

  Off and on I could smell smoke from their cigarettes. It came magically through the walls somehow. Then I’d hear Ace go into a coughing fit. Every time it happened, Thelma said the same thing. “Ace Kelly, those things are gonna kill you before the year’s out.”

  Ace always gave the same reply: “Before the year’s out I may be dead anyway, so I’m enjoying myself while I can.” On one particular night, it was a Saturday, I think, Thelma asked him about Sara and me. I could hear every word, even though they were talking low. “You can’t just keep these children indefinitely,” she said. “Somebody’s going to recognize them and you could be in real trouble. Charles Sykes still has that reward out.”

  “Yes, I do know,” he said. “And that’s not the only thing that’s going to get me in trouble.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “It’s complicated. But I may as well tell you the upshot. There are some people high up in state government who are probably gonna want me dead.”

  “Oh, come now,” scolded Thelma. “You’re letting your imagination run away with you. Why on earth would anyone want you dead?”

  “Well they don’t want me dead just yet,” said Ace. “But they will soon enough if I can get to the bottom of this Jessie Atkins thing.”

  “You don’t think Carl Moran did it?” she asked him.

  “All I know is that it’s damned obvious that Governor Atkins is curious about the children. They’re tied up with what happened to Jessie but there’s gotta be more to it than that. And no, I don’t think their father did it. Only someone wants to make him a fall guy.”

  I could hear the crunching sound of mattress springs as she changed positions to get comfortable. “Oh, come on, Ace,” she answered, “You’re too anxious about everything and it causes you to imagine things.” She was quiet for a second. “I don’t mean you’re making it up. I just mean you’re seeing motivations that aren’t there.”

  Ace was quiet after that. I figured he was taking a drag on his cigarette. “You’ve heard the rumors same as me,” he went on. “Jessie’s gone back to drinking and sleepin’ around since her baby drowned and her husband killed himself. Word’s out she was having a little tryst with Billie’s dad.”

  “You mean William’s father,” she said.

  He was quiet for a minute. “Jesus,” he replied. “I gotta remember to call her Will, don’t I?”

  “Only in public,” said Thelma.

  Ace coughed a few times, then went on. “It’s a lot of bullshit but that doesn’t stop people from saying it. He hadn’t been in Arizona but for a few hours before she was shot. Then there’s all that stuff about Johnny Atkins wantin’ to let colored kids go to school with the white kids. They’re talking about closing Carver High and sending the colored kids to the white school. That stupid Dan Bryson is calling him a race traitor. I hope to God they kick Atkins all the way to Kansas, but that Bryson is even worse.”

  “What’s Bryson got to do with Carl Moran?”

  “Nothing, except that he’s probably gonna win the primary unless Atkins can get Moran convicted. Atkins has to look like he’s tough on the colored people. He’ll probably tell Horne to ask for the death penalty.”

  I felt myself shiver, then a sick feeling came over me.

  “Keep your voice down,” I heard Thelma say, “the children are in the next room.” She was trying to speak softly but the thin walls were like a sieve. “And where might I ask did you here all these rumors about Jessie Atkins drinking and sleeping around?”

  “You won’t like it. But I’ll tell you anyway. Cora Malcome. She hears all the rumors at the hospital.”

  “At the hospital?” she asked.

  “She’s over there temporarily. She gives out medications. It’s just until they hire a pharmacist.”

  “Good Lord, Ace. She wouldn’t know an aspirin from an antiseptic. And I wouldn’t trust her gossip, either. She’s nothing but a bitter old sow.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, I can’t believe it,” Ace replied hotly. “You got nothing to be jealous of. That woman weighs a ton.”

  “Well, so do I, sweetie,” Thelma responded. “I think you like us that way.”

  “I’m not sayin’ another word,” Ace replied as the bed creaked. I smelled smoke from a freshly lit cigarette. Then there was a short silence, broken by coughing. “Oh, hell, I just can’t get it all out of my mind.” He was wheezing as he spoke. “That goddamned county attorney is actually goin’ down there to the hospital himself and pushing Moran to confess. I can’t see what his stake is—why does he care that much?”

  His words put me on high alert. It sounded like Papa was getting better. He must have regained consciousness, I figured, if they expected him to confess.

  “You’re quite the detective,” said Thelma sarcastically. “Full of big theories without a single shred of evidence. Let’s get some sleep. I’m exhausted just from listening to you.”

  There was dead silence after that except for Thelma’s snoring. I laid awake for hours thinking about what I’d heard.

  9

  It was only a couple of days after that when we awoke to see a crew of workmen unloading an old yellow Mack truck across from Jack Wells’ house down the street. They began pounding stakes into the hard ground and putting up a tent large enough to house a circus. Only our hopes for clowns and elephants were dashed when a tall, dour lady calling herself Sister Maybelle Muir appeared at our door carrying pamphlets for the Church of the Holy Ghost. They were holding a revival. She invited us to participate, but Ace shook his head sideways. “With all due respect, ma’am,” he said politely, “from what I hear about your version of heaven, I’d rather take my chances down below.”

  “Oh, my,” Miss Muir replied. “You’re just the kind we want. You can sit right here on your porch and hear every word of my sermon tonight.”

  “You mean you’re the preacher?” Ace asked.

  “Oh, indeed,” she answered, then frowned suddenly when he pulled out a cigarette. “Maybe the Lord sent us here just to save you and these children.” As he lit up his cigarette, she fanned the smoke away from in front of her face and moved toward the steps. “By the looks and smell of things, it’s going to take a lot of savin’, too.”

  Ace stood there glowering, then started to cough. The woman looked back and shook her finger at him. “Judging from the sound of you, we haven’t got much time,” she said as she turned toward the street.

  That afternoon, another visitor showed up at our front porch. His ribs stuck out and his belly was lank, but he had what Ace called “excellent personal traits” that made us all love him. His long body suggested him to be part dachshund, with a touch of several other breeds thrown in for good measure. His stubby legs gave him about ten inches of height. His front legs were so far from his hind legs that his back swayed in the mi
ddle. His fur around his shiny eyes was matted and dirty, but he seemed to smile in spite of it. When I reached down and patted him I could feel him trembling.

  “Ace, please let us keep him,” Kelly pleaded. “He’s hungry and lost. Just like Billie and Sara.”

  I felt a little mad when Kelly compared us to a lost dog, but I wasn’t about to argue.

  “We can’t hardly feed ourselves, so how are we gonna feed him?” Ace answered. “We’ll take him to the shelter. That’s the best we can do.”

  I knew I shouldn’t do it but somehow I couldn’t stop myself. I decided to tell him about the money Sara was carrying in her doll. Only I didn’t tell him how much it was; I just told him Papa had given us money in case we needed it in an emergency. I went into the bedroom and got out ten dollars, then came out and gave it to Ace.

  He looked at it and smiled. “I probably would have ended up letting you keep the dog anyway, but this sure comes at the right time. I’ve got about a dime in my pocket right now. Maybe that preacher lady brought us luck.”

  That night, Thelma didn’t show up for the lesson. When we asked Ace why she didn’t come, he admitted she was mad at him. Fortunately, Sara had already learned so much that she was joining in our conversations. She was developing a close friendship with Kelly. He could talk to Sara in sign language almost as good as Thelma could. The two of them would sit across the room carrying on private conversations and giggling. Though I could use signs enough to spell out some words, I couldn’t follow most of what they were saying. Ace just ignored them but I got mad for not being included.

  That evening things really got going at the tent. We all went out on the front porch to listen. It was a hot August night and we sat fanning ourselves with newspapers and watching the people in the open tent, the sides of which were rolled up to let in what little breeze there was. Sister Maybelle was speaking in a loud voice, quoting the Bible.

  “God told the prophet Ezekiel,” she said, “be not afraid to approach the people, though they be like a horde of scorpions.”

  “That ain’t the exact quote,” commented Ace, “but it’s nice to know what we nonbelievers are. We’re poisonous insects, I guess.”

  “I don’t like her,” said Kelly as he signed to Sara what was being said. Then we heard Sister Maybelle again. “It is our mission to turn the scorpions into sheep,” she shouted. “And we as shepherds shall tend those sheep.”

  “Next, she’ll be makin’ goats out of us,” Ace intruded sarcastically. “Better ‘n bein’ scorpions or snakes.” He spoke too soon; Sister Maybelle was already talking about serpents.

  I studied Ace’s face, wondering how he happened to know about the Bible, of all things. There were a lot of things I didn’t know about Ace. He was always surprising me.

  As the evening progressed, things got livelier. There was shouting and screaming as people exhorted each other to find the “Holy Ghost.” They got down and rolled in the dirt while the congregation reached a fevered pitch of singing and shouting. “Now you see why they’re called ‘Holy Rollers,’” Ace commented, puffing away.

  Our little dog, now named Stranger, went over and sat in front of the tent and began to howl along with the congregation. “I’ve heard of a little child leading,” said Ace after Stranger had howled several times, “but never a dog. Maybe he’s giving us a message.” Then he got up and went into the house, leaving us children alone. After a minute or so he stuck his head out.

  “It’s too damn hot inside. Bring your mattresses out here on the porch tonight.” After we’d lugged them out, he joined us again, propping himself up on pillows in a wooden chair. The meeting across the street was breaking up by then. People went streaming down the street toward their cars, talking amongst themselves. Then came the noise of engines and the smell of exhaust fumes. When all was quiet again, we saw that the kerosene lamps were still lighted in the tent. Sister Maybelle was apparently counting money, helped by a man and a woman. We could hear their voices rise and fall.

  “The Lord’s been generous tonight,” said Sister Maybelle. “We collected almost thirty dollars. Maybe tomorrow we can pay the power company for our electric bill.”

  “First you’d better pay the rent that’s due me,” said the man. The voice was familiar.

  “That’s Jack Wells,” Ace said quietly. “He’s already collecting, the bastard.”

  Later we saw Jack leave, heading toward his house. The two missionary ladies turned out the kerosene lamps after that. We could hear them talking late into the night after they’d set up cots for themselves. After everyone else had fallen asleep, I saw a tall figure in a white gown come out of the side of the tent and stand beside the big old Mack truck that had carried the church paraphernalia. The person looked at the stars for a minute, then lit a cigarette. In the match’s glow I could see it was Sister Maybelle.

  “They’re all alike,” said Ace, suddenly coming to life. “Hypocrites.”

  The August heat was like a cooking fire but the church tent stayed up regardless. Ace said it was entertainment, just not the kind that makes you happy. The noise kept us awake every night. Finally we decided to sleep in the backyard on the grass with the ants crawling on us. In the daytime, we played all sorts of kid games, even in all that heat. We didn’t stop a second to think about all our sorrows. Ace would check at the hospital every once in a while and bring back news of Papa. He told us he’d regained consciousness and was doing better every day, though I already knew that from when I’d heard Ace and Thelma talking late at night.

  The three of us kids were together constantly, though we sometimes had our spats. Kelly told me they called me “man-child” in sign language and laughed about it. I didn’t care if they called me man-child, to be honest. I was proud of it. But I didn’t like ‘em laughing at me.

  Ace still refused to allow Sara to leave the house—it would be too dangerous, he said. So she made up games with her Raggedy Ann doll and played in the backyard chinaberry tree, overcoming her fear of heights. Ace even built a sort of tree house for her. All three of us would climb into it and while away the afternoons, pretending we were robbers.

  Kelly and I played marbles with the neighborhood kids—he was the best shooter for blocks around. He had a big collection of handsome agates he’d won, some of them with orange and black bands, and others that were blue and white. I wasn’t too good at first. I lost so many of his marbles that Kelly refused to stake me. But after a couple weeks of practice, I got good enough to hold my own.

  I guess because they thought I was a boy, the neighbor kids were always challenging me. Some of them acted like they were tough—especially the three Botts brothers. After I beat them at marbles once too often, they decided to gang up on me. When I saw their mother coming marching out, I thought she’d pull them off me and give them a scolding. Instead of that, she blamed it all on me.

  “Get off of them, you black bastard,” she shouted, paying no attention to my bloody nose and torn clothes. That afternoon, she went across the street and talked to Ace. She was a thin woman, with gray-brown straggly hair and narrow eyes that made her look angry all the time. “I’m sorry,” I heard her say, “but your nephew should be with his own kind in South Town with the other coloreds. He’d be happier there and my children would be safer.” Her sons hung behind her, shaking their heads up and down. Both of them had swollen lips. I’d gotten in a couple of good blows, I thought proudly, even if they had bloodied my nose.

  Ace looked at her a long time before answering. “You’re a good woman, Mrs. Botts,” he said finally. “Everybody says so. Your oldest boy’s in prison for rape and your husband’s drunk most of the time. I hear he threatened you with a shotgun the other day. But you, you just plod right along takin’ care of things like nothin’ was wrong. Now you want to take on cleanin’ up the neighborhood for the good of us all. I’m proud of you, Mrs. Botts, real proud.”

  After that I kept away from the Botts boys. I was scared they’d try to jump me if I wen
t near their house, but I didn’t have to be scared for long. I soon made a new friend when we were playing in the cantaloupe sheds. He rode over on a beat-up bicycle and asked us if we had a cigarette.

  “Howdy, Oaf,” said Kelly as he reached into his shirt pocket. “I got half a one. I took it out of Ace’s ash tray.”

  We sat inside an empty cantaloupe shed and passed it around. The rule was one puff apiece. Of course Sara didn’t get any puffs at all; Ace was still making her stay around the house, and she was too young anyway.

  Oaf was a red-haired kid with a wide, freckled face. He wasn’t the smartest kid, but he smiled easily and moved quickly for a big guy. He was at least six feet tall and probably weighed double what I did. “The truant officers make you go to school ‘til you’re sixteen,” he told us. “I’m 15 now,” he said proudly, “I just have to flunk one more time before I can quit.”

  His real name was Earl Smith, he told us. He lived with his father in the Hoover Camp on 19th Avenue. “Folks around here don’t like us much,” he told us. “I guess they don’t like you neither,” he said to me. “You’re colored and I’m white, but I guess we got plenty in common.”

  Since I couldn’t keep up with Kelly and Sara’s sign conversations, I soon made friends with Oaf. We were both big for our age and we both liked baseball. Only Ace warned me not to hang around with him. “Those Shanty Town people are bad news,” he said. “You never know what goes on down there. Hell, they’ve had three murders near that place. If you go over there with him, the cops will take you for one of the squatters.”

  “What are squatters?” I asked.

  “They’re people who live on land that ain’t theirs,” Ace answered. “They don’t pay any rent. A couple of ‘em went across the tracks and threw up some shacks in a vacant lot. Then pretty soon a bunch of other ones came and did the same. The guy who owns the lot let’s ‘em stay there, but they might not be there much longer. I hate to say it, but some of our so-called ‘good citizens’ want to burn ‘em out.”