I drink all my clabber and show Mama the glass.
“Go get your book,” Mama says. “It’s on the dresser.”
I go in the front room to get my book.
“One of us got to go to school with him tomorrow,” I hear Mama saying. I see her handing Daddy the note. Daddy waves it back. “Here,” she says.
“Honey, you know I don’t know how to act in no place like that,” Daddy says.
“Time to learn,” Mama says. She gives Daddy the note. “What page your lesson on, Sonny?”
I turn to the page, and I lean on Mama’s leg and let her carry me over my lesson. Mama holds the book in her hand. She carries me over my lesson two times, then she makes me point to some words and spell some words.
“He knows it,” Daddy says.
“I’ll take you over it again tomorrow morning,” Mama says. “Don’t let me forget it now.”
“Uh-uh.”
“Your daddy’ll carry you over it tomorrow night,” Mama says. “One night me, one night you.”
“With no car,” Daddy says, “I reckon I’ll be round plenty now. You think we’ll ever get another one, honey?”
Daddy’s picking in his teeth with a broom straw.
“When you learn how to act with one,” Mama says. “I ain’t got nothing against cars.”
“I guess you right, honey,” Daddy says. “I was going little too far.”
“It’s time for bed, Sonny,” Mama says. “Go in the front room and say your prayers to your daddy.”
Me and Daddy leave Mama back there in the kitchen. I put my book on the dresser and I go to the fireplace where Daddy is. Daddy puts another piece of wood on the fire and plenty sparks shoot up in the chimley. Daddy helps me to take off my clothes. I kneel down and lean against his leg.
“Start off,” Daddy says. “I’ll catch you if you miss something.”
“Lay me down to sleep,” I say. “I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take. God bless Mama and Daddy. God bless Gran’mon and Uncle Al. God bless the church. God bless Miss Hebert. God bless Bill and Juanita.” I hear Daddy gaping. “God bless everybody else. Amen.”
I jump up off my knees. Them bricks on the fireplace make my knees hurt.
“Did you tell God to bless Johnny Green and Madame Toussaint?” Daddy says.
“No,” I say.
“Get down there and tell Him to bless them, too,” Daddy says.
“Old Rollo, too?”
“That’s up to you and Him for that,” Daddy says. “Get back down there.”
I get back on my knees. I don’t get on the bricks because they make my knees hurt. I get on the floor and lean against the chair.
“And God bless Mr. Johnny Green and Madame Toussaint,” I say.
“All right,” Daddy says. “Warm up good.”
Daddy goes over to my bed and pulls the cover back.
“Come on,” he says. “Jump in.”
I run and jump in the bed. Daddy pulls the cover up to my neck.
“Good night, Daddy.”
“Good night,” Daddy says.
“Good night, Mama.”
“Good night, Sonny,” Mama says.
I turn on my side and look at Daddy at the fireplace. Mama comes out of the kitchen and goes to the fireplace. Mama warms up good and goes to the bundle.
“Leave it alone,” Daddy says. “We’ll get up early tomorrow and get it.”
“I’m going to bed,” Mama says. “You coming now?”
“Uh-hunnnnn,” Daddy says.
Mama comes to my bed and tucks the cover under me good. She leans over and kisses me and tucks the cover some more. She goes over to the bundle and gets her nightgown, then she goes in the kitchen and puts it on. She comes back and puts her clothes she took off on a chair ’side the wall. Mama kneels down and says her prayers, then she gets in the bed and covers up. Daddy stands up and takes off his clothes. I see Daddy in his big old long white BVD’s. Daddy blows out the lamp, and I hear the spring when Daddy gets in the bed. Daddy never says his prayers.
“Sleepy?” Daddy says.
“Uh-uhnnn,” Mama says.
I hear the spring. I hear Mama and Daddy talking low, but I don’t know what they saying. I go to sleep some, but I open my eyes again. It’s some dark in the room. I hear Mama and Daddy talking low. I like Mama and Daddy. I like Uncle Al, but I don’t like old Gran’mon too much. Gran’mon’s always talking bad about Daddy. I don’t like old Mr. Freddie Jackson, either. Mama say she didn’t do her and Daddy’s thing with Mr. Freddie Jackson. I like Mr. George Williams. We went riding ’way up the road with Mr. George Williams. We got Daddy’s car and brought it all the way back here. Daddy and them turned the car over and Daddy poured some gas on it and set it on fire. Daddy ain’t got no more car now.… I know my lesson. I ain’t go’n wee-wee on myself no more. Daddy’s going to school with me tomorrow. I’m go’n show him I can beat Billy Joe Martin shooting marbles. I can shoot all over Billy Joe Martin. And I can beat him running, too. He thinks he can run fast. I’m go’n show Daddy I can beat him running.… I don’t know why I had to say, “God bless Madame Toussaint.” I don’t like her. And I don’t like old Rollo, either. Rollo can bark some loud. He made my head hurt with all that loud barking. Madame Toussaint’s old house don’t smell good. Us house smell good. I hear the spring on Mama and Daddy’s bed. I get ’way under the cover. I go to sleep little bit, but I wake up. I go to sleep some more. I hear the spring on Mama and Daddy’s bed. I hear it plenty now. It’s some dark under here. It’s warm. I feel good ’way under here.
The Sky Is Gray
1: Go’n be coming in a few minutes. Coming round that bend down there full speed. And I’m go’n get out my handkerchief and wave it down, and we go’n get on it and go.
I keep on looking for it, but Mama don’t look that way no more. She’s looking down the road where we just come from. It’s a long old road, and far’s you can see you don’t see nothing but gravel. You got dry weeds on both sides, and you got trees on both sides, and fences on both sides, too. And you got cows in the pastures and they standing close together. And when we was coming out here to catch the bus I seen the smoke coming out of the cows’s noses.
I look at my mama and I know what she’s thinking. I been with Mama so much, just me and her, I know what she’s thinking all the time. Right now it’s home—Auntie and them. She’s thinking if they got enough wood—if she left enough there to keep them warm till we get back. She’s thinking if it go’n rain and if any of them go’n have to go out in the rain. She’s thinking ’bout the hog—if he go’n get out, and if Ty and Val be able to get him back in. She always worry like that when she leaves the house. She don’t worry too much if she leave me there with the smaller ones, ’cause she know I’m go’n look after them and look after Auntie and everything else. I’m the oldest and she say I’m the man.
I look at my mama and I love my mama. She’s wearing that black coat and that black hat and she’s looking sad. I love my mama and I want put my arm round her and tell her. But I’m not supposed to do that. She say that’s weakness and that’s crybaby stuff, and she don’t want no crybaby round her. She don’t want you to be scared, either. ’Cause Ty’s scared of ghosts and she’s always whipping him. I’m scared of the dark, too, but I make ’tend I ain’t. I make ’tend I ain’t ’cause I’m the oldest, and I got to set a good sample for the rest. I can’t ever be scared and I can’t ever cry. And that’s why I never said nothing ’bout my teeth. It’s been hurting me and hurting me close to a month now, but I never said it. I didn’t say it ’cause I didn’t want act like a crybaby, and ’cause I know we didn’t have enough money to go have it pulled. But, Lord, it been hurting me. And look like it wouldn’t start till at night when you was trying to get yourself little sleep. Then soon ’s you shut your eyes—ummm-ummm, Lord, look like it go right down to your heartstring.
“Hurting, hanh?” Ty’d say.
&nb
sp; I’d shake my head, but I wouldn’t open my mouth for nothing. You open your mouth and let that wind in, and it almost kill you.
I’d just lay there and listen to them snore. Ty there, right ’side me, and Auntie and Val over by the fireplace. Val younger than me and Ty, and he sleeps with Auntie. Mama sleeps round the other side with Louis and Walker.
I’d just lay there and listen to them, and listen to that wind out there, and listen to that fire in the fireplace. Sometimes it’d stop long enough to let me get little rest. Sometimes it just hurt, hurt, hurt. Lord, have mercy.
2: Auntie knowed it was hurting me. I didn’t tell nobody but Ty, ’cause we buddies and he ain’t go’n tell nobody. But some kind of way Auntie found out. When she asked me, I told her no, nothing was wrong. But she knowed it all the time. She told me to mash up a piece of aspirin and wrap it in some cotton and jugg it down in that hole. I did it, but it didn’t do no good. It stopped for a little while, and started right back again. Auntie wanted to tell Mama, but I told her, “Uh-uh.” ’Cause I knowed we didn’t have any money, and it just was go’n make her mad again. So Auntie told Monsieur Bayonne, and Monsieur Bayonne came over to the house and told me to kneel down ’side him on the fireplace. He put his finger in his mouth and made the Sign of the Cross on my jaw. The tip of Monsieur Bayonne’s finger is some hard, ’cause he’s always playing on that guitar. If we sit outside at night we can always hear Monsieur Bayonne playing on his guitar. Sometimes we leave him out there playing on the guitar.
Monsieur Bayonne made the Sign of the Cross over and over on my jaw, but that didn’t do no good. Even when he prayed and told me to pray some, too, that tooth still hurt me.
“How you feeling?” he say.
“Same,” I say.
He kept on praying and making the Sign of the Cross and I kept on praying, too.
“Still hurting?” he say.
“Yes, sir.”
Monsieur Bayonne mashed harder and harder on my jaw. He mashed so hard he almost pushed me over on Ty. But then he stopped.
“What kind of prayers you praying, boy?” he say.
“Baptist,” I say.
“Well, I’ll be—no wonder that tooth still killing him. I’m going one way and he pulling the other. Boy, don’t you know any Catholic prayers?”
“I know ‘Hail Mary,’ ” I say.
“Then you better start saying it.”
“Yes, sir.”
He started mashing on my jaw again, and I could hear him praying at the same time. And, sure enough, after while it stopped hurting me.
Me and Ty went outside where Monsieur Bayonne’s two hounds was and we started playing with them. “Let’s go hunting,” Ty say. “All right,” I say; and we went on back in the pasture. Soon the hounds got on a trail, and me and Ty followed them all ’cross the pasture and then back in the woods, too. And then they cornered this little old rabbit and killed him, and me and Ty made them get back, and we picked up the rabbit and started on back home. But my tooth had started hurting me again. It was hurting me plenty now, but I wouldn’t tell Monsieur Bayonne. That night I didn’t sleep a bit, and first thing in the morning Auntie told me to go back and let Monsieur Bayonne pray over me some more. Monsieur Bayonne was in his kitchen making coffee when I got there. Soon ’s he seen me he knowed what was wrong.
“All right, kneel down there ’side that stove,” he say. “And this time make sure you pray Catholic. I don’t know nothing ’bout that Baptist, and I don’t want know nothing ’bout him.”
3: Last night Mama say, “Tomorrow we going to town.”
“It ain’t hurting me no more,” I say. “I can eat anything on it.”
“Tomorrow we going to town,” she say.
And after she finished eating, she got up and went to bed. She always go to bed early now. ’Fore Daddy went in the Army, she used to stay up late. All of us sitting out on the gallery or round the fire. But now, look like soon ’s she finish eating she go to bed.
This morning when I woke up, her and Auntie was standing ’fore the fireplace. She say: “Enough to get there and get back. Dollar and a half to have it pulled. Twenty-five for me to go, twenty-five for him. Twenty-five for me to come back, twenty-five for him. Fifty cents left. Guess I get little piece of salt meat with that.”
“Sure can use it,” Auntie say. “White beans and no salt meat ain’t white beans.”
“I do the best I can,” Mama say.
They was quiet after that, and I made ’tend I was still asleep.
“James, hit the floor,” Auntie say.
I still made ’tend I was asleep. I didn’t want them to know I was listening.
“All right,” Auntie say, shaking me by the shoulder. “Come on. Today’s the day.”
I pushed the cover down to get out, and Ty grabbed it and pulled it back.
“You, too, Ty,” Auntie say.
“I ain’t getting no teef pulled,” Ty say.
“Don’t mean it ain’t time to get up,” Auntie say. “Hit it, Ty.”
Ty got up grumbling.
“James, you hurry up and get in your clothes and eat your food,” Auntie say. “What time y’all coming back?” she say to Mama.
“That ’leven o’clock bus,” Mama say. “Got to get back in that field this evening.”
“Get a move on you, James,” Auntie say.
I went in the kitchen and washed my face, then I ate my breakfast. I was having bread and syrup. The bread was warm and hard and tasted good. And I tried to make it last a long time.
Ty came back there grumbling and mad at me.
“Got to get up,” he say. “I ain’t having no teefes pulled. What I got to be getting up for?”
Ty poured some syrup in his pan and got a piece of bread. He didn’t wash his hands, neither his face, and I could see that white stuff in his eyes.
“You the one getting your teef pulled,” he say. “What I got to get up for. I bet if I was getting a teef pulled, you wouldn’t be getting up. Shucks; syrup again. I’m getting tired of this old syrup. Syrup, syrup, syrup. I’m go’n take with the sugar diabetes. I want me some bacon sometime.”
“Go out in the field and work and you can have your bacon,” Auntie say. She stood in the middle door looking at Ty. “You better be glad you got syrup. Some people ain’t got that—hard’s time is.”
“Shucks,” Ty say. “How can I be strong.”
“I don’t know too much ’bout your strength,” Auntie say; “but I know where you go’n be hot at, you keep that grumbling up. James, get a move on you; your mama waiting.”
I ate my last piece of bread and went in the front room. Mama was standing ’fore the fireplace warming her hands. I put on my coat and my cap, and we left the house.
4: I look down there again, but it still ain’t coming. I almost say, “It ain’t coming yet,” but I keep my mouth shut. ’Cause that’s something else she don’t like. She don’t like for you to say something just for nothing. She can see it ain’t coming, I can see it ain’t coming, so why say it ain’t coming. I don’t say it, I turn and look at the river that’s back of us. It’s so cold the smoke’s just raising up from the water. I see a bunch of pool-doos not too far out—just on the other side the lilies. I’m wondering if you can eat pool-doos. I ain’t too sure, ’cause I ain’t never ate none. But I done ate owls and blackbirds, and I done ate redbirds, too. I didn’t want kill the redbirds, but she made me kill them. They had two of them back there. One in my trap, one in Ty’s trap. Me and Ty was go’n play with them and let them go, but she made me kill them ’cause we needed the food.
“I can’t,” I say. “I can’t.”
“Here,” she say. “Take it.”
“I can’t,” I say. “I can’t. I can’t kill him, Mama, please.”
“Here,” she say. “Take this fork, James.”
“Please, Mama, I can’t kill him,” I say.
I could tell she was go’n hit me. I jerked back, but I didn’t jerk back soon enou
gh.
“Take it,” she say.
I took it and reached in for him, but he kept on hopping to the back.
“I can’t, Mama,” I say. The water just kept on running down my face. “I can’t,” I say.
“Get him out of there,” she say.
I reached in for him and he kept on hopping to the back. Then I reached in farther, and he pecked me on the hand.
“I can’t, Mama,” I say.
She slapped me again.
I reached in again, but he kept on hopping out my way. Then he hopped to one side and I reached there. The fork got him on the leg and I heard his leg pop. I pulled my hand out ’cause I had hurt him.
“Give it here,” she say, and jerked the fork out my hand.
She reached in and got the little bird right in the neck. I heard the fork go in his neck, and I heard it go in the ground. She brought him out and helt him right in front of me.
“That’s one,” she say. She shook him off and gived me the fork. “Get the other one.”
“I can’t, Mama,” I say. “I’ll do anything, but don’t make me do that.”
She went to the corner of the fence and broke the biggest switch over there she could find. I knelt ’side the trap, crying.
“Get him out of there,” she say.
“I can’t, Mama.”
She started hitting me ’cross the back. I went down on the ground, crying.
“Get him,” she say.
“Octavia?” Auntie say.
’Cause she had come out of the house and she was standing by the tree looking at us.
“Get him out of there,” Mama say.
“Octavia,” Auntie say, “explain to him. Explain to him. Just don’t beat him. Explain to him.”
But she hit me and hit me and hit me.
I’m still young—I ain’t no more than eight; but I know now; I know why I had to do it. (They was so little, though. They was so little. I ’member how I picked the feathers off them and cleaned them and helt them over the fire. Then we all ate them. Ain’t had but a little bitty piece each, but we all had a little bitty piece, and everybody just looked at me ’cause they was so proud.) Suppose she had to go away? That’s why I had to do it. Suppose she had to go away like Daddy went away? Then who was go’n look after us? They had to be somebody left to carry on. I didn’t know it then, but I know it now. Auntie and Monsieur Bayonne talked to me and made me see.
Bloodline: Five Stories Page 8