Every Day After
Page 3
I nodded.
“Well, I was pretty nervous. I was worried to death that ol’ Jack’d take off and drag me behind the plow or, even worse, that I couldn’t get him hitched up in the first place. So I put an old tin can up on a fence post, pulled out my slingshot, and told myself if I shot that can off ten times in a row from a fair distance, I could plow without Pa. I figured shootin’ that can would be harder than plowing.”
I eased in closer to Ben. “Did you do it?”
“Sure did. Pretty as you please.”
“Did you get the field plowed?”
“Oh, I got the field plowed, all right, but …” Ben’s smile faded.
“Well, you gonna tell me or not?”
He cleared his throat and mumbled, “I plowed off my big toenail doing it.”
I jumped up from my cozy spot in the grass. “Ben! So that’s why you fished with your shoes on back then. Why didn’t you just tell me that before when I asked? And what are you saying now? That I’ll catch One-Eye again, but I’ll end up with a hook jabbed through my finger?”
“No, I ain’t sayin’ that. Look, I did it, didn’t I? Shootin’ the can was a test. That’s what this is for you—a test. Can’t hurt to try.”
I was shocked at myself for believing Ben’s fiddle-faddle enough to try it, but it sounded right. If I could catch that fish again without Daddy here, I was nearly certain I could do whatever else I set my mind to, including keeping myself out of the orphanage and Mama safe. Then I’d be able to leave Wits’ End Corner once and for all. It might sound pretty in a poem, but it surely was not a fun place to be.
I clutched my locket and pictured Daddy’s face. Please, God, I begged. Please let me pass this test.
Four
Luck Follows the Hopeful, Ill Luck the Fearful
I leaned my head back, feeling the warmth of the sun. I squeezed my eyes tight. Colors and light flashed beneath my eyelids. Gradually, the colors became shapes and the shapes became people, forming clear images of me and Daddy on that muggy morning last August.
Daddy insisted it was too hot to fish, but I wouldn’t listen. Christmas, candy, even Goo Goo Clusters paled in comparison to fishing with Daddy, and a little heat wasn’t gonna stop me.
“Please. Just for an hour,” I begged. “The fish’d be good for supper.”
“Oh, all right, Lizzie.” He propped his hoe against the side of the house and sopped his face with his sleeve. “You get the bait; I’ll grab the poles.”
I rushed into the barn for the worms. Mama could get pretty riled up when she wanted something done and didn’t get it, and that day she wanted her vegetable garden weeded. If Daddy didn’t leave within five minutes, he’d start thinking about the trouble he’d be in when he got back. We were gone within three, tromping through the field to the pond behind our house.
The sweet scent of hay mingled in the air with the pungent smell of freshly plowed dirt, but Daddy didn’t seem to notice. His steps were heavy, his jaw tight. He reminded me of the man in Pilgrim’s Progress, carrying his heavy burdens and not knowing how to let them go.
All my life Daddy had been willful and full of fire, but he’d changed the day he lost his job at the steel mill. Seemed to me a lot of folks around town had lost their jobs since the depression came on back in ’29. I guess Daddy had figured he might skirt by. That wasn’t in his cards. He’d been laid off a month and a half earlier, and I’d begun to wonder if he’d ever be his old self again.
“You wait. I’m gonna land the biggest fish yet,” I said when we reached the pond. I shielded the sun from my eyes and studied the water.
“Maybe,” said Daddy, only half listening. “Now hand me those worms and bait up.”
As usual, he was the first to land a fish. He was always first at everything. He tossed it back into the water and it darted away. “That’s one,” he said, holding up his pointer finger.
I shook my head. “Uh-uh. That puny bream didn’t count. He was even too little to keep.”
I jumped up from my fishing spot and jogged out into the field. On hands and knees I dug and poked through freshly cut hay.
“What on earth are you doing?” Daddy called as he hooked another worm. “You won’t catch anything out there.”
“I’m finding a cricket. We only ever fish with worms and neither of us has caught him yet. Maybe he’s a picky eater.”
“Caught who?”
“One-Eye.”
Daddy shook his head. “Uh-uh-uh.” He cast out his line.
Five minutes later, a juicy cricket dangled from my hook. I tossed it into the water and sat stone still. The only movement came from my heart. Each time it beat, my hands jerked a little. I focused on the motion, trying hard to keep it from happening. Up-down my hands went in barely noticeable rhythm. Up-down, up-down, OUT!
“I got one!” I shrieked. For a moment, I thought I might’ve hooked a whale. Every muscle in my body, from my toes to my eyeballs, tensed in resistance to the fish’s pulls and jerks. The pole dug into my hands.
Moving faster than he had in weeks, Daddy jumped up to encourage me. “Hold ’im, Lizzie. He’s a real fighter. If you want to see him, you’re gonna have to beat him.” He propped his lanky hands on his knees, straining for a glimpse of the fish as it slapped and splashed in the water.
I took a deep breath and dug way down deep, deeper than I ever had, and just like Daddy told me to do, I fought that fish. After one last glorious heave, the fish slid onto land.
“Oh, my Lord,” said Daddy, his eyes bigger than Grandfather’s pocket watch. He stared at the conquered catfish as it squirmed in the grass. It had only one eye.
“It’s him,” I uttered. “One-Eye.”
Town legend had told of a one-eyed channel cat living in our pond for more than fifty years. Folks were said to have seen him skimming old bait or bread crumbs off the top of the water, but no one had ever actually caught him. Ben and I had always believed One-Eye existed, but Daddy had insisted the story held as much water as a busted glass. After all, anyone worth his salt knew catfish didn’t live that long, and Daddy had never seen him, and it was his pond. Mama said sometimes folks see what they want to see, even if it’s not there.
But Daddy and I weren’t seeing things now. One-Eye was real, as real as could be, and longer than Daddy’s lower leg. I slid my fingers across the perfect smoothness of his charcoal-colored body. He squirmed faster in protest.
“I can’t believe it,” Daddy hollered. “He’s real! My own Lizzie Girl just landed ol’ One-Eye!”
My own Lizzie Girl. The words hung in the air for a second, then seeped into my soul. Daddy had called me that only a few times in my life. He saved it for those occasions when I made him extra proud, when he felt like bragging that I was his.
Daddy stood hunched over the catfish with his mouth gaping as though he was gonna say something. Nothing came out. He tipped his hat back off his forehead, revealing the beaded sweat above his brows. For once he didn’t wipe it away.
My spirits soared right with his. I hoped the feeling would last, more for Daddy than for me. I’d never seen him as down as he’d been over the last month and a half. He’d even taken to mentioning leaving to find work. Mama didn’t like that talk one bit. She’d either get real upset or real quiet. One was as bad as the other. But maybe if Daddy stayed happy, he wouldn’t leave, and Mama wouldn’t be upset, and everything could go back to normal again. Maybe.
Daddy rubbed his whiskered chin and grinned. “Wanna keep ’im?”
I could see him sizing up the bragging rights he’d have if we kept him. For Daddy, this was the win of the century, and without the carcass to prove it, no one would believe that I, beanpole Lizzie Hawkins, had actually caught ol’ One-Eye.
One-Eye squirmed on the ground, gasping for air. He was switching back and forth faster now, attempting to find the water. He couldn’t run away, but he wasn’t about to stop trying. Daddy was right—he was a fighter. He’d been born to win, to survive. Just
like Daddy. Just like me.
“Let’s let him go,” I said. “A fighter like him should be free. Besides, I want to see if anyone else can catch him. Maybe I outsmarted him, or maybe he’s just going a little cuckoo in his old age.”
Daddy looked at me, his dark eyes hard and squinted. “You sure? You might not catch him again.”
I shrugged. “Let him go.”
We watched in silence as One-Eye slid back into the water. Unlike the skittish bream Daddy had hooked earlier, One-Eye lingered near the shore for a few seconds before slinking off into the deep. It was as if he was saluting me for being a worthy, and merciful, opponent. On the inside, I saluted him, too.
We caught five more fish between us that day. They made some fine fried fish for supper, and Mama gave me the best piece as a reward for my accomplishment. But as good as that fish tasted, I was prouder of One-Eye. I’d caught the best that could be caught in our pond, possibly the best that could be caught in the whole state of Alabama. Once Daddy had spread the story around town, he had more people than ever asking to fish at our pond. He and a few others tried their hardest to land ol’ One-Eye again, but no one did. After a couple of weeks, people began to doubt it’d really been ol’ One-Eye I’d caught after all.
Ben shoved me, forcing my eyes open. “You gonna try it or not? ’Cause if you ain’t, I got better things to do than sit around here watching you sleep.”
“I’m going. I just needed a little inspiration, that’s all.”
“Well, you’re takin’ way too long gettin’ it. Ain’t no sense in puttin’ it off.”
“I’m not putting it off. Watch.”
I stomped through the grass to the exact spot I had been at on that day and began to dig. Confidence pulsed through my body. It was me who’d caught One-Eye. Daddy hadn’t done a thing. He hadn’t told me to use a cricket, and he sure as heck hadn’t helped me reel him in. Maybe I was just being childish about needing Daddy, like someone needing a teddy bear or a blanket. Ben was right. I could do it again.
Before long I was marching back to the pond with another fat cricket hanging from my hook. I tossed the line into the water and waited. And waited. And waited. I watched my hands bobbing up and down for good measure.
“How long did it take you before?” asked Ben as he tossed his freshly baited line into the water.
I glared at him. “Not this long, but then again, I didn’t have an all-fired pest sitting right next to me either.” I reeled in my line. “Ha!” I said, waving the empty hook in Ben’s face. “Those blasted bream don’t know how to leave your bait alone.”
Back out in the field, I pretended to be calm, but a small cloud of doubt had formed. It’s funny how you can be sure of yourself one minute, then doubt yourself the next, but that is exactly what one little bream made me do.
Twice more I repeated the process. Bait, line, wait. And wait. And wait.
“I think you oughta check your line again,” said Ben after stringing up his third bream.
Again I reeled in my line. The cricket remained. I had to face facts: The cricket wasn’t missing. Daddy was.
The cloud that had been growing bigger by the minute burst into a furious storm inside my head. Ben tried to comfort me, but I couldn’t hear his words. I was straining to hear Daddy’s: You’re a Hawkins, Lizzie Girl. A true one. You were put on this earth for a reason—to fight and to win. Don’t ever forget it. I know you won’t let me down.
Born to succeed? Yes. But was I born to succeed without him? I wasn’t so sure.
Five
Heaven Is at the Feet of Mothers
Please, Lord, not again!
Sleep laughed at me, poked at me, refused to come. And when I thought I’d beaten it, it brought nightmares—nightmares about failure, and loss, and loneliness.
Since Daddy had gone, night after night had ended with me wide-eyed and balled up like a baby beneath a rumpled pile of scratchy sheets. Though I couldn’t force sleep to come, I had to try. I couldn’t help myself.
Mama said I’d been stubborn like that even before I was born. The doctors had told her many times she’d never have a baby; just the way God made her. Daddy said I proved ’em wrong. I fought my way into existence, and on a mild night in May of 1920, I fought my way into this world. I hadn’t stopped fighting since.
I rolled over and squinted at my clock, trying to make out the time. Ten till five. Ugh! It’d be another whole hour before I needed to wake Mama.
I’d been fighting all night. There wasn’t any sense in whipping a dead horse. I threw back my covers, shuffled over to my dresser, and rummaged past the clutter in the bottom drawer: photos of me with Ben last Easter, wads of single socks, and two crumpled brown paper bags that still held the scent of long-ago-eaten Goo Goo Clusters. Beneath the jumble lay the leather-bound journal Mama had given me for my last birthday.
“You’ll know when it’s time to write,” she’d said.
She was right. I did know. I knew the morning Daddy disappeared. It was the only thing I’d written so far—an entry dated March 30, 1932. After I wrote about Daddy leaving, I couldn’t stand to look at the journal anymore. I’d stuffed it into the bottom dresser drawer and hadn’t touched it since. The feelings I felt on that morning were trapped inside the journal, and I wanted to push them away. If I cracked open the journal’s cover, all that hurt and pain might come rushing back inside me. But the fear of failure had built up too high. I couldn’t help it. I had to let it spill out.
I held the journal in my hands, feeling the smooth leather cover and the weight of the words under it. I closed my eyes and promised myself I wouldn’t peek at that first entry. Then all that pain would stay where it belonged—on the page.
Eyes still closed, I opened the cover and counted three pages in, just to be safe. I opened my eyes and looked at the clean white page before me. My pencil drifted onto the sheet and I let the words flow.
April 29, 1932
I went fishing with Ben today. He told me to catch One-Eye again. He said it’d prove I could do anything I set my mind to, like taking care of Mama and keeping everything in order. I failed. I know Daddy would be disappointed in me, not just about One-Eye, but about my grades too. They’re not bad, but they’re dropping. I just don’t have enough time to study anymore. It’ll be a miracle if I can hold on to my top spot in class. If I don’t, it’ll kill Daddy.
I can’t let him down. Anytime I do, I feel just as bad as I did the first time I disappointed him. Even though I was only seven, I remember it plain as day.
Thunder boomed and lightning flashed outside, but I wasn’t scared. I was brave, staying in my room to play with the Humpty Dumpty Circus I’d gotten the Christmas before.
A heavy clap of thunder rattled the windows. Mama called to me from the parlor, “Lizzie, you want to come sit with me?”
“No, ma’am. I’m not scared.”
“That’s my girl,” Daddy called back. “You see,” he said to Mama, “what a brave girl we have. You tell me of any other little girl—or boy, for that matter—who’d sit alone through a storm like this.”
I puffed up like a toad at hearing that. I was brave. But I’d gotten too puffed up too soon. A few seconds later, a blinding flash of lightning cut through the darkness outside, followed by a boom loud enough to wake the dead. The lights in the house flickered and my room went dark. Pitch dark. I couldn’t see my hands in front of my face. My skin turned to gooseflesh and the hairs on the back of my neck pricked up. I imagined bony ghost fingers reaching out through the blackness and grabbing me.
“Maaaammmaaaa!” I screamed. Until then, I didn’t know I could squeal that loud.
“I’m coming, baby,” Mama answered. “I’m coming.”
Light flooded into the room as Mama entered with her kerosene lantern. She reached down, took my hand, and led me into the parlor. The second Daddy saw me, he started shaking his head. “Uh-uh-uh” was all he said, but I got the meaning full on.
“Here, honey, sit
with me on the sofa,” Mama said as she squeezed me to her. “Look at you. You’re whiter than a ghost.”
I didn’t tell Mama, but I wished she wouldn’t say the word “ghost” ever again.
“Well, don’t go babying her, Rose,” said Daddy. “She’s plenty old enough to know the dark can’t hurt her. Plenty old enough.”
Mama patted my arm and gave Daddy a harsh look. “Just so you know, Will, I don’t care for the dark either.”
Daddy just shook his head. “Uh-uh-uh.”
I laid my head in Mama’s lap. Before I closed my eyes, I spotted Daddy eyeing me. He was still shaking his head.
Well, truth be told, I’m afraid again. I’m afraid my whole life is about to go dark. I’m afraid of losing Mama, afraid of Erin’s plan for revenge, and afraid if I back down to Erin, I’ll only disappoint Daddy yet again. Yep, I’m scared. Only this time, I will not let it show.
I put the journal back into my drawer, on top this time, took a deep breath, and began to dress for school. Once I was ready, and had fully forced my fear deep down inside me, I went into Mama’s room to wake her.
I stood there watching her sleep, pretending she was her old self again—loving and happy, with a twinkle in her eyes. Each morning when I went to wake her, I said a little prayer that when she opened her eyes, the twinkle would be there once again, replacing the blank stare that had slowly grown worse over the past weeks.
I shook her gently. “Good morning, Mama. Time to get up.”
She rolled over to look at me. No twinkle.
I pulled back the covers and helped her to her feet. She sat slumped over on the edge of the bed while I took out her clothes for the day—her pink floral dress with the lace collar and white buttons. It was a little too fancy for wearing around the house, but Mama wouldn’t protest, and I liked the way the pink brightened her face.
Mama slowly put the dress on and I helped her with the buttons. She should’ve worn silk stockings, but I never made her. I thought they’d feel itchy and uncomfortable, and she wasn’t going out anyway.