Every Day After

by Laura Golden

  Over the next month, Ben and I continued to work—me at Hinkle’s, him at Mr. Reed’s. Erin dropped Ben quicker than a hot potato. She couldn’t get over him moving in with us. If she happened to be in town at the same time we were, she’d turn around and hightail it the other way. And she didn’t dare set a toenail in Hinkle’s during my work hours anymore. Ben said he went over one afternoon after work and tried to talk to her, but she wouldn’t even come to the door.

  Around the last of June, a family by the name of Wilkins came to board with us—a couple in their mid-twenties along with their two-year-old daughter, a little girl with white-blond hair named Clara. They took my room and I moved in with Mama. They were kind—both to us and to each other—and they made me think of how me, Mama, and Daddy might’ve been when I was a baby.

  Right after Daddy left, watching the Wilkinses would’ve deepened the cut of sadness inside me, but with Mama getting better, and Ben and Mrs. Butler around, the sadness seemed to be scarring over.

  By Independence Day, we’d managed to keep the house paid up and the bank off our heels. When we weren’t working or helping our mothers, Ben would give me slingshot lessons or take me over to Mr. Reed’s, and when it was time for Bittersweet’s yearly fireworks, I was invited to watch them with Mr. Reed and Ben. For the first time in our whole lives, Ben and I didn’t watch the show from the curb in front of Powell’s. Instead, we sat out on the grass in Mr. Reed’s clean front yard. You could see everything from up on that hill. We all sat together watching the fireworks burst and sparkle over the town. Ziggy stayed right beside Ben the whole time, barking at every pop and boom like the world was on fire.

  “Ziggy, you’d best hush up or I’m gonna put you inside,” Mr. Reed scolded in between cigarette puffs.

  Ziggy didn’t hush. Mr. Reed didn’t put him in.

  I’d only been visiting Mr. Reed for about two weeks, but already he seemed a different person than what I’d cooked up in my mind. He wasn’t scary or crazy, he’d been just plain ol’ sad and lonely. He wasn’t quite as sad or lonely anymore. I figured maybe his cut of sadness was scarring over, too.

  Two weeks before school was set to start, Mr. Reed came down with a hacking cough. For over a week Ben and I listened to him.

  “Let me get Dr. Heimler for you, Mr. Reed. Ain’t no trouble,” Ben said to him during one particularly bad fit.

  “No, son, I don’t need no doctor. It’ll pass.”

  But it didn’t pass. On Sunday morning, Ben and I went to check on him. He didn’t answer the door. Ben looked at me, the skin under his pale brows reddening.

  “Mr. Reed,” he called. “You in there? It’s Ben and Lizzie.”

  No answer.

  “Mr. Reed?”

  No answer.

  From outside we could hear Ziggy running through the house, coming to Ben’s voice. He whined and scratched at the door. Ben couldn’t stand it. He stopped waiting on Mr. Reed and just barged right in. Ziggy’s food and water bowls stood empty, and a bowl of untouched oatmeal sat on the table.

  “Mr. Reed?” Ben called again. “It’s me and Lizzie. You in here?”

  “Let’s go check in his room,” I said. “Something’s wrong.”

  We tiptoed back to Mr. Reed’s room. He was there in his bed, buried beneath a pile of quilts. Ben ran over to him and felt his forehead. “He’s burning up. Go get Dr. Heimler, will ya? Hurry!”

  I didn’t think twice. I bolted out the door and down into town. I’d have to go through town and all the way past the Martins’ to get to him. And even then, there was a chance he wouldn’t be home.

  “Please, God,” I prayed aloud, my voice jumping as my feet pounded the ground. “Please, let the doctor be home.”

  I ran onto his front porch and was about to pound on the door when it flew open. “Mr. Reed” was all I could manage between gasps for air.

  “Jump in the car,” Dr. Heimler ordered. “I’ll grab my things.”

  I did as I was told. By now, I’d have been glad to never have to ride in a car again. Riding in a sheriff’s car and a doctor’s car weren’t my idea of joyrides. If you saw either one of those coming for you, you weren’t having such a good go of it. Still, I had to admit, there was one good thing about Dr. Heimler’s car: it went a lot faster than I could run, and in a few minutes, we were back at Mr. Reed’s.

  Ben had pulled a chair into the bedroom and was sitting beside Mr. Reed’s bed. Ziggy was curled up on the floor at Ben’s feet. He let out a long whine when we entered.

  “He’s bad off, Doctor,” Ben said, his voice cracking. “I think it might be pneumonia. I can hear it rattlin’.”

  Dr. Heimler checked over Mr. Reed’s frail body, listening here, feeling the pulse there. Finally he spoke. “You’re right, Ben. Pneumonia.” The doctor looked up at me. “Lizzie, you run on home and help your mother and Mrs. Butler. Ben will stay with me in case I need anything.”

  “Yes, sir.” I did as I was told without argument, even though what I really wanted to do was stay with Ben. I knew how hard he’d take it if Mr. Reed passed away. A part of me thought it wasn’t fair for God to let Mr. Reed die like this, just a year and a half since Ben had lost his pa.

  Ben spent the next three days at Mr. Reed’s with Dr. Heimler. After school each day and work each afternoon, I’d run home and get boxed suppers and take them up to Mr. Reed’s. Dr. Heimler would clean his plate. Ben did good to eat five bites. Mr. Reed ate none.

  Mrs. Butler would ask for updates when I returned each evening. My reply was always “The same. No better, no worse.”

  “Ben look all right?” she’d ask as she stitched another patch for a quilt. “You wait and see, Lizzie. My boy’s gonna be a doctor someday. Just you wait and see.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I’d answer.

  She’d smile and Mama would nod. But then, on Wednesday evening, they didn’t get the chance to smile and nod. I didn’t even get the chance to bring the boxed suppers to Mr. Reed’s. Mrs. Butler was packing it up when the front door opened and clicked shut. The distinct shuffle of Ben’s boots against the wood floor echoed through the house. The Wilkins couple, who’d been sitting at the kitchen table with Mama, looked at each other and grabbed up little Clara. They headed straight to their room.

  In the quiet, it wasn’t just Ben’s boots that could be heard, but something else—something scratching and tapping against the floor and a heavy panting. Then, into the kitchen walked Ben, Ziggy trailing behind.

  Ben looked at his ma. His eyes were swollen and red, his cheeks puffy. “Sit, Ziggy,” he spoke. “You gotta mind me, ’cause you’re my dog now.”

  Mrs. Butler ran over to Ben and wrapped her arms around him. She squeezed him tight. “It’s all right, Ben. It was just his time, that’s all. Mr. Reed lived a longer life than a lot of us.”

  Tears pooled up in my eyes, blurring the room and everybody in it. It was true. It wasn’t fair. Ben shouldn’t have to go through this again. Not Ben. He was too kind. Too good. Why him?

  Mrs. Butler let go of Ben and pulled out a kitchen chair. She sat him down. He placed a crumpled piece of paper he’d been holding on the table and smoothed it.

  “What’s that?” Mama whispered.

  “A poem. He told me to take it.”

  I figured a man as old as Mr. Reed had to be pretty wise. I figured if he thought this poem could help Ben, then maybe it could help us all. “Read it,” I said.

  Ben wiped his eyes on his shirtsleeve and nodded. He cleared his throat, then looked at me and said, “ ‘Wits’ End Corner,’ by Antoinette Wilson.”

  I smiled. Ben smiled back. And then he read slowly, softly:

  “Are you standing at Wits’ End Corner,

  Christian, with troubled brow?

  Are you thinking of what is before you,

  And all you are bearing now?

  Does all the world seem against you,

  And you in the battle alone?

  Remember—at Wits’ End Corner

 
; Is just where God’s power is shown.

  “Are you standing at Wits’ End Corner,

  Blinded with wearying pain,

  Feeling you cannot endure it,

  You cannot bear the strain,

  Bruised through the constant suffering,

  Dizzy, and dazed, and numb?

  Remember—at Wits’ End Corner

  Is where Jesus loves to come.

  “Are you standing at Wits’ End Corner?

  Your work before you spread,

  All lying begun, unfinished,

  And pressing on heart and head,

  Longing for strength to do it,

  Stretching out trembling hands?

  Remember—at Wits’ End Corner

  The Burden-Bearer stands.

  “Are you standing at Wits’ End Corner?

  Then you’re just in the very spot

  To learn the wondrous resources

  Of Him who faileth not:

  No doubt to a brighter pathway

  Your footsteps will soon be moved,

  But only at Wits’ End Corner

  Is the God who is able proved.”

  I was right. Mr. Reed was wise. Wits’ End Corner was the exact spot we’d all stood over the past year and a half. Mama reached up and took my hand. I looked down at her and I knew, just as Mr. Reed had known, that corner had finally been turned.

  Twenty-Two

  Misfortune Is a Good Teacher

  Ben and I gathered up our poles and headed back to the house. Mid-September humidity hung heavy in the air, causing the sky to appear white instead of blue. Ol’ One-Eye had eluded me once again, but I didn’t mind. I guess he didn’t like the feel of that hook jabbing through his mouth. Can’t say I blamed him. Though I couldn’t see him beneath the murky water, I saluted him, same as I had the day I caught him. He might’ve been just a slimy old catfish, but he was far smarter than me. It only took once for him to learn his lesson. Probably wasn’t as stubborn as me.

  “You can’t catch One-Eye. You can’t outshoot me with your slingshot. You’ve become an all-out loser, Lizzie Hawkins.” Ben nudged me with his shoulder.

  I nudged him back harder. “Have not. Least I’m not so ugly my cooties have to close their eyes.”

  Ben took a big gasp of air, pretending to be shocked that I’d say something as mean as that. But we both knew we were teasing. I wasn’t an all-out loser—not yet, anyway. And I couldn’t think of anybody who’d call Ben ugly. I watched him out of the corner of my eye trudging through the tall grass, his boots in his hands knocking against his knees as he went. It was good to have him near.

  We’d spent this Sunday the way we’d spent most others since Mr. Reed had died: fishing and practicing with our slingshots. Sunday was the only day we both had the day off—me from Mr. Hinkle, him from Dr. Heimler.

  After Mr. Reed passed, Dr. Heimler stopped by our house the very next day to check on Mama and the rest of us. He bragged on and on about Ben, saying he had all the promise in the world of becoming a doctor one day. I thought Mrs. Butler might faint. Next thing I knew, Dr. Heimler was offering Ben a job. He’d get the same pay as he had at Mr. Reed’s, plus hands-on training for the job Mrs. Butler had always believed he’d someday hold. Best of all, when it was time to head to school the next morning, Ben had been with me. Education is mighty important to future doctors. “Dr. Benjamin Butler.” Sounded good to me.

  Mrs. Butler emerged onto the back porch. “Six o’clock, dinnertime. Better hurry in. Don’t make me run behind.”

  Everybody knew not to mess with Mrs. Butler’s schedule. Our four new boarders jumped up from the back porch rockers and darted inside. Only Mama remained. I waved. So did she.

  “You know, boarders don’t grate on me the way I thought they would,” I said. “They’re really kinda fun to have around. Well, mostly, anyway.” I grabbed up a small rock and popped it into Ben’s backside with my slingshot.

  “Hey, what’d ya do that for?”

  “A loser, huh? I’m a better shot than you think. I let you win, that’s all.”

  “Sure,” said Ben, his eyes crinkled up in a way that showed he wasn’t sure at all.

  Mrs. Butler’s six Rhode Island Reds scattered across the backyard as we approached the house. They were allowed free range as long as they steered clear of Mama’s vegetable garden.

  We walked inside through the splintered back door, and as always, it was like entering a whole separate world. The soft whisper of the breeze grew into the low roar of chattering voices. A quilt Mrs. Butler and Mama had been working on hung from hooks attached to the parlor ceiling. Needles, colored threads, and scissors lay in a heap in its middle. All four bedrooms were full, and pallets of quilts and pillows were laid on the floor in the parlor each night. The youngest boarders liked those best—sleeping on a thick bed of quilts beneath the canopy of a soon-to-be quilt.

  “No shooting people, Elizabeth Hawkins,” said Mama, coming in behind us. She’d started talking more and more after Ben lost Mr. Reed. It was like Ben’s loss woke something up inside of her, and she decided she was gonna be thankful for the people she had while she had ’em. With her fingers, she gently brushed hair off my sweaty forehead. “Remember, kindness is more persuasive than force.”

  Mrs. Butler added, “Or, you can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.”

  Ben grinned at me. I knew what he was thinking. Here we go again. I suppose he thought I was thinking the same, but I wasn’t.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I replied, wishing Mama had said that to me a whole lot sooner.

  We all sat down to dinner, packed liked sardines around our table. Dinner was nothing but black-eyed peas and okra from our garden along with some dry corn bread on the side, but nobody seemed to mind.

  I listened to the sharp clinking of spoons on plates and the low rumble of “please” and “thank you” being spoken and thought how lucky I was. For months I’d let fear and pride drive me, and it had nearly destroyed everything I loved. But once I let go of fear, life came much more easily. Dr. Heimler and I had even convinced Mama over the past months to slowly let go of her fear. She still wasn’t her old self, but she now had a self. I hoped Erin would let go of her fear too. But she wasn’t ready. Not yet.

  That night I lay awake in bed.

  Please, Lord, not again.

  Sleep laughed at me, poked at me, refused to come. I rolled over and squinted at the clock, trying to make out the time. The soft white glow of moonlight lit its face. Ten till three. Ugh! It’d be another three hours before everyone else was up.

  I’d been fighting all night. There wasn’t any sense in whipping a dead horse. I eased out of the covers and tiptoed over to Mama’s dresser. I pulled out my journal. Deep down I knew why sleep refused to come. There was something I still needed to let go. And so I did.

  September 18, 1932

  Dear Daddy,

  They say when it rains in Alabama, it pours. I believe it. It poured on me all through 1931, straight on into 1932. It was then that I lost something I never thought I would. It wasn’t a locket, my grades, or a friend. It wasn’t money or pride, though I lost those things too. It was you.

  It wasn’t death that took you from me. Maybe it would’ve been easier if it had. While I don’t have to face the death of your body, I must face the death of your spirit. A person I’d always believed to be strong and brave has proved weak and cowardly. But the loss of you, my daddy, wasn’t where my story ended; it’s where it began. In losing you I found myself. For that I’m grateful and, most of all, proud.

  I’ve succeeded at the number one most important thing you ever taught me—I played the terrible cards I was dealt; I turned some mighty sour lemons into lemonade; I worked with what I had, and what I had sure wasn’t much. I hope wherever you are, you’re proud of me too, not because of grades, or a blue ribbon, or a fish, but because I conquered the things you were too afraid to fight. You were too afraid to fail.

  I’m letting go of any
hope that you’ll ever come home. As life unfolds a path before me, I’ll walk it with those who fill our home with smiles and love each day. But I know you won’t be here to walk beside me. You chose a different path, a path I couldn’t follow. And yes, I’m still too stubborn to try.

  Yep, like they always say, when it rains, it pours. But I hope, at least here in the South, that when the sun finally decides to shine, it beams.

  Love always,

  Your Lizzie Girl

  I laid my pencil on the dresser and read over what I’d written. It was truth—love-it-or-hate-it truth.

  I flipped through the pages past my newest entry. There were many empty ones left, but the day would come when they’d be empty no more.

  I closed the journal, placed it in the drawer, and crawled back into bed beside Mama. I slipped beneath the soft sheets. In the morning I’d pull out Daddy’s good-bye note. I’d leave it folded; then I’d rip it apart and throw it away. I didn’t need to read it now. I wouldn’t need to read it ever again.

  I curled up and closed my eyes. For the first time since Daddy had gone, sleep came easy and deep, bringing with it a dream.

  Author’s Note

  While Lizzie’s story is a fictional one, it was inspired by stories told to me and my family by my paternal grandmother, Nelda Posey Perry. After losing her mother at the age of twelve, she was left with a strict father who expected her to take on many responsibilities—cooking, cleaning, and caring for younger siblings. I’ve often wondered what that must’ve been like for her. Like me, she was a self-admitted dreamer. Like Lizzie, she was highly spirited. I feel that through Lizzie, a part of her lives on.

  If Lizzie’s spirit belongs to my paternal grandmother, then Ben’s heart is my paternal grandfather’s. Like Ben, my grandfather dropped out of school to help support his family. He had not yet completed seventh grade when he went to work at a local mine. Unlike Ben, he never went back to school.

  This was not uncommon for children growing up during the Great Depression. Mr. James Hubbard, a family friend, also temporarily left school to help out around the family farm. He was given the responsibility of plowing the field. His father showed him how to do it, then left him alone to get it done. Mr. Hubbard was nervous, but he plowed onward—right over his big toe! As did Ben’s, Mr. Hubbard’s big toenail came off. He went to find his father and have a good cry. His father instructed him to man up and get back to plowing. He did.