We back away from the cliff and sit on the warm white rock. There’s a place almost like a chair in the rock, and we sit in it and lean back and let the sun hit our faces. We can feel the cool air from the gorge and the cool shade from the trees behind us. My Aunt Delia pulls her white blouse out of her jeans and tucks it up under her bra. She unzips her jeans and rolls them down so that her belly button shows. She says, “Killer, take off your shirt, and let’s work on our tans.”
I do. It feels good. But I’m already dark, and I don’t know if I should get any darker in Widow Rock.
I decide it’s time to ask some questions. I take a deep breath of that river spice and blow it out and close my eyes and say, “Delia, how come Grandma Hollister gets her headaches?”
My Aunt Delia’s voice is sleepy-dreamy, and I know she doesn’t mind my asking. She says, “I don’t know, Killer. It’s just a lady thing. A lot of the ladies her age get them. They get what they call ‘the vapors.’ She’d never say so, but I think it’s because she doesn’t have anything much to do but sing in the choir and serve on church committees and keep up what she imagines is her social position. She wasn’t always like that. She was slim as a girl, and she used to ride horses and go hunting with the men. She came from a wealthy family up in Alabama, and they were country people, and they rode and hunted and had a lot of land, and your grandma had servants, and I guess she feels like she married down to Daddy. I think she’s just disappointed with life, Killer, and she can’t admit it to herself, so she has headaches instead. But she’s a good person. She’s been a good mother to me in most ways, and I love her. When I was your age, she and I had a lot of fun.”
I knew that. The love part, not the other stuff. I say, “She’s good to me, too, only she wears so much perfume I hate when she hugs me.”
My Aunt Delia laughs. Her laugh is dreamy-sleepy, too. She says, “Promise not to tell her that, okay?”
It’s okay. I say, “Delia, does Grandpa Hollister have a gun?”
“Sure, Killer. He’s got a .38 caliber revolver. He keeps it locked in a fishing tackle box in the trunk of his car. I bet you’d like to see it.”
“I sure would.”
“I bet you’d like him to let you shoot it.”
I say I’d like that, too. I try not to show how excited I am. Sometimes when a kid does that, it works against his plan. My Aunt Delia says, “All you boys are alike. I don’t know why you love guns so much.”
It feels good that she didn’t say little boys.
I say, “How come Grandpa Hollister keeps his gun in the trunk? Doesn’t he ever need it?”
My Aunt Delia says, “Killer, if a sheriff in a county like this needed to have his gun on him all the time, he’d consider himself a complete failure. It isn’t guns that keep order around here. It’s history. It’s just doing things the way they’ve always been done.”
There’s a scrape of boot on rock and, “Well, looka there. If it ain’t Miss Delia Hollister and her flatland nephew.”
My Aunt Delia jumps beside me, and her hands go to her clothes, the white blouse down from her bra, the denim rolled up over her belly button. I stand up between her and Kenny Griner.
Seventeen
Griner just stands there grinning with his hands shoved into the pockets of his greasy jeans. He’s got on the leather jacket and he lifts one of his boots and scuffs it again, hard, on the white rock. It leaves a black mark. He’s got a big, red bruise above his right eye. I can see black thread in the middle of it. I count the stitches, six, and he sees me doing it, and he takes his hand out of his pocket and touches the red welt. There’s crusty black blood where the skin is pulled together with thread.
Behind me, my Aunt Delia says, “Kenny Griner, you scared the hell out of me. You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.”
Griner shrugs and goes out to the edge of the cliff and looks down. He turns back to us and says, “Same old Widow Rock. Except it ain’t the same with you here, Miss Delia.”
“Don’t Miss me, Kenny. I don’t like it when you Miss me.”
Griner looks at me, then at my Aunt Delia. His eyes get small. “What was you two doing when I come up on you, Miss Delia? Look like you were nearbout naked. How old you say that boy is?”
My Aunt Delia’s cheeks get the two red spots, and the spots start to grow. She says, “We were just sunbathing as you very well know. And if you start talking ugly, Travis and I will leave.”
“Aww, don’t leave,” Griner says. He scuffs the rock again with his big-heeled boot. He shoots both hands out straight, and the wings of his leather jacket spread like he might take off and soar over the gorge. He says, “It’s lonely enough up here on a Sunday morning.” He squints over at me and my Aunt Delia. “Hey, why ain’t you two in church? Shouldn’t you be praise-the-Lording and amening with all them other good citizens?” Griner throws his hands out again and the leather wings flap. I see a brown bottle in his hip pocket. It’s like the one Mr. Latimer had, only smaller. And now I see that Griner’s eyes are like Mr. Latimer’s were that day in the alley.
I guess my Aunt Delia sees it, too. She says, “Why, Kenny, you’ve been drinking. Damn if you ain’t got three sheets to the wind on a Sunday morning.”
Griner’s eyes get small, and he raises a hand to shade them. He peers under it at my Aunt Delia. He says, “I ain’t been drinking.”
My Aunt Delia nods her head very slowly. “And I’m your fairy godmother. Look out or I’ll sprinkle you with pixie dust.”
She looks at the empty nothing out there over the river and then closes her eyes and leans her head back in the sunlight. She takes a deep breath and lets it out with a sigh and says, “Kenny, why don’t you take off that jacket. It’s dead summer, and you’re sweating like a field hand.” She opens one eye and looks over at Griner. He’s looking out into all that nothing, pretending he doesn’t hear her. My Aunt Delia’s voice is sleepy-dreamy again. She says, “Oh, well, I guess that jacket’s your Marlon Brando disguise, and you just can’t be seen without it. Not even up here on Widow Rock with old Travis and me.”
“Damn you, Delia.” Griner is still looking out over the gorge, but his voice is smaller now, and I know his throat is getting thick.
My Aunt Delia says, “You can’t damn me, Kenny. Only God can do that.”
Griner turns and looks at me, and I know how he feels. My Aunt Delia takes away all his words. She knows what he’s thinking, too. His shoulders go down flat, and he shrugs and takes off the jacket and folds it and lays it on the rock at his feet. He doesn’t like me seeing him do it. My Aunt Delia isn’t even watching. She’s got her eyes closed again and that sun smile on her face.
Griner reaches back to his hip pocket and takes out the bottle and tilts back his head, and bubbles rise up the neck of the bottle. My Aunt Delia doesn’t see it. I wonder what she’s going to do when she opens her eyes and sees him drinking. Griner lowers the bottle and looks at me, and his eyes are big and wet with the sting of what he swallowed. My dad let me taste his beer once, and I know what it’s like. It’s cold, but it burns all the way down, and it makes your nose itch and your eyes get big.
My Aunt Delia says, “Bring that over here, Kenny. Or are you gonna pig it all yourself.”
Griner walks over and looks down at her. The bottle hangs from his hand, and she lifts her hand up and just holds it there. She doesn’t open her eyes. The bottle’s six inches from her hand and Griner whispers, “Damn it,” and leans down and guides it into her fingers. She takes it, wipes off the mouth, and says, “Thanks, Kenny old buddy. You’re not a pig after all.”
Griner turns and looks at the river. My Aunt Delia raises the bottle to her lips and lets the brown liquid slip into her mouth. I watch close to see how much she takes. She takes a lot. She holds it in her mouth, then swallows, then smiles and holds the bottle out to me. “Give this back to Mr. Griner, will you, Travis?”
She still hasn’t opened her eyes.
I take the bottle from her and sniff it. Even that makes my eyes water a little. It smells like the rubbing alcohol they put in your ears after you swim at camp. It smells like something burning, too, like smoke. I like the way it smells.
My Aunt Delia says, “That was good. I thank you, Kenny.” Then she says to me, all sleepy-dreamy, “Travis, we just toasted religious freedom in Widow Rock.”
I say, “I didn’t get to toast.”
My Aunt Delia says, “You got to sniff. I heard you. Sniffing’s good enough for a guy your age.” I like it she called me a guy. I look over at Griner like a guy, and he looks back at me and shakes his head.
My Aunt Delia says, “Kenny, religious freedom’s my excuse, what’s yours?”
Griner puts his hand to his split-open head and says, “Pain’s mine. Your daddy hit me in the head with that knuckle-duster of his the other night.”
My Aunt Delia pushes herself up hard, and her eyes open so quick I can almost hear them snap. She says, “My daddy what?”
“Hit me,” Griner says. “See?” He leans down, and the split-open welt in his forehead looks like a ripe plum bursting in the sun. My Aunt Delia looks at it. “You had an accident, Kenny, just like Daddy said. You were driving that stupid car of yours too fast, and you went off the road, and you hit your head on the steering wheel.”
Griner says, “Dumb little Delia Hollister. She just don’t know how it is.”
My Aunt Delia says, “Oh, I know how it is, Kenny Griner. Boys lie and girls listen. They listen ’til they’re sick to death of it.” She looks out over the gorge. “Why, this place is named for a woman who got sick to death of it.”
Griner’s voice is low and quiet. “I ain’t lying, Delia. He hit me. And it didn’t have nothing to do with my driving. Not driving on that road anyway.”
“What do you mean, Kenny Griner? What are you insinuating?”
“Never mind,” Griner says. He turns his back and goes out to the very edge of the cliff and stands there in the sun. He’s got on a white T-shirt, and there are sweaty spots under the arms, and he’s got a pack of Camels rolled up in one white sleeve, and his arm muscles are big and bunchy. There’s a tattoo on his other arm muscle. I can’t see all of it, but some of it’s a girl in a grass skirt doing the hula. He’s got long, oily black hair so far down the back of his neck it soaks the collar of his T-shirt. I remember Bick Sifford calling him Duck’s Ass in Tolbert’s Drugstore. I look at the hair now to see if it really looks like a duck’s back. It does.
My Aunt Delia says, “Kenny, I’m waiting.”
Then we hear a car door shut down below, and then voices, and my Aunt Delia says, “Well, Kenny, sounds like the whole town’s coming out this morning.”
Griner looks at the opening in the trees that leads to the path we took to come up here. “Some of your rich shit friends, I guess.”
I don’t like him talking that way in front of her, even if she says the same words herself sometimes. But I don’t know what to do about it. It seems like up here on Widow Rock things are different. People come here to do things they wouldn’t do back in town. I like it, but it scares me, too.
We hear another door slam and more voices. I recognize Caroline Huff’s voice, or maybe it’s Beulah Laidlaw. It’s one of them giggling. Griner raises the bottle to my Aunt Delia. “I guess I won’t stick around for the rich folks’ party.” He takes a long drink, and his eyes get that sudden crazy light in them, and I hear Bick Sifford call from down below, “Delia! Delia Hollister, are you up there?”
Griner rares back and throws the bottle as far as he can out over the gorge. It almost makes the other side. I picture it splashing that other white rock shelf with dark glass stars, but it hits the cliff below the shelf. It breaks with a muffled pop, and the pieces rain down into the brown water.
I hear the voices again, and I look at the opening in the woods that leads to the path. When I look back at Griner, he’s got his black leather jacket in his hand. He smiles at me, and it’s a smile I don’t like. He doesn’t take the path we took. He steps into the trees on the downstream rocky cliff. My Aunt Delia says, “Be careful, Kenny. It’s slippery that way.”
Eighteen
My Aunt Delia and me wait and listen to the voices. As they get closer, she reaches into her jeans and takes out a pack of Spearmint gum and puts a piece in her mouth. She winks at me. “Don’t want booze on my breath,” she says. She offers me a piece, and I take it. She tucks her shirt back in and buttons her jeans. We sit on the rock like before, and she closes her eyes and lifts her face to the sun. I listen to the voices.
I know them all but one. There’s Bick Sifford and Ronny Bishop and Beulah Laidlaw and Caroline Huff, and there’s another one. A boy. I hear Bick Sifford say, “I know she’s up there. Ain’t but one white Chevy around here, and it belongs to Delia Hollister.”
“Why didn’t she answer you, then?” It’s the new boy’s voice. Bick Sifford doesn’t say anything.
We wait and the kids come through the clearing and out onto Widow Rock. It’s a big place, but it looks crowded with all of them here. My Aunt Delia doesn’t move when they come up. She just sits beside me with her face to the sun. Caroline Huff says, “Hey, Delia. We missed you in church.”
Beulah Laidlaw says, “Yeah, Delia. Your mama said you were under the weather.” When Beulah says, “under the weather,” she imitates my Grandma Hollister’s voice, kind of high and out of breath. Everybody laughs.
My Aunt Delia doesn’t open her eyes. She says, “I was enjoying the weather. It’s so nice up here.”
Bick Sifford and Ronny Bishop walk over to the edge of the cliff. Ronny takes a pack of Salems from his pocket, and Bick leans over while Ronny tries to keep a match going in the cool wind that blows up from the river. The new boy stands by himself behind Beulah and Caroline. He looks like he doesn’t care if anybody notices him or not. He’s wearing cool clothes, like Ronny and Bick wear, only better. His penny loafers shine like a wet bird, and the copper pennies in them look brand new. He’s wearing a blue shirt with a button-down collar and tan pants with a sharp crease and an alligator belt. He’s got brown hair in a crew cut and patches of freckles under both cheeks, and his teeth are white between his thin lips. His face is long and narrow like a preacher’s. He watches Caroline and Beulah talk to my Aunt Delia, and she still hasn’t opened her eyes.
Ronny and Bick get the cigarettes lit, and they stand there in the cool wind smoking. They take little puffs and hold the cigarettes out in front of them and turn their hands over and admire their fingernails. They knock their hips out to the side and flick the ashes from the cigarettes. Ronny flicks his so hard the whole red coal at the end falls on the ground. He looks over at the girls and whispers, “Shit,” and bends down and sticks the coal back into the end of the cigarette. Bick Sifford laughs and says, “Smooth move, Ronny.”
Beulah Laidlaw says, “Hey Delia, we want you to meet Quig Knowles. He’s Bick’s cousin from Birmingham.”
My Aunt Delia says, “Quig? What’s a Quig?”
Beulah looks at Caroline, and their mouths get small and tight. They don’t like the way my Aunt Delia’s acting. They want her to jump up and get all flittery like they are about Bick Sifford’s cousin Quig from Birmingham. My Aunt Delia’s eyes roll open like two grouchy cats waking up, and she looks out at Ronny and Bick smoking on the edge of the cliff, and then over at Caroline and Beulah. “Where’s this Quig?” she says. “I ain’t never seen a Quig before.”
Quig Knowles steps up between Caroline and Beulah and says, “Hey, Delia. I heard a lot about you from Bick and his friends here. Sounds like you know how to have a good time.”
My Aunt Delia shades her eyes and looks up at Quig Knowles. She says, “Not like they do in Birmingham. I hear they have a big time in Birmingham.” She looks at me. I don’t know what’s going on, so I
just look back at her. She winks at me and says, “I bet you have a big time in Birmingham, Quig. You better not hang around Widow Rock too long. You’ll forget how.”
Caroline and Beulah giggle, and Bick Sifford comes over from the edge of the cliff and says, “I told Quig if he’d come down and visit, we’d raise some hell. All we did so far is get stuck going to church.” He stands over my Aunt Delia with the cigarette smoke burning up his arm. “And you skipped it, Delia. You’re supposed to be home in bed with some lady complaint.”
Caroline slaps Bick on the arm, and the cigarette showers sparks, and Beulah says, “Oh Bick, don’t be ugly.” Bick laughs and rubs his arm, and Beulah giggles, and my Aunt Delia gets up and dusts off the back of her jeans. I stand up too. My Aunt Delia says, “Well, this is it. This is what we call a good time in good ole Widow Rock. Anybody bring a radio?”
Beulah reaches into her bag and takes out a little transistor radio and tunes it to Birmingham and sets in on the rock where we were sitting. Up here on the high ground, the songs come in strong. The Shirelles are singing, “My Guy.”
My Aunt Delia goes out and stands by the edge of the cliff and starts to move with the music. She slides her hips and dips and rolls her head, and her black hair swings around her face. It’s slow and sleepy, and the boys’ eyes change watching her. After a minute, Caroline and Beulah go out there and start dancing, too, and they aren’t as good as my Aunt Delia is. Caroline’s okay, but Beulah’s kind of stiff like she’s watching herself in a mirror. The three boys stand together, and Ronny gets out the pack of Salems, and they light up again. My dad says menthol cigarettes are for women. The boys want to dance, but they’re too embarrassed. I would be, too. I’d rather strike out with two down in the ninth inning and the bases loaded than dance. The boys watch for a while, and Bick Sifford says something low behind his hand when he raises the cigarette to his mouth, and the other two laugh. Finally, Quig Knowles says, “Aww, what the hell,” and goes out to the edge of the cliff and starts dancing.
Sweet Dream Baby Page 12