Behind the meat case in the back of the grocery were two table-sized chopping blocks, an electric meat grinder, and a hand-cranked slicer. Stephen loved to watch meat hunks go into the top of the grinder and then come out below, moving slowly like a bunch of thick red strings, falling onto waxed meat paper held by his daddy or Uncle Steve. Sometimes Uncle Steve would let him cut the switch on or off, but his daddy wouldn't. The year before, Stephen watched Big Steve walk from back there holding his hand in a white towel as blood dripped dark red from his elbow. He'd never seen blood like that, except from a hog or chicken. Stephen's daddy had asked Levi Parsons, the only customer at the time, to mind the store and watch Little Steve until he and Big Steve got back from the hospital. Over the days it took to heal, Big Steve would pull back the bandage every now and then and show Stephen the long stitched cut. But his other uncle's scar, his uncle Raleigh's scar, was the best one of all. His arm got shot off in World War I up above his elbow and right in the end of it was an X, and when Uncle Raleigh was so drunk he couldn't move, Stephen would stand and look at it and study the little dips and curves of that X and think about his mother saying Uncle Raleigh could sometimes feel the arm that wasn't there. He liked to hear his mother tell all about how it had happened, and about how Uncle Raleigh came home and couldn't ever get over it.
Across the way from Stephen, beyond the blinker light, Terry Daniels sat on his porch watching the rain. His house had a shallow porch, so he sat back up against the wall. The green metal porch chair had been moved around to the backyard. Terry studied the ends of three rotting porch planks, their familiar ragged ends, looked through the rain at the grocery store porch, made out the red of tomatoes, the green of string beans. A cardboard box of kittens had been on that porch several weeks ago. Stephen's mama got Stephen one, a black one. They named him Inky. Terry's mama wouldn't let him get one. They already had cats all over the place. His sister, Cheryl, took care of them mostly. She talked to them and named them: Cindy, Doggie, Puddin, and Pirate. He thought maybe he'd like to kill one sometime. The Blaine sisters had a three-legged gray cat.
He watched the rain move along in sheets. Cabbage? Or was that collards over there? And Stephen. Stephen had everything in the world: car, grocery store. A mama that had nice dresses, fixed up her hair, took Stephen places in the car. He had screens on all his windows. He said he was going to heaven. Stephen was who Terry wanted to be sometimes—without Stephen's clothes and Stephen's kind of mean and clean mama—so that he would be sure he was going to heaven, and be able to ride in a car, and have a black kitten that would be just his, and not Cheryl's.
A Chevrolet pulled in at the Blaine sisters' store. A Chevrolet face had a turned-down fish mouth, and the rear end had little beady-eye taillights. A man in an overcoat got out, went to the store front door, tried to open it, got back in and drove off. He didn't know that when it stormed, the Blaine sisters got scared and drove to their sister's.
Lightning flashed, then cracked, thunder boomed, not all that far away. Mist drifted onto Terry's face.
His mother called out from inside, "Terry, get in here. I need you to do something for me."
"Can I go over to the grocery store and see Stephen first?"
"no. hell, no." What the hell? Why the hell was he always wanting to do something? Why couldn't he just do what she said do? She needed a nap. She needed a cigarette. She shook one up from the pack.
Terry pulled the string from the overhead lightbulb.
"Turn out that damn light."
If she dropped ashes on herself she brushed them off and by the time they reached the floor they'd about disappeared.
Back over at the grocery, Stephen watched Casey Odell get out of his truck and hurry in from the hard rain. "Hey there, Little Steve." He headed on in the store, came back out with a pack of Luckies, sat beside Stephen, thumped the pack on the bench, opened it, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it with a stick match. Stephen had once seen Casey wearing his navy uniform with all the buttons.
Striking that match like he did, on the bench, and wearing a navy uniform was something Stephen could see himself doing when he grew up. Being in the navy and dressed up in that uniform and going somewhere on a ship would be just about one of the biggest things in the world. He looked at the cigarette between Casey Odell's fingers, thought about getting some candy cigarettes. Sticks of chalk they looked like, with the ends painted red. Sometimes an end almost got missed—just a tiny bit of red on it.
Casey grabbed Stephen's knee and pinched it. Stephen pulled away, smiling, holding his Big Top grape.
The rain pounded the ground and pavement. Casey's cigarette smoke made its way out into the rain as if flowing along an invisible riverbed. He said, "Tell you one thing—that is a hard rain. Huh, boy?"
"Yessir." Stephen looked at the side of Casey's kind of ugly face while Casey looked out into the rain. Big nose, thick glasses, frog eyes. He had a scar on his chin like the ones that Mr. Train had on his face from the mule-truck wreck. Stephen said, "If it'd been raining when Mr. Train was in that wreck maybe that would have washed off the mule stinky and glass."
Casey looked at Stephen, then stood. "Mr. Toomey," he called out, going inside, smoke flowing around his head like a boat wake, "you got a right smart boy out here. Guess what he just said. He said..."
Stephen was afraid about his daddy hearing that he'd just said "stinky." He turned up his Big Top grape. He'd wait and see if his daddy was a little bit upset, and if he wasn't, he'd ask for a pack of candy cigarettes. It said lucky strike on the pack, too. His daddy worked at Liggett & Myers, where they chopped up tobacco and put it in cigarettes. He'd heard his daddy talk about suckering tobacco and tying tobacco when he was a little boy, and when Stephen's daddy took him to the homeplace he'd shown him the tobacco barns where he'd once spent whole nights tending the fires. The fire would be warm and in a little tunnel that went into the barn while his daddy slept in the cold outside near the heat, waking up to check the fire. His daddy had even said that he and Stephen and his mama might move to the farm. That way Stephen could have a horse or a mule and get to smell the horse smell and ride like Roy Rogers. Then he could pretend to kill Indians like a real cowboy on a real horse.
The rain suddenly let up some.
Stephen went inside and came back out with his pack of candy Luckies, opened it, pulled out a heavy chalk candy cigarette, pretended to light it from a pretend match struck on the bench, pulled both of his feet up, and crossed his legs beneath him. He held out the candy cigarette and practiced all the ways he knew of flicking off ashes. While he flicked he saw Terry Daniels, a black raincoat over his head and shoulders, run down his steps, splash to the edge of the road, look both ways, cross the road, walk among the men, and go inside Train's Place.
Inez daniels watched Terry go out into the rain and into Train's. She noticed the Toomey boy, Little Steve, sitting over there on the grocery store porch, smoking a...? What the hell? His mama would wear him out. Oh ... candy cigarettes. Yes.
If she herself had a job at a store or somewhere, then she could get cigarettes for half-price. She liked Kools, the way they iced down your mouth, and they were better for your health than other cigarettes. If she could get some half-priced she could save some money for a little more wine.
When they'd moved from her mama's house after her mama lost her mind and died, that blinker light liked to have drove her crazy, blink-red/blink-red/blink-red/blink-red day night day night day night day night. She'd had to nail towels over the bedroom window but you could still feel it flashing out there. It made red shadows, red shade. It got on her nerves.
"You'd think she'd go get her own wine." "Not over to Train's Place I don't think." "I'll tell you one thing. That's the one thing, I guess the only one thing that's stood in our entire family: You don't hit a woman." "Ours too. Most families. Most families that I know about. As far back as I know about, too." "There's one in every community, I guess." "Yeah, I guess so." "And not a thing you can d
o about it." "And you know normally, he's just as nice a man as he can be." "He is. And funny too. You know, he can say some funny things." "Look at that water coming out of that gutter over there. That's what you call raining."
Crossing the road again, Terry held the bottom of the wet-getting-wetter paper bag like Mr. Train had told him so the wine wouldn't break through. He could feel cool water between his toes in his left boot. Inside Train's, Terry had seen Big Steve sitting over behind the candy counter in the dark drinking a Blatz. He'd seen the naked woman on the wall, and the pieces of a radio that Train had taken apart on the table over behind the counter.
Lightning blasted in the woods behind the grocery.
Stephen stood quickly and went inside. Hairs were standing up on his arms. He met Casey coming out. Casey patted him on the head.
Inside, he said, "Daddy, Terry went over to Train's Place and got some wine again."
"Oh?" His daddy was running leftover meat package string off one spool onto another.
Stephen was beginning to get some idea about who was going to hell and who was going to heaven. His mama and daddy and aunts and uncles were pretty clear. Terry's daddy —Mr. Daniels—was pretty clear: He was going to hell for getting drunk and yelling and beating up Mrs. Daniels. Mrs. Daniels was going to hell for drinking wine. He, Stephen, would go to hell if he didn't accept Jesus, something he was getting old enough to figure out to do. His mother said he was old enough. The preacher did, too. A lot of it—getting saved —had to do with visiting old people and going to church every time you were supposed to, cutting off the Blaine sisters' toenails, and things like that for old people. And not drinking beer and whiskey. And it had to do with not saying ugly words, not touching stinky, keeping your pants on, keeping quiet when you were supposed to, not running away from your mama, not playing with your doodie, eating what you were supposed to eat, drinking milk, and being quiet, and it definitely had to do with Moses, Jesus, Peter, Mary, Zacchaeus, Isaac, God, Joseph, Abraham, David, Adam, Ezekiel, Miriam, and not playing in the mud. And it had to do with the story about Stephen's grandmother when she one time whipped his mama for cutting a piece of cloth on the Lord's Day. And Stephen, the one who got stoned for believing in God. It had to do with him. Somebody got named after him and then went to World War I, and Big Steve was named after that one, and then when Big Steve went to World War II, Stephen got named after him.
And it had to do with saying your prayers: closing your eyes and seeing the white that was Jesus and then saying a prayer to it.
"I don't know," said his daddy. "I just don't know. Do you want to do some sweeping?"
"Yessir."
"Get the broom and sweep out behind the meat counter." Stephen loved to sweep dirt into the dustpan, move it back, sweep the line of dirt, move it back, sweep the line of dirt. It was a grown-up thing.
Harvey, holding The long-handled clasper, tipped a box of cornflakes, brought it down, and then a box of Tide to take home to Alease as soon as Big Steve came back from fishing. He didn't want to forget. He looked out the door. The afternoon sun had come out, catching and holding drops of water on the big sign at Train's Place.
A shotgun blast erupted from down behind the Blaine sisters' store. They were already back home after the storm—and they'd killed another chicken. Miss Bea had twice called Stephen over to let him watch her shoot. She might even let Stephen shoot some chickens, she'd told Harvey. That would be fun for him, and the little shotgun didn't hardly kick at all, she'd said. It did the job just right.
Alligator jimmy didn't remember anybody he'd liked as much as Rusty Smith, in a long time. For one thing, the man knew a lot. He was a bit down on his luck and could use the cot in Jimmy's office for a night or two. Jimmy liked to help out people he liked. And if all turned out the way Jimmy hoped it would, this Smith fellow just might be the one to run his cousin's little zoo next door. There was going to be a lot of potential for zoos the more people went on car trips. Smith recognized this, and had expressed interest in the zoo business. Jimmy's cousin was about ready to sell because he had to pay that big fine, and Jimmy was in a good position for a bank loan. Things were coming together.
CHURCH HOME
Framed photographs sat on tables throughout Mr. and Mrs. Weams's small white-frame house near the far side of the church pond—photographs of their children on down through great-grandchildren mostly, and other relatives. If nothing happened, they'd have some great-great-grandchildren within a year or two. How wonderful it would have been if their parents were alive to see all this offspring.
Mrs. Weams had taken a heating pad over to Mrs. Clark in the church secretary's office to put on that sprained ankle. And the quad cane her daddy once had. And some food. And a radio. In spite of all Mrs. Clark's excited ways, Mrs. Weams couldn't help but like her. And she was such a good church secretary—a job that she must have been called to—in spite of all the medicine she took. And she and Mr. Clark seemed so very happy together, although there had always been some question about Mr. Clark owning all those Cadillacs one after another, and that big diamond ring.
"We're mighty lucky to have somebody as good as her to be the secretary," Mrs. Weams said as she turned back the covers on her side of the bed.
Mr. Weams, standing over in the corner, held on to the back of his chair, taking off his pants as best he could. "We sure are," he said. Sometimes he forgot whether he was putting them on or taking them off. He liked to tell the story about the two old maids: One upstairs needing help, standing naked, half in and half out of the tub, called out to her sister, who didn't come for the longest time—so finally she called out again, and her sister said she was on the stairs but couldn't remember if she was going up or down. "Come on up—you're coming up." When her sister finally got up there, the upstairs sister couldn't remember if she was getting in the tub or out. Mr. Weams liked to tell that story when he forgot something. He was telling it right often lately, and it was getting so he kept forgetting the story itself, which one time made him stop telling it right in the middle of telling it, which was a brand new story he told for a while—the story about forgetting the story, that is—along with the one about Lizzy Swanson. Lizzy's grandson visited from Tennessee and she hadn't seen him in over twenty years. He said, "I'm David, your grandson." She said, "Come on in for some cookies." Then once they sat down, she said, "Now who'd you say you were?" and he said, "David, your grandson. You remember your daughter Betty, don't you?" She said, "Yes, I remember Betty." He said, "Well, I am Betty's son and that makes me your grandson." And Lizzy leaned across the table, looked him in the eye, and said: "That's too deep for me."
Mrs. Weams continued, "And she didn't complain about that sprained ankle one time and it all swelled up the way it was."
"You took her something to eat?"
"Took her a egg salad sandwich and a piece of that apple pie. I would of took her some of the lemon pie but the meringue won't right and I kinda wanted the rest of that for us."
"Did she have all her medicines?"
"Lined up on a shelf in the bookcase where she could reach them from the couch. But I don't believe she's as nervous as they say. I've never seen her when she didn't seem like herself."
Mrs. Weams placed her hand on the bed and slowly turned to sit.
Mr. Weams did the same on his side.
"Dear Lord," she said, "we are gracious for Thy bountiful love, and we ask for guidance in all we do and say. Bless Dorothea in her time of need. Be with her. Bless Mike, Nannie, Richard, and Jane, and all their children and grandchildren. We pray for the sick and afflicted, dear Lord, and we pray in Thy blessed name, amen."
"Dear Lord," prayed Mr. Weams, "we are indebted for Thy everlasting love. Watch over us, we pray, in all we do and say. Grant us the courage to face each day and to follow Thy commandments. May we all learn the place of God in our homes, and the place of love and obedience and steadfastness in our hearts. In Jesus' name, amen. No telling what would happen to the books, the accountin
g, if it wadn't for her."
Mrs. Weams rolled back and down into bed, as her husband did the same from his side. She missed bumping his head by about the same margin she had each night for sixty-three years, except for the nine months and twelve days at the end of World War I when he served in the army down in Rome, Georgia, and then up in Norfolk, Virginia. He never had to go overseas.
Jack Umstead was driving north in his Buick Eight. He was seven hundred dollars to the good. Alligator Jimmy sold three bird dogs for two hundred dollars apiece at about 5 p.m. out in front of the store and brought the money inside.
Umstead watched him and found it plus another hundred, within the hour, in a cigar box. He hit the road after offering his good buddy Alligator Jimmy a hearty thanks for all his Georgia hospitality, and left him an address in case Jimmy got involved in the zoo business. It turned out that his Smith kin-folks were in Albany, Georgia, he told Jimmy, not Atlanta. He'd misread some information.
He'd headed south, but then circled and headed north again.
Over in her church office, Mrs. Claude T. Clark, Dorothea, sat on the clean white sheet she'd tucked around the couch cushions. This was so comfortable. She felt within the very clean presence of the Lord Jesus. She'd taken all her capsules and was waiting on taking her little white pills so she could get some space between them and the capsules. She needed a little more space than she'd been getting. Claude T., bless his heart, had gotten every single bottle of her medicine to her.
But Claude T. was buying a new Cadillac every year. And, he'd bought a diamond ring for himself. She just didn't feel that that kind of behavior was of the Lord. But the Cadillacs made him so happy, gave him something to talk about, something to spend his time on. A Cadillac was way too much car for her, with automatic windows, automatic this, automatic that, and Claude T. paid somebody uptown to wash it every week, and they used a vacuum cleaner on the inside. He'd bring it home and you could see vacuum cleaner streaks in the carpet—it had carpet—and they'd still be there when he got it rewashed and revacuumed again the next week.
WHERE TROUBLE SLEEPS Page 3