Bessie came to the door and it wasn’t two seconds before she pulled me into her big, soft hug. “Have mercy,” she said. “I have sure missed you.” She pointed me to a chair and said, “I was fixing to bring you a chocolate cake. But since you’re here, I’m going to cut it.”
She went into the kitchen and clattered around for a few minutes, and when she came back she had a tray with a glass of milk and a slice of cake on a small china plate.
“What a pretty plate,” I said. “It puts me in mind of Warm Springs.”
“Junior said you fit right in down there.”
“Well,” I said, “in some ways I did. But I just couldn’t believe it was really me in that ritzy place.”
I started telling Bessie all about Warm Springs and how, if it wasn’t for my momma and daddy, I would love to be there right that second.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s not all Junior’s fault. We both thought it would be best if you knew.”
“I don’t blame you,” I said. “Or Junior either.” I didn’t mention how mad I was at him for ruining my Warm Springs fairy tale.
The next thing I knew, Junior was coming through the door. When he saw me he stopped dead in his tracks.
“The school bus dropped me off,” I said. “I’m hoping you’ll take me home.” It was hard saying this on account of how I hurt him so bad on the way home from Georgia. But I couldn’t let that stop me from doing what had to be done.
“My daddy can’t run the tiller,” I said.
“Is it broke?”
“The sound of it scares him. He did two and a half rows and just quit. You should’ve seen how he was shaking.”
Junior hung his hat on a hook inside the living room door. And his car key beside the hat. Bessie went in the kitchen to get him some cake and milk.
He balanced the dish with the cake on his knee. He ate it without talking to me. He knew good and well I wanted him to come and till that garden for my daddy. But I could see he was going to make me beg. So I did.
“I’m asking you to till the garden for him, Junior. He wants to do right by his family. But loud noises bother him. And you know how loud that tiller is.”
“Your daddy run me off his property and I don’t suppose he’s going to let me come back two days later, now is he?”
“He won’t be home for another hour and a half. You’ve got time before he gets there.”
I knew Junior wanted to turn me down, but of course he couldn’t. And his momma was right there to make sure he didn’t. “Don’t argue. Just go,” she said. “Leroy needs you and you’ll kick yourself later if you don’t help out.”
Junior looked like he wanted to kick something right that minute. He ate one last big bite of cake and drank the rest of the milk. Then he stood and his mother took his dishes from him and carried them into the kitchen.
“Let’s go,” he said.
He went out the door and waited for me to come through before he shut it. He didn’t help me off the porch like he normally would. But I didn’t need his help. He opened the car door for me but went around to the other side and let me get in and close the door by myself.
Neither one of us said a word on the way to my house. He went straight to the garden and cranked up the tiller and was tilling the rows almost before I got into the house.
Momma was in the living room. She gave me a quick hug. “When Junior’s done you tell him to come in for a piece of chocolate cake I made today.”
“He just ate chocolate cake,” I said. “And right now I don’t think he would take it if I offered it. Or even come inside.”
I went into the bedroom and changed into my overalls and went through the kitchen door to the back porch.
It was a warm spring day and I could see little baby leaves fixing to pop out on the trees. I thought how strange it was that the world could be so beautiful and still hurt so bad at the same time. I sat in the grass at the side of the house and watched Junior.
The tiller made his arms shake too, but he held it steady and kept his eye on the ground. I could see how he was keeping just the right amount of pressure on the handles so it wouldn’t bog down in the dirt. His hair was rumpled and his shirttail was hanging loose. But he seemed so solid and unbreakable.
Not like my daddy, who seemed wobbly when he was behind the tiller. And even when he wasn’t.
Once when Junior got to the other end of the garden he looked up to where I sat. He went on with his job. When he was done he took the tiller right past me and put it in the shed.
“Thanks,” I said when he came back out.
Junior grunted.
“I sure do appreciate it,” I said. “Let me know if I can help you with anything.”
As soon as that came out of my mouth, I wished it hadn’t. What could I do for Junior? He’d never asked me for a single thing. At least not until we drove past Gaffney, South Carolina.
I knew he didn’t mean I should marry him right there on the spot. But he took a chance by letting me know how he felt. And the one thing he wanted from me—a little sign that I felt the same way—he didn’t get.
I knew one thing for sure. Junior Bledsoe deserved a good woman. And even if Mrs. Barkley did think I was a model citizen, I knew I wasn’t very good at all.
32
Getting Help
March 1946
I was afraid Daddy would be furious about Junior tilling his garden. And that he’d take it out on my momma for allowing it to happen. If he did something to hurt her, it would be my fault.
I wanted to be the one to explain, so I sat on the porch and waited for him to come home from work. While I waited, I thought how if I was in Warm Springs I would be going into the dining room soon.
Before long, Mr. Botts would have someone else filling my place. Would Sam the Encyclopedia Man feed that person the same stories he gave me? Was Gavin mad that I ran off without saying goodbye? And Mr. Botts—would he ever forgive me?
Then Daddy came driving in and I forgot about Warm Springs.
Before he even got out of the truck, Daddy noticed the garden was tilled. He sat and stared at it for a long time. Mr. Shoes went running to greet him, yapping and jumping up against the door, but Daddy didn’t open it. He just sat there and stared and Mr. Shoes yipped some more.
Finally Daddy opened the door and Mr. Shoes jumped up into the floorboard of the truck and onto his lap. He greeted Daddy like he always did—licking his face and snuffling in his pockets. But you would’ve thought he was a rat the way Daddy grabbed him and flung him out the door.
Mr. Shoes landed in the yard with a thump that hurt me to hear. He sat looking stunned for a second and then he ran whimpering up the steps. I snapped my fingers, and just like that, he was on my lap.
“Give me kisses,” I said. I hugged him close. “Don’t take it personal, Mr. Shoes,” I whispered. “Daddy’s having a bad day, is all.” But I couldn’t see how that was a good explanation. And I figured Mr. Shoes was too smart to buy it.
When Daddy came up on the porch he stopped right by my chair. “I’m sure your momma’s glad to have you home, Ann Fay. I reckon from now on you can just solve all her problems, can’t you?”
And this time I knew for sure he was being sarcastic.
I burrowed my face in Mr. Shoes’ fur. What was I supposed to say? That I hadn’t done it for my momma? That I was just trying to help him out? But how would that make him feel?
I hung on to Mr. Shoes and waited for Daddy to go in the house. But he didn’t. I could feel him right beside me, breathing heavy. He opened the screen door a few times and let it fall back shut again.
I opened my eyes and saw his fist just a few inches away, clenching and opening and clenching again. I held real still and waited. Then finally he went inside.
Daddy was wrong. I didn’t know how to solve our problems. Especially not his.
But the next day at school Mrs. Barkley handed me a book. It was a biography of Eleanor Roosevelt. “Take a look at page t
hirty-eight,” she said.
So I started reading it the first chance I got. The part Mrs. Barkley wanted me to read was about when Eleanor was first married to Franklin. He was the Secretary of the Navy then, so she made visits to the Navy hospital. There were lots of shell-shocked soldiers from World War I. Mrs. Roosevelt described them as “poor demented creatures, … gazing from behind bars or walking up and down on enclosed porches.”
It sounded like those soldiers who’d fought for our country were being treated like prisoners! The book said Mrs. Roosevelt was so concerned that she went straight to work getting Congress to spend money on improving the hospital. And she raised other funds so they could have recreation. And occupational therapy.
I knew what occupational therapy was, and I could understand how making pot holders and crocheting pocketbooks could strengthen Olivia’s hands. But I didn’t see how it could help my daddy. Still, the book made me think maybe there was help out there somewhere.
During recess I went outside and sat on the bench and watched the rest of the class doing broad jumps and pole vaulting. I asked Mrs. Barkley did she think my daddy had shell shock.
“I think war neurosis may be a common condition,” she said. “The Veterans Administration might have a program to help soldiers adjust to life at home. It would be worth looking into.”
I didn’t see how I could ask Junior Bledsoe for one more thing. But how else would I get to the Veterans Administration to ask about GI benefits?
“And if they can’t help,” said Mrs. Barkley, “maybe the state hospital in Morganton can.”
“The state hospital!” I reached for my wooden Comfort. “That’s an insane asylum. My daddy is not crazy!”
Mrs. Barkley put her hand on my arm. “Don’t think of it like that,” she said. “Surely that hospital has psychiatrists on staff who could help your father. I just want you to think about the possibilities.”
“But I read what that book said—about soldiers behind bars. My daddy is not a criminal. And he’s not dangerous either.”
Maybe I was lying about that—I didn’t know. But I couldn’t imagine my daddy behind bars. And who was supposed to put him there anyway? I decided right off I wasn’t going to look into that mental hospital. At least not until I’d checked with the Veterans Administration.
But there was still the problem of Junior.
On the way home from school, it hit me that there was another way I could get some information. So this time I asked the bus driver to drop me off at the Hinkle sisters’.
Miss Pauline was right there at the back door to let me in. “My, my,” she said. “Isn’t this a surprise! Dinah, we have a guest.” She led me into her kitchen and pulled out a chair. “Sit here. I’ll get you something to eat.” She opened her refrigerator and brought out a bottle of Cheerwine.
Miss Dinah hugged me so hard it knocked her glasses half off. “Oh, it’s good to see you,” she said. “I heard you were back. How was Georgia?”
Why did I have to answer the same old question to every new person I saw? Didn’t it ever cross their minds I might rather be in Warm Springs? Instead of sitting there talking about it?
Miss Pauline put a plate of cookies in front of me. I took one and nibbled at it. “Georgia was just fine,” I said. “I wonder if I could use your telephone. I need to call the Veterans Administration.”
“Of course,” said Dinah. “I’ll look up the number while you finish your treat.”
She went into the living room.
I ate the cookie and left most of the Cheerwine in the bottle. “I’ll share it with the twins later,” I said. Miss Pauline and I went into the living room.
Miss Dinah had her finger on the phone directory and the receiver off the hook. “Do you want me to dial it for you?”
“Um,” I said, “maybe not just yet.”
What would I say, especially with those two sisters hearing every word? I didn’t want to drag them into my family’s business. But Junior had told me they already knew some of it. So I decided to take my chances.
“I need to talk to them about getting help for my daddy. Lately he’s been…well, he’s been…” I just couldn’t make myself say that my daddy had turned violent.
Miss Dinah leaned forward and whispered, “It’s okay, Ann Fay. Actually Bessie told us about the incidents.” Then she sat back and said, louder, “We’d do anything for your mother, wouldn’t we, Pauline?”
Miss Pauline nodded. “Perhaps I should call,” she said. “They’ll be more likely to speak to an adult.”
She took the phone. She explained all about Daddy not being himself since the war and my momma being in a family way. “Urgent help is needed,” she said.
After she hung up, she said that my mother would have to go and fill out papers. “Tell your momma we’ll gladly drive her there.”
“I think we should pay her a visit,” said Miss Dinah.
“Oh, no,” I said. “Please don’t. She will be so ashamed.”
“Nonsense,” said Miss Pauline. “If the war taught us anything, it’s that women must sometimes take charge of a situation. And we have to stick together.”
“Well, maybe.”
“No maybe about it,” said Miss Dinah. “I’m going to give you a ride home this minute. And get myself a little time with that precious dog of yours. I’ll talk to your mother and insist that she let us help.”
And that’s exactly what Miss Dinah did.
33
Good Days and Bad
April 1946
Miss Dinah and Miss Pauline tried their best to help us out. They took Momma to the Veterans Administration Office, more than once. But to make a long story short, there were so many soldiers needing help after the war that if we waited until they got around to helping my daddy I knew it might not ever happen.
I thought a lot about Imogene and whether her daddy was one of those people needing help after the war. When we were in the hospital she told me her daddy did not get to help in the fighting. They kept the blacks and whites separated in the army just like everywhere else. Except maybe up north.
I figured that was good for Imogene. Maybe her daddy was the same one she had always been used to instead of an angry stranger.
I never saw Daddy hit my momma. But I heard him yelling in their room lots of times at night when he should’ve been sleeping. And one day when he had trouble opening a jar of pickled beets, he got so mad he threw it against the Frigidaire. Then he stomped out the door and tore up the road in his truck.
As he drove away I thought about Hubert at Warm Springs. And psychiatrists. And how I promised Momma we’d fix Daddy somehow. “Maybe we should try the state hospital,” I said.
I expected Momma to argue. But she just stared at the long, pink drips streaking down the side of the refrigerator. Tears oozed out her eyes and dribbled off her face. “Maybe,” she said.
But to be honest, I don’t think either one of us could make ourselves do it. We did look into it, but unless he put himself in there, we’d have to get two doctors to sign affidavits saying he was insane.
We needed a better plan.
For one week I almost thought things were going to be all right with Daddy. Now that the garden was tilled, he would go out there and work the soil with his shovel or hoe and plant lettuce and carrots. He even spent two whole evenings chopping away at the wisteria vines that were moving toward the garden again.
I stood at the bedroom window and watched. He looked as mad at those vines as I was when I cut them back during the war. I was just glad he was taking his madness out on the wisteria instead of on us.
Things were better for me at school, too. I still took my canes, but I always moved around the room without them. And every day I could walk a little farther without stopping to rest.
On the school bus I never sat in the front seat. Instead I mixed in with everyone else. Sometimes Jean or Beckie sat with me. One day after I’d been home for a couple of weeks Jean said, “Ann Fay, my moth
er wants to know why you haven’t come by to see her.”
I shrugged. “I don’t know,” I said. “Too much going on, I guess.” I didn’t tell her what I meant by that. I probably didn’t need to. If you wanted to hear some good gossip, that store would be the place to go. More than likely the people coming and going in there knew more about my daddy than I did.
“Well, she wants you to come by on Saturday.” Jean laughed. “But watch out! She’s liable to put you to work.”
I looked at Jean to see if she was making this up. “Tell me the truth,” I said. “Does your momma feel sorry for me or what?”
“Maybe so. Or maybe she just likes you. And anyway, if you’re helping in the store it saves one of us young’uns some work.”
So on Saturday I asked Daddy to take me to Whitener’s Store.
“Look at you,” said Ruth Whitener when I came through the door. “Walking in here with only a cane.” She pulled out a stool and told me to sit. But first she gave me a big hug. “Everyone’s been asking where our little polio girl is.”
Her saying that made me feel warm inside. Like I belonged to something bigger than my family and closer than Warm Springs. And after all, her customers had collected a pile of money to get me to Georgia.
Next thing I knew, I had my job back. I can’t tell you how good it felt. I had met a lot of people by working at the store. And now when they saw me again it seemed like their faces would light up. The women gave me hugs or patted my hand and asked about my momma. Some of the men even talked me into playing rook with them. They joked with me and teased me about the boys I met in Georgia.
But I didn’t mention a single word about Gavin. I hadn’t heard from him. When I first got home, I sent a letter to Suzanne and another one to Olivia explaining that my momma was having a baby and my daddy wasn’t doing so good. But I didn’t give them any details.
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