Closing my newspaper notebook, which had only a few more pages left, I stared at the sun melting away as the fields of my daddy’s farm turned purple and the sky above became darker and darker pink. I wished I had a dress made of such good colors. I thought that I could go to every party wearing that dress and that all the boys might like me, and that all the girls would wish they owned it, but they wouldn’t. It would just be mine.
Leaving off the steps, I passed into Ellan’s hallway with its fake wood walls. Then I went into the kitchen, where Annie Jane was getting dinner together. “Hey, Annie Jane,” I said to her.
“Whatcha doing, Darby?” Annie Jane put her fists atop her hips.
I slumped against the tabletop. “I just wrote a newspaper story.”
“Well, good,” she said, but I could tell she didn’t care.
“I’m writing it on Great-Uncle Harvey.”
“He a good story,” she agreed.
Nodding, I watched her remove two loaves of bread from the oven. She held the two tins with dishrags Mama had made out of grain sacks. “Can I have a slice of that?”
“Child, no. Mr. Carmichael’d get upset. There’s ten minutes till dinner. You gotta hold tight.”
My stomach growled, and I shuffled away and leaned against one of Ellan’s tall walls. Outside it was so dark blue it looked like fountain pen ink. “Annie Jane, you think I’m pretty?”
Tossing a towel over her shoulder, she said, “Darby, you a beautiful little girl, that’s for sure.”
“You think I’d be prettier if I had a purple and pink dress?”
“You’d look purty in a paper sack, child. You don’t need no lavish dress.”
Atop the dirt drive, I saw lights splash, then rise up and hit trees, the smokehouse walls, and even the chicken house behind it, and I knew my daddy was back from town. A few minutes later, he creaked up the steps and into the kitchen. Spotting me, he waved the Bennettsville Times in the air. “Your story’s inside,” he told me. “I had people coming in the store all day, telling me they saw it.”
Nervous, I asked, “Did they laugh?”
“They were real impressed,” he promised, relieving my nervousness and distracting me so that I forgot about the dress. He showed me my article sitting at the bottom of a page. In bold letters it said, “Seems Toads Aren’t So Awful.” Then in small letters it said, “By Little Darby Carmichael.”
I smiled. “I was just hoping to tell the truth about something.”
“Well, you sure did.”
My aunt Greer and Mama wandered in alongside each other.
I squealed, “Daddy’s got my newspaper story!”
They came to take a look at “Seems Toads Aren’t So Awful.”
Jacob carried Great-Uncle Harvey up the steps and placed him at the kitchen table for dinner. Great-Uncle Harvey asked, “What’s all the commotion for?” as he felt around for his napkin and water glass. I told him about my story.
“Now that’s really something,” he declared.
During dinner, which McCall was late for, my whole family treated me like a motion picture star, like I was Mary Pickford instead of Darby Carmichael. It was nice. I let them all say something good, and I wished they’d keep doing it. Even Annie Jane got into the act. Before leaving for home, she stopped over and declared I was a pure genius, which was real wonderful to hear, even though I know she can’t read.
At least three times a week, McCall drives us to school fifteen minutes early so he can get the lowdown on people. On those days, me and Beth rush to our classroom and tell each other secrets and stories about everyone we know. That’s how it always goes. The thing is, the day after “Seems Toads Aren’t So Awful” came out wasn’t normal. I didn’t care about any gossip. The first thing I wanted to know was whether Beth had read my article.
“My daddy did,” she answered.
“Why didn’t you?”
“’Cause I fell asleep so early I didn’t get a chance.”
I nodded. “So what did your daddy say?”
“He thought it was cute.”
I looked at the floor. “He didn’t think it was professional-sounding?”
Beth said, “He thought it was nice and funny.”
“Oh,” I mumbled as my eyes watered up.
“He thought it was real smart, too. He said, ‘Darby’s so smart.’”
I lifted my head a little bit. I knew she was lying, but I didn’t care. “Thanks.”
“For what?” Beth asked. Then she made her perfect smile, which is something she has. As a matter of fact, last Christmas I asked God for her lips instead of mine. The reason is, Beth’s lips are just right. They’re sort of plump, and the bottom half kind of puckers while the top part has an exact triangular notch in the middle. They’re beautiful, that’s for sure. If she sneaks her mother’s fancy shoes, she looks like a picture show star.
Our friends Helen and Sissy and Jack-Henry and Boog and Shoog came in and sat down like a pack of wild animals, causing their desks to skid and scrape on the wood floor. A few minutes later, the kids from the Mill Village, the Lint Heads, stomped up the steps and through the door. Since their daddies weave cotton in a factory, they’re considered low-class. That’s why me and my friends didn’t say anything to them.
My school, the Murchison School, was built by a lady named Harriet Beckwith Murchison, who once taught music in Bennettsville before finding a rich man to marry and becoming rich her ownself. She had the biggest, showiest tastes, too, so our school isn’t just the handsomest in Marlboro County, it’s also made of the best stuff. Mama often says Mrs. Murchison was an angel for giving kids such a wonderful place to learn inside of. I suppose she’s right.
The thing is, even though it’s got all the newest and best, there is one fancy thing the Murchison School doesn’t have. There’s nowhere to sit and eat inside. I guess Mrs. Murchison figured that people could walk home for lunch, not reckoning that farm kids from way out in the county would attend. So while my friends go on to their own houses, I have to eat at this apartment building around the block. All the teachers live there, since state law says in order to teach, they can’t be married and have got to be from out of town. McCall, he doesn’t take to that arrangement, so he skips food and goes off to catch bugs or birds or to read a book. In a way, I’d rather do that, too. My problem is that my stomach gets starved.
The day after “Seems Toads Aren’t So Awful” was in the paper, though, I didn’t mind eating with the teachers and farm kids. It wasn’t like usual, where I had to be mannerly and not say anything unless I was spoken at, which normally isn’t too often. Every teacher at my table, all five, praised my story and me for taking such a big interest in language and writing. They didn’t quit, either, so that the whole way through my meal I had to concentrate on seeming humble.
“Thank you, ma’am,” I said a million times. “I just wanted to tell the truth.”
“Well, you did a wonderful job,” one of them promised me.
Another teacher said, “I hope you’ll keep getting better.”
“I’m gonna, ma’am,” I answered her.
She corrected my English. “You are going to,” she said.
“That’s what I meant,” I told her.
“Fine,” she replied, and took a bite of the salty ham.
“You’ve raised the bar for all of your peers,” my teacher, Miss Burstin, announced.
I thought about what she had said. “I hope no one gets mad at me for doing that, ma’am.”
“Don’t you worry about others,” she instructed.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, but as soon as I thought about it, I did worry. I didn’t want to make anyone look bad.
“I’m going to give you an extra-credit grade,” Miss Burstin told me.
I stared at her. “What grade are you gonna give me, ma’am?”
“Why, Darby, an A, of course.”
Smiling, I said, “Thank you, Miss Burstin.” Then, because I was worried they’d see ho
w their compliments were swelling my pride, I tried not to smile.
Tip-tapping through the dry, skinny streets of Bennettsville, me and Beth headed to her house. Cheerful, we danced along with our elbows locked together like a chain. Even though my mama would’ve gotten mad, I grabbed the sides of my dress and lifted them a little so that I could kick a foot high in the air.
“How did that look?” I asked Beth.
“So beautiful,” she said.
“You do it.”
She shook her head. “If my mama saw me, I’d be in trouble for a week.”
“That’s why it’s fun,” I told her, and did it again.
“You look like a Broadway dancer.”
“I wish I was,” I said, high-kicking about.
“Not me,” Beth announced. “If I could make a wish, I’d make one to live in England.”
Letting go of her arm, I asked, “Why?”
“’Cause they got kings and princes and such there. In America, we won’t ever get a chance to meet those sorta people. My daddy says that instead of having a monarchy like they got, we have a democracy run by normal people. We don’t have kings or queens or anything.”
Hearing that got me a little sad. Since the first grade, me and Beth had always wanted to be princesses and have jewels and whole rooms full of expensive clothes. “Maybe we can move to England after school?”
“Maybe we’ll both find a prince?”
“I bet,” I told her. Then I tried to act like I was from London. In a fancy voice, I said, “Mrs. Fairchild, what are me and you gonna play today?”
She raised up her shoulders and gave me an expensive look. “We could make penny peeks, Mrs. Carmichael.”
I said, “Then maybe we can ride in Chester’s royal goat cart and have Mercury pull us to my daddy’s store?”
A playfulness came into Beth’s face. Smiling, she said, “You know what? I’m sure Chester’s gonna let you ride. He likes you, is why. My brother’s got a crush and thinks you’re pretty.”
Stopping to stare into her eyes, I hissed, “He does not!” Suddenly I was frightened and excited about seeing Chester.
“He does. He says you got a sweet face and you’re good about helping him feed Mercury.”
“I like Mercury, is all.”
Beth’s house sits alongside the biggest, nicest homes in all of Bennettsville. That’s because it’s one of them. It’s got a wide porch and three tall floors of rooms, and windows that always sparkle they’re so clean. Sometimes I think President Coolidge ought to live there because it even has a little balcony off the second floor he could wave from. It’s big, too. It can make Ellan look miniature to me. My daddy says Beth’s daddy, Mr. Robert Fairchild, is Marlboro County’s best lawyer, and a real good person to boot, and he says that their home has to be that good. I reckon he’s right.
When we got to Beth’s house, her brother was out with Mercury, and I was glad. Seeing him would’ve turned me as pink as a flower. Thankful, I set my books alongside Beth’s on the back steps and fetched a piece of bread from the cook. After we were done eating, we went out into the yard to make our penny peeks. Careful, we dug perfect, round holes in the ground. Then we collected flowers and rocks from Mrs. Fairchild’s giant garden. Away from each other, me and Beth arranged things in our holes, both of us fixing to make a more beautiful display than the other. After a good while, we got them just the way we wanted, with every flower turned to its best side. We went into the shed and carried over sheets of glass, and, careful not to mess up our work, we laid them on top of our penny peeks so that they looked like store windows.
We stepped back.
After about a minute, Beth asked, “Which is prettier?”
Walking over to her penny peek, I looked at the leaves and the mums and camellias and slightly shriveled petunia buds. They were so nice I smiled.
She was hunched over mine. “Yours is the best.”
“They’re both nice.”
She said, “Let’s not play that somebody has to win, Darby.”
“All right,” I agreed.
At my daddy’s store, me and Beth sat on the downstairs counter, watching folks come in. We knew everyone, and nearly all of them had read “Seems Toads Aren’t So Awful.” Stepping through the doors, they called hello to us before telling me how impressed they were. Some said they had no idea toads were so safe, and others congratulated me by squeezing my knee or messing up my hair, which is something I don’t like.
Outside, Bennettsville was full up with people buying or selling or talking about things that farmers and townsfolk discuss. The stores up yonder and down the street were busy and nice with their columns and swirly-whirly parts and windows. Workhorses stomped past pulling wagons, and a few cars clitter-clanked along with engines that sounded like metal animals. Across the street, our courthouse seemed as if it had been kidnapped clean out of Washington, D.C. Its big, important-seeming tower stood out against the baby blue sky, which is one of my favorite colors on account of its name: baby blue.
Alongside us, my daddy’s gold cash register was ringing, but it didn’t seem like people were handing over money. Instead, they signed their names to receipts and walked straight out with their ropes and harnesses and barbed wire spools or whatever. Most of them said, “Bye, Little Darby and Beth Fairchild.”
“Bye, Mr. Turley” or “Mr. MacNight” or “Mr. Jones,” we said back, grinning and drumming our heels against the wood counter. Sitting there, I wished so bad we could go to the Candy Kitchen for a brown cow or a chocolate. Finally, I turned and asked my daddy for a nickel.
My daddy stopped punching numbers into the register and looked at me without any kind of mood on his face. After what seemed like a hundred minutes, Mr. Walter Henry, who was standing at the register, said, “Here now, let me give ya a dime, what with how much I owes Carmichael Dry Goods.”
“Don’t, Walter,” my daddy said to him.
“Come on, Mr. Carmichael.”
“Naw, you keep your money till you can pay on your bill.”
Hesitating, Mr. Walter Henry looked at the dimes and nickels in his dirty palm. Breaking into a smile, he lifted his shoulders at me and Beth, and said to my daddy, “If that’s the way you want it, Sherm.” Grabbing hold of a potato sack and a new shovel handle, he carried them out the door.
Next in line was Mr. Turpin Dunn, who is one of the biggest and meanest men in the whole world. He must be ten feet tall, with a chin that’s as sharp and straight as a plow blade and eyes sitting on his face like two blazing drips of cooking lard. His farm touches one side of ours, and in the winter when the trees are naked, we can see his flickery oil lamps burning away in his windows. McCall and me always walk through other people’s property without a care, but we don’t get close to his land. Reason is, he’s got a bad reputation. Tenant kids say he threw a black boy, a little boy, against a smokehouse wall for eyeing his mean old wife. The thing is, it’s hard not to give her a good peek. It isn’t that she’s ugly or has something nasty on her, it’s the way she pinches her face so hard. It’s funny-seeming. Anyways, after that boy got thrown, he turned stupid and never got normal. That’s what the tenant kids say.
When I see Mr. Dunn, something I always notice is how he’s missing the tip of one of his pinkies. What I heard is he got it thrashed in a cotton gin when he was little. I figure that could make him act angry. As for Mrs. Dunn, I heard Mama say she looks that way on account of life with him.
My daddy said to Mr. Dunn, “Things going okay, Turpin?”
Crinkling up that sharp chin, Mr. Dunn said, “All right, I guess. It never is easy or simple, though, is it?”
“Only on Sundays,” my daddy declared, laughing. But I knew they didn’t much like each other. Mr. Dunn believes that our dog, King, walks all of a round-trip mile to poop in his front yard.
Mr. Dunn said, “Sundays might be simple for you, but they don’t seem so simple to me, Sherman. They ain’t what they used to be, that’s for sure. Matter of fa
ct, just two nights ago, that would be a Sunday, I caught me a black boy stealing chickens outa my hen house. I say to him, ‘You gotta tell me you’re sorry for doing this.’ But he don’t. Boy didn’t apologize and wouldn’t give me his name or nothing. I didn’t recognize him, and I’m sure he ain’t one a mine ’cause they wouldn’t be that stupid.” He looked at my daddy hard.
My daddy looked at him back.
“Anyways,” Mr. Dunn started up again, “I don’t gotta tell you that even on a Sunday, it made me furious. I liked to feel crazy with the lack of respect he shown me and all I give to blacks in the fields. They already got too much and they stealing mine.”
“That’s a shame,” Daddy offered.
Mr. Dunn scratched a patch of beard stubble. Then he said, “Sherm, they act like we owes ’em, and I don’t cotton to that kinda behavior, not for ten seconds. You know me. I’m a fair, honest man, but I don’t like it. You take a look at that Ossian Sweet character up in Detroit last year. Had the nerve to move into a white neighborhood. Then he acts surprised people wanna drive him out. Don’t that beat all?” Mr. Dunn bent down so that he could point right at my daddy. “Now, that boy I caught, he won’t be doing nothing like stealing chickens for a good while. You don’t gotta worry about him coming around your place.”
Daddy said, “I see.”
Mr. Dunn signed a receipt and straightened and glanced at me with those burning-lard eyes of his. “Eh, now, Darby, thanks to you, I ain’t gonna worry ’bout toads no more.”
“I’m real glad, Mr. Dunn,” I said softly.
“Bye-bye, Beth Fairchild,” he said, stepping away, tools in his hand.
“Bye, Mr. Dunn,” she answered.
When he was gone, I had the willies so bad that I didn’t want to sit anymore. “Beth,” I said, “you . . . you wanna go ride the elevator or something?”
“Yeah!” she answered, and we leaped off that old counter.
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