Things got better slowly after we lost Cassie. Carter Sr. finally saved up enough money to run indoor plumbing through the whole house. Might sound odd to say that that cheered me up after losing a granddaughter, but it did. Cheered the whole family up. Violet and Daisy had been so embarrassed about not having it they never had any of their friends over. “What if someone has to pee, Momma?” Daisy would say. “I can’t tell them to go out back and do it in a hole in the ground. I won’t.” We’d never heard a sound sweeter than a toilet flush. When we tore down the outhouse, we made a party out of it—using the wood for a bonfire—and the kids, Carter Sr., and I danced around it like we were drunk.
Of course, not a week after the plumbing went in, I started nagging my husband about getting one of those new automatic washing machines we heard about on the radio.
“Lillian, haven’t you learned to be grateful for anything?” he said.
I had. I had learned to be grateful. For a few years I was grateful every day my children walked out the door for school, leaving the house quiet. Daisy led my brood, that sweet blonde hair of hers swinging in a ponytail down her back, the boys kicking rocks and tripping their way behind her, Rosie bringing up the rear trying to keep up with everybody. When they disappeared around the corner, I went back in the house and sat in the front room, not doing a thing, for a whole half hour. If the phone rang, I didn’t answer it. When one of the kids took sick, I nearly cried for losing my morning time. It was mine. More than once I bundled up an ailing child, got some cough syrup down her throat, and sent her off to school when she should have been kept at home. Was it wrong to do that? Probably.
When Ezekiel headed off to Mabry High School for ninth grade, my morning time came to an end. Carter couldn’t go to the high school. He was doing work at fourth-grade level. That angel of a teacher Miss Weaver went and got married, leaving Clayton for Jackson. She told the new teacher at the Clayton School about Carter, but Mrs. Lake didn’t think much of having a boy like Carter in class.
“He’ll be too much trouble, Mrs. Cooper,” she said. “And besides, what kind of example is he setting for the younger children? Why, there are eight-year-olds reading better than him!”
I didn’t think much of Mrs. Lake. So, Carter and I stayed home together. Part of me felt better with him at home. I knew he was safe. The past few years at school, he and Ezekiel started getting in fights with some of the other boys, who got meaner as they got older. Boys like Earl Smith, who called Carter “Dumbo” every day at school. Carter usually ignored him and anybody else who called him a name—that’s what I told him to do. But Ezekiel wouldn’t tolerate it. He launched himself on anybody who so much as looked cross-eyed at Carter. And then, when he did, Carter would have to jump in, too. They came home at least once a month covered in bruises, shirts ripped, a note from the teacher folded in a back pocket.
When the rest of the children went off to school, Carter cleaned up the breakfast dishes, swept out the house, and did whatever special job needed doing. He took after his daddy and was good with a hammer, so for those few years, he fixed our house more than Carter Sr. did. Miss Weaver had told me to keep up Carter’s reading and writing, so in the afternoon we’d have “school.” I’d make him read me a story and write letters to relatives who needed writing. Sometimes he’d start to rub his eyes and get a headache.
“Momma,” he’d say, “let’s rest. Let’s go swing a while.”
I needed a rest as much as he did. My son was a good head taller than me by then. Occasionally I’d rest my head in his lap, and the motion of the swing swayed me to sleep. Carter Sr. found us like that one Friday. We weren’t expecting him home since he was working in Memphis on an office building.
“Momma, wake up,” Carter said, touching my arm. “It’s Daddy. Daddy’s home.”
Clouds bumped one another in the blue sky beyond the porch. Rain was on the way; I could smell it. We would have to bring the laundry in from the line. We had time, though. At least an hour.
Carter Sr. strode up the steps, looking as handsome in his coveralls and work boots as any man I’ve seen, and stopped when he saw us. A smile lit his face. “What have we got here? My girl and my boy having a rest? Am I the only one who works in this family?”
He stood in front of the swing, arms crossed over his wide chest.
“Sit, Daddy. Come sit with us.”
“You think it’ll hold all of us? They’ve been feeding me good in Memphis.”
“Sure it will,” Carter said.
The swing groaned with the weight of him, but it held. He sat between us, one arm resting across my shoulder and the other around our son’s. The strong smell of cigarettes and the city clung to him. We all sat together, pushing the swing every so often, until the rain clouds became too dark to ignore. When I left to pull in the wash, Carter leaned on his father, telling him the story of Jitterbug—the rabbit he and Rosie found under the house the week before. The sound of my husband’s laughter reached me in the backyard, its deep rumble traveling through my bones and making me smile.
As Carter grew older, he liked to wander off. Sometimes I got busy cooking or listening to one of my radio programs and wouldn’t notice that he had slipped out the back door and gone for a walk in the woods. But about once a month he’d get lost and end up at the Culvers’ house on Highway 57, confused and crying because he couldn’t find his way back home. Then the call from Ann Marie Culver would come.
“Your boy’s here again,” she’d say. “You need to watch him better, Lillian.”
But I couldn’t watch him all the time. He was growing up. He was fifteen. He was sixteen. Seventeen. We all understood things would be different at home when Ezekiel went off to college. Since high school, Carter and Ezekiel had the same daily routine—the minute Ezekiel walked in the front door after school, he’d yell for Carter and the two of them would take off fishing or to play basketball in the yard or any old thing boys liked to do. Carter knew those days would be finished with his brother in Virginia.
I knew I’d miss Zeke, but my boy was getting out. It was the beginning for him. The next right step. Then law school. Or maybe medical school. Dr. Ezekiel Cooper. I liked the sound of that.
The day before Ezekiel left for school his daddy and I threw him a party. All of Clayton came over to the house. Carter Sr. barbecued thirty pounds of hot dogs and hamburgers. The girls helped me bake pies all week and clean the house, Daisy grumbling the whole time about making such a big fuss. We put the dining room table under the eaves of the back porch and covered it in plate after plate of baked beans, potato salad, corn bread, apple pie, peach pie, and the tallest hummingbird cake I ever made.
All of Ezekiel’s friends came, and he talked with Tommy Jackson and Bud Trent until Jacklynn showed up. Then the two of them put their heads together, talking real low, telling secrets, making promises I knew my boy wouldn’t keep. When Jackie lost their baby, I thanked God. If things had gone differently, Ezekiel would have been tied to her, to Clayton, forever.
“There’s a lot of people here to see you, son,” I said. “You should be talking to everybody.” I looked at Jacklynn. “You understand?”
Ezekiel kissed her on the cheek and let me lead him away. They’ll be finished soon enough, I thought. I dreamed about him meeting a girl from a good Virginia family, a wealthy family. Grandbabies sleeping in lace-covered bassinets. It never crossed my mind he might end up marrying Jackie anyway.
The longest face at that party was Carter’s. He stayed on the front porch away from everybody. I took him a glass of lemonade and a plate of food. Didn’t even give me a smile when I handed them to him.
“You all right?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
He kept his head down, stayed silent. I sat next to him, putting an arm around him. Carter sank into my side and scooted himself down so his head could rest on my shoulder. His long leg
s stretched out across the peeling paint of the porch steps. The sheer size of Carter puzzled me. The boy was gone.
“Your brother promises to write you every day, sweetheart. He keeps his promises. You know that.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You want to go with him, don’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I stroked the hair back from his forehead. “Ezekiel needs to go by himself this time. You understand?”
Noises from the backyard drifted toward us. Everybody talking at once. The bang of Carter Sr.’s new shotgun. Showing it off, I’m sure. Squeals from the kids shooting marbles in the driveway.
Carter pulled away from me. “It’s not right. I can read, Momma. I can learn like Zeke. Cousin Georgia needs help on the farm. I can do it. Let me go, Momma. Let me go, too. It’s not right for him to be there and me here.”
But it was right. It was exactly right.
“Son, you’ll be okay. You’ll see.”
Rosie came barreling around the corner and grabbed ahold of the railing. “Come play basketball, Carter. Zeke’s playing.”
Carter shook his head.
“Come on. Tommy Jackson’s on Zeke’s team. I need you.”
She hoisted herself up onto the porch and stood behind us, hands on her hips. “Time’s wasting.”
“Your brother’s a little sad today,” I said. “Maybe he’ll come later.”
Carter stared at his hands in his lap, lacing the fingers together like I taught him when he was a boy. Here’s the church, Carter, here’s the steeple, open the door and see all the people.
Rosie grabbed one of his hands and tugged on him. “We’re all sad,” she said. “That’s why we need to play now. While Zeke’s still here.”
Carter lifted his head then. “You’ll play when he’s gone, right? I’ll still have somebody to play basketball with, right?”
“’Course.”
This got him up. I watched as they swung down from the porch, Rosie reminding Carter about Tommy Jackson’s killer jump shot and telling him how to block it as they walked to the backyard, the sea of friends and relatives swallowing them up.
Twenty-Five
In the days after Ezekiel left for Virginia, Carter moped around the house. On the first Saturday without his brother, I decided to take Rosie and Carter in to Mabry to see a movie. Please Don’t Eat the Daisies was playing at the Downtown Theater, and Carter loved Doris Day.
Saturdays were my hair days. Wash and set at Ruby’s at two o’clock. Kept that appointment for over thirty years. Until she up and died on us the year Reagan became president.
I dropped the kids off a little before two for the matinee. They grinned when I pressed an extra quarter into each of their hands for popcorn and Raisinets.
“Wait for me outside after the movie. By the box office,” I yelled out the window.
I started to pull away from the curb, then stopped. Carter had never been in town without his brother before. “Rosie, come here.”
Dressed in the rolled-up jeans I hated and sneakers, she jogged over to the car.
“What is it, Momma?”
Carter stood by the movie poster studying the picture of Doris Day and David Niven. She’s almost as pretty as you, Momma, he’d told me once.
“You look after your brother.”
Rosie gave me a soldier’s salute.
“I mean it,” I said.
“Yes, ma’am.” The words were tossed over her shoulder as she ran back to the faded yellow awning.
Ruby was running thirty minutes behind schedule. The mayor’s wife had shown up without an appointment first thing in the morning and thrown everything off.
“I’m sorry, Lillian,” Ruby said. “You have a seat and read a magazine. I’m giving everybody a free Coke today.”
I didn’t mind waiting. Thirty more minutes to myself sounded good. The movie would get out around 4:30, making me a few minutes late to pick up the kids, but they could behave themselves.
Ruby talked me into putting my hair up that day. It took a little longer to fix but it was worth it. We both agreed it was a real shame I didn’t have anywhere but home to go, looking as fancy as I did. When I pulled up to the theater, I daydreamed I was driving a red Studebaker Lark convertible instead of the old Ford Deluxe.
I turned off the engine and sat for a few minutes thinking about what to cook for dinner—not beans and corn bread again, I couldn’t stand it—when movement near the side of the theater caught my eye.
A half circle of people stood watching something, their backs to me. The theater manager, Bob Dunlap, hurried out of the box office toward them. A white sneaker flew over the shoulder of a kid standing in the crowd, landing a few feet from the curb with a thunk. It looked like Rosie’s. I got out of the car.
Rosie was screaming. I couldn’t make out the words until I got closer.
“Get off my brother! You’re killing him!”
I couldn’t see yet who she was screaming at. Running now, I broke through the circle to find Jed Smith holding Rosie up off the ground as she thrashed around, landing scratches and kicks wherever she could, and Bob Dunlap pulling a bloodied Earl Smith off of my boy.
“Go inside and call an ambulance,” Bob yelled. “Police, too.”
One of the older kids ran off to the theater. At the mention of the police, Earl broke free from Bob’s grip and started running down the street, knocking people out of his way as he went. Jed stared after him, still holding Rosie, who kicked backward, landing the heel of her foot in his crotch.
Carter lay still on the sidewalk. A dark stain flowered onto the cement beneath his head. It was my turn to scream. I knelt beside him. Blood ran from a deep gash across his forehead and down his right cheek. I tore off the scarf from my neck and pressed it to his head. Within seconds, it was soaked through.
“The son of a bitch used this. Goddamned cracker kid.” Bob held the bottom of a broken Coke bottle in his hand, splatters of crimson dotting the jagged edges.
“Earl wouldn’t stop hitting him, Momma. We were waiting out here and then Earl came up to Carter and said, ‘Didn’t you and your brother get my dad in trouble with the revenuers a few years back?’ Carter told him no. Earl said, ‘You’re not Ezekiel. You’re the dumb brother, aren’t you?’ And then he started hitting. I tried to get him off. I tried. He kept slamming Carter’s head into the pavement. I yelled for somebody to help us. Carter fought back. He did. Oh, God, Momma, look at him.”
Rosie fell to the ground beside me, reaching for Carter. The world stopped, leaving only the boy in my arms and the girl holding on to him. Both of us talking love words to him. Both of us whispering apologies. Both of us praying. Begging.
Twenty-Six
For the first time since the rubeola when he was little, Carter stayed at Tolliver Hospital. The days dragged into weeks and the wind began to blow the leaves off the oak trees lining the front entrance, each leaf wider than my own palm. The nurses brought a cot into his room for me. Coffee and cigarettes were the only things I could manage after Carter fell into a coma. To have a child dance so close to death a second time filled me with a kind of anger I hadn’t felt before—it spread to every part of my insides until sometimes, at night, I would have to go down the hall to the toilet and throw up awful yellow bile.
My husband got called for a big job in Mississippi and left a month after our boy got hurt. With the bills piling up, he had to go. I’d never felt more lonely in my whole life.
Carter’s body slowly began to heal itself on the outside. The bruises along his broken jaw faded. The stitches on his face came out the second month, leaving a deep scar that ran from his forehead over his right eye to his jawbone. He would never see the same out of that eye again. Spiky brown fuzz sprouted from his scalp, shaved by the nurses that first night
for the emergency surgery. Scars formed a map across the back of his head, their lines intersecting at points, like a tic-tac-toe board. Every day I touched his feet, his legs, his right arm, his hands, his chest. Every place those Smith brothers hadn’t. And I prayed over him. Thank you, God, for these strong legs. These beautiful fingers. Thank you for these lungs breathing in and out.
My son woke up two months and three days after the beating. He didn’t recognize me. Didn’t remember a thing, not even his own name. The doctors had warned me this might happen, given the swelling around his brain, but nothing prepared me for those first days after the coma. Carter just sat in bed with his hands folded in his lap, staring out the window. Wouldn’t even get up to go to the bathroom, though his legs worked fine. He didn’t speak a word. When I talked to him, I knew he didn’t hear me. This ghost boy was almost harder to bear than the comatose one. I wanted my son, my Carter, back. All of him.
Violet brought me dinner and drove her sisters over to the hospital every other day. I found out later that Rosie spent the night in the McNairy County jail after setting fire to the Smith boys’ house. They were out on bail (one of their cousins was a bail bondsman) and sleeping in their beds when she did it. Their mother smelled the smoke and called the fire department. Most of the house burned. Violet’s husband, Louis, had played high school basketball with Sheriff Duffy and was able to sweet-talk him into letting Rosie go.
The Smith family knew we would nail their boys to the cross if given half a chance, so they offered us a deal. They wouldn’t cooperate with the police about the arson if we wouldn’t press assault charges. I called Carter Sr. in Jackson and he yelled curse words I hadn’t even heard before. My husband had been making calls of his own and found out why Earl thought our boys had said something to the revenuers about the Smith family still—they were known for making the best moonshine in McNairy County. Carter and Zeke used to swim in a pond near their still, and Earl caught sight of them once. Revenuers showed up a week later and destroyed the still, so Earl figured it was our boys that told. When Earl saw Carter without Zeke at the movie, he saw a chance for payback. Mr. Smith said Earl didn’t mean to really hurt Carter. Just “rough him up a little.”
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