To make things even worse, Granddaddy heard on the radio one Saturday morning that Russell Crump from Brookford was killed at Pearl Harbor. “Give me that picture,” he said, pointing to one of his newspaper clippings on the wall.
When I handed it over—lo and behold, there were tears in Granddaddy’s eyes.
His hand trembled, making Russell’s picture shake. “Inez used to feed that freckled face,” he said in a voice that was kind of wobbly. “He’d come hanging on to our porch post, looking like a little lost orphan. ‘I smell liver mush,’ he’d say. Or, ‘My momma don’t got no food in the house.’” Granddaddy ran his stub over Russell’s picture real gentle-like. “He had a pitiful little way about him. And my Inez—God rest her soul—she never could say no to him.”
Was I dreaming or was this Hammer Bledsoe? If Granddaddy could care that way about a neighbor boy, why wasn’t he the least bit sad about his own son dying? If Pop had died in battle instead of by the side of the road, would Granddaddy be shedding tears for him?
And what about me? I was his grandson, for Pete’s sake. Maybe he would give a hoot about me too, if I was old enough to join the army. Would that earn his respect? As it was, I was just someone to boss around and remind him of Pop. And he hated Pop.
He was so intent on that picture of Russell Crump that I doubt he even noticed when I slipped out. The stack of firewood on the back porch was shrinking fast, and I had to work on it or Momma would be fussing.
It was a relief to be outside, breathing cold, clean air. Off in the distance I heard a woodpecker working away on a tree too.
While I was chopping wood, cars started showing up—women from Momma’s sewing circle. They used to quilt or mend clothes, but nowadays they put together first-aid kits for the Red Cross. Or knitted socks for soldiers.
They went in the front door and I stayed in the backyard, trying to keep out of their way.
I had everything I needed out there. Well water for drinking. The outhouse for other business. And peace and quiet from Granddaddy.
A couple of hours later, when the women started leaving, Mildred Rhinehart came out the back door. “Good morning, Junior.”
“Morning, Mildred.” I laid my ax by the woodpile and went to the porch to see what she wanted.
“I’m taking Peggy Sue and Ann Fay to see Sergeant York this afternoon. Would you like to go along?”
Sergeant York? I could actually see that movie? “I sure would. Thank you very much. If Momma agrees, that is.”
“She’s already agreed,” said Mildred. “The movie will be my treat.”
Mildred probably thought I didn’t have fifteen cents to my name. Truth was, me and Momma needed every penny we had, but I didn’t want a handout. “Oh, no,” I said. “That’s mighty nice of you. But I have money.”
Mildred shook her head. “I insist on buying your ticket.”
“Well, I’ll pay you pay back,” I said. “Have any work I can do?”
Mildred swatted her hand in the air to let me know the discussion was closed.
I carried water to the woodstove to heat for a bath. Then I set the privacy screen by the stove and soaked in soapy water. It wouldn’t do to have Peggy Sue and Ann Fay holding their noses over the smell of my armpits.
Granddaddy watched me comb my hair down in front of the bedroom mirror. “Where you going in your glad rags on a Saturday afternoon?”
“To the picture show,” I said.
“And sit there watching lovers quarrel when there’s a war on? What’s this world coming to?”
“I don’t know, sir—an end, maybe. That’s what Reverend Price keeps preaching. He says with all the wickedness the Germans and the Italians and the Japs are doing, the world is bound to be coming to an end.”
Outside, Jesse and Butch started yapping and Mildred tooted her car horn. “Sorry, Granddaddy. I gotta go.”
The movie started off with a bang—actually, with a whole lot of bangs, because Alvin York was riding his horse around outside a church building and shooting his gun like crazy in the middle of the singing and preaching. York had a God-fearing momma inside that church who was mighty embarrassed by his shenanigans.
But then he got religion. His religion was against moonshine, card playing, and raising heck. So he gave all that up. It was against killing too, but Uncle Sam drafted him into the Great War. Since he didn’t have a choice, he used his sharpshooting skills to capture a passel of Germans and he came home a hero, with a huge parade in New York City.
That movie coming out right then—I knew it was somebody’s way of trying to work up our patriotism. After all, lots of people were being drafted. Sergeant York’s story was intended to make all of us want to fight the Germans.
When I got home, I set up a pasteboard target on the side of Pop’s shed. Seeing Sergeant York shoot made me want to practice my aim. Only problem was, when I went for the BB gun I remembered I’d given all my BBs away during the army maneuvers.
I sat on the sweet potato crate and ran my hands over that gun. It was one of those surprises Pop showed up with for no reason at all—one day, back when I was seven and he had a good year working at the cotton gin over in Blackburn.
Those were the days when I tagged along after him like Ann Fay after Leroy. Back then he put up that porch swing so the three of us could sit there on Sunday evenings.
We’d listen to the sound of the colored choir singing in the church next door. Daddy would sing along. “I’m just a poor wayfaring stranger, traveling through this world of woe, yet there’s no sickness, toil, nor danger in that bright land to which I go …”
I hoped he was happy in that bright land. Because one thing for sure—this world he left behind was full of woe.
18
CHRISTMAS
December 1941
The newspapers and radio were asking people to cut down on travel over Christmas. That way we’d be saving gasoline for the war effort. But Uncle Tag called and suggested we take the train to China Grove. Momma sent me to the Hinkle sisters’ house to call him back.
“I’m sorry we can’t come,” I told him. “Momma feels uneasy with the war on. She wants to stick close to home.”
Uncle Tag was quiet for a minute. “Maybe next year, then.” I could hear in his voice that he knew her real reason. “I’m sorry about what happened at Thanksgiving,” he said.
“I know. Maybe next year Momma will be over it.” I hoped she would. I remembered spending Christmas with Momma’s people back before Pop started drinking. I wasn’t ready to give up on them, even if I was offended by Vinnie acting drunk like Axel Bledsoe.
Because of the gasoline situation, the Honeycutts decided not to visit Ann Fay’s Mamaw and Papaw in Georgia. So Momma invited them to eat Christmas dinner with us.
Come Christmas morning, Granddaddy was singing before he lifted his head off the pillow. “God rest ye merry gentlemen …” I sure wished I could load him in a car and drive him over to Brookford. Why couldn’t the aunts take their father off our hands for one day out of the year?
The Honeycutts showed up at twelve o’clock noon. Driving up the lane right behind them was Miss Pauline’s Plymouth.
“Momma! You didn’t invite the Hinkle sisters?”
“They’re our neighbors too.”
“And Miss Hinkle is my teacher.”
“She won’t be giving quizzes today.”
It was too late for me to argue. In no time the house was filled with neighbors. I carried everybody’s coats to Momma’s bed. I almost never went into her room. It had always seemed like a private place just for her and Pop. But now I wanted to stay there in that quiet space. It wasn’t anything fancy, but the quilt on her bed and the curtains she’d made for the windows made it seem like something almost grand. Her sewing machine sat there waiting for Christmas to be over so she could go back to working on clothes she was making for the Red Cross to give to soldiers’ families.
There was a bureau with a side of drawers for Momma an
d one for Pop. I slid open Pop’s top drawer. His handkerchiefs were there, folded into squares, large blue ones for weekdays and smaller white ones for Sundays. Momma kept his socks and his drawers in neat piles too. And there was a cigar there. Pop didn’t smoke much, except when he was out playing poker. And then he most always came home drunk.
I picked up that cigar and breathed in sweet, cherrysmelling sorrow. It hit me so hard I hung on to the bureau to steady myself. When I looked at their bed, I could almost see him stretched across it with his mouth hanging open. And Momma sitting beside him, running her fingers through his hair. Praying. But praying hadn’t done her any good, had it?
Why, God? That’s what I wanted to know. Why didn’t you answer her prayers? Wasn’t Bessie Bledsoe good enough? Or was it me that was so bad?
“Junior.” Momma was calling me for dinner.
“Coming.” I put the cigar back, just the way I found it in the front of the drawer. Right that minute I didn’t feel like eating turkey with my neighbors. Especially Miss Hinkle. But I couldn’t exactly get out of it either.
By the time I got to the kitchen, Momma was sitting people to the table, and I heard Granddaddy starting up a song. “Good King Wenceslas looked out, on the feast of Stephen.”
He stood at the bedroom door staring at the feast Momma had cooked up. He’d combed his hair for a change and was even wearing a necktie. I didn’t even know he owned such a thing. When he saw me heading for the table Granddaddy hurried over and plopped himself down in the only chair that was left. Mine. And not only that, it was right beside Miss Pauline. “Looks like it’s going to be a mighty fine Christmas,” he said. “Pretty women and everthing.”
Miss Pauline gave him a look. “Everything,” she said. “Not everthing.”
Granddaddy laughed. “You’re that mean teacher I been hearing about.”
Everybody in the room went real quiet—except Ida and Ellie and baby Bobby, because they didn’t know enough to be embarrassed for me. I felt my face turning red as a candy cane. “Miss Hinkle, I never said that. Granddaddy, I was fixing to bring a plate of food to your room.”
“Not unless the pretty lady comes too.”
Well, you should have seen Miss Pauline’s face when he said that. Now she was the one turning red. Miss Dinah started to snicker, but Miss Pauline gave her a look that would erase the chalk right off a blackboard.
I knew Momma wanted Granddaddy to go back in that room and shut the door, but she wasn’t about to make a scene in front of the neighbors. She got up from the table. “Take my seat,” she told me. “I’ll be busy serving. Let’s bless the food.”
Just like that, Granddaddy started thanking God, almost like he believed what he was saying. But I knew he was putting on a show for the pretty ladies.
I was supposed to have my eyes shut, but instead I was studying Miss Pauline, thinking What’s so pretty? If you asked me, Miss Dinah was better looking than she was. But they both looked old to me. Maybe older than Granddaddy.
Soon as Granddaddy finished saying grace, he started bothering Miss Pauline. “How’s the boy doing at school? I betcha he’s a holy terror.” He bumped my elbow and laughed.
“Holy terror,” said Miss Pauline. “I’m quite certain that is an oxymoron.”
Granddaddy was buttering a biscuit, but he stopped with his knife in midair. “A what kind of moron?”
I think Miss Pauline chuckled just a little when he said that. “Junior,” she said, “tell your grandfather what an oxymoron is.”
Was I supposed to know what that was? I racked my brain but couldn’t find an oxymoron in there anywhere. “Uh, Miss Hinkle, Momma said you wouldn’t be giving any quizzes today.”
But Granddaddy wasn’t interested anyway. He started going on about Japan taking over the Philippines. “There goes our rubber supply,” he said. “There won’t be no new tires for your fancy cars. People will have to walk again, the way I did when I was growing up. I never owned a car in my life. Didn’t hurt me none.”
He filled our ears with war news. I think everybody at the table tried to change the subject at one time or another, but he always brought it back around to war. When Momma was fixing to serve pumpkin pie, Granddaddy looked at Leroy. “Mr. Honeycutt, next thing you know, they’ll be moving the draft age. Calling you up.”
Ann Fay’s eyes went big and round as Momma’s pies.
“No, Granddaddy,” I said. “He’s a married man, and married men aren’t being called.”
“They done changed that law,” said Granddaddy. “Too many young people getting hitched in a hurry so they wouldn’t have to serve. That don’t work anymore.”
“Doesn’t,” said Miss Pauline.
“Dozen?” Granddaddy looked confused. “More than a dozen. Hundreds are hitching up, just to keep out of the draft. Sorry devils.”
“Doesn’t work,” said Miss Pauline. “Not don’t work.”
Granddaddy elbowed Miss Pauline. “You’re sure itchin’ to teach me a thing or two, ain’tcha?”
Miss Pauline scooted herself away from Granddaddy until she was practically sitting on her sister’s lap. And she didn’t bother to tell him that ain’t wasn’t a real word.
Miss Dinah giggled. “I think he likes you,” she whispered.
I was sure having a good time watching Miss Pauline squirm. Too bad Granddaddy couldn’t be in her classroom. I’d have liked to be a fly on the wall watching her teach him perfect handwriting. How would she teach Granddaddy, who didn’t even have a right hand? And what would the people who wrote The Palmer Method of Business Writing say about a person like that?
Maybe they thought Granddaddy didn’t have any business trying to write in the first place. Probably somebody like him was expected to stay at home where other people didn’t have to see his messed-up arm. And what would that feel like?
I’d never really considered how Granddaddy felt before. But then, I didn’t know much at all about him. And I wasn’t likely to start asking him questions.
After dinner the women cleaned up the dishes and the twins played with their Christmas presents—paper dolls. Ann Fay wanted to know what I got.
“BBs, for one thing,” I said. After she heard that, Ann Fay didn’t care about any other presents. She wanted to practice shooting. Leroy said she could target-practice, so I set up a tin can on the fence post and showed her how to hit it every time.
Ann Fay’s aim was okay. But mine was a whole lot better. And that right there made me look like a hero in one person’s eyes at least.
19
NEW YEAR
January 1942
If there was one thing Miss Hinkle was dead serious about, it was writing. Handwriting and writing essays. She believed that communication was the passport to success. The first handwriting drill for the New Year was:
Good business writing is in demand.
Pull push and practice penmanship.
After we worked on those, Miss Hinkle passed a cigar box around the room, telling us to reach in and choose one of the folded papers with topics written on them.
I drew Woodrow Wilson. What I knew about him I could write in three sentences. He was our president during the Great War. He was a Democrat. He wore glasses. Well, actually, I decided I could write another sentence. Granddaddy hates him.
Miss Hinkle gave us time to work in class, using magazines and some books and encyclopedias on the shelves under the windows.
The encyclopedias were right there beside my desk, so I grabbed the W one. Before I was finished reading about President Wilson, Dudley was beside me. “You got the W?” he demanded. “I need it.”
“Sorry, pal.”
“I’m not your pal. And I want that book.”
I knew I wasn’t his pal. And I didn’t want to be, either. But I knew how to get his goat. “How do I know you even need this encyclopedia, Catfish? Maybe you’re just trying to start something.”
“Maybe I am.” Dudley pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket and held it
in front of my face—so close I’d have to be cross-eyed to read it. “It says Wilbur Wright—in case you can’t read. And don’t call me Catfish.”
I shrugged. “I might be finished in a minute or two.”
“What if I don’t have a minute or two? My paper is due the same time as yours.”
I started to tell him to find a magazine or one of those other books on the shelf. But then Janie Aderholt, in front of me, turned and said, “Leave him alone, Dudley. When Junior’s finished, I’ll bring it to you.”
Dudley’s glare changed into a slow smile. “Well, okay then,” he said. “I’ll see you in a minute or two, Janie dear.” He looked at me and smirked as though he had just won a fistfight. He leaned in and lowered his voice. “Got yourself a girl to protect you?” He winked. “Or maybe she’s looking after me.”
I guess he thought Janie was sweet on him, but when he walked away, she turned to me and rolled her eyes. “Good riddance,” she whispered. We both laughed, and I noticed then that she had some real cute dimples. Funny how I never paid attention to that before.
I wrote a few notes about Woodrow Wilson. He was born in Virginia in 1856, and later he even lived in North Carolina. He was religious. He tried to keep America out of the Great War. And he started the League of Nations, which was supposed to stop the world from ever having a war again.
So how had we landed right in the middle of another one? That’s what I wanted to know.
I heard Dudley making noises in the back of the room, so I decided to give up the W encyclopedia. Janie was bent over her page, busy taking notes on whatever her topic was. I tapped her on the shoulder with my pencil. “I’m done for now. In case you want to take this to you know who.”
She turned and smiled at me, and I decided that those dimples of hers might just be the best part about coming to school. “What are you writing about?” I asked—hoping she wouldn’t notice that I was feeling kind of swoony.
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