by Shutta Crum
But lately a lot of things were starting to pile up. And how was I supposed to learn to control my temper when no one would even talk to me about things that were important? It just wasn’t fair.
I couldn’t help getting mad at Dickie. That morning, before we’d walked to Hiram, I’d asked Robert when he was going to get his new glasses and he’d shrugged and looked away. Robert’s gotten new glasses practically every summer that I could remember. I knew he needed them again because he brought his books up even closer to his face than usual in order to read. When I asked Baby later why Robert was still wearing his old glasses, Baby had said, “No money.” How could he not get them this year?
I knew Beryl Ann and Doyle were poor. Beryl Ann didn’t make much money at the Piggly Wiggly, and Doyle had stacks of hubcaps by their drive that he sold whenever he could. He had worked part-time at the mine, and now the mine was closed. Also, it didn’t help that Doyle drank away half of their money at the Howling Kitty bar. Folks were always saying “How the mighty have fallen,” what with Baylor being named after Doyle’s own great-grandfather, Baylor Ketchum. I guess the Ketchums had a lick or two of horse sense back then.
It wasn’t fair that Robert couldn’t get his glasses. It wasn’t fair that I had to control myself and Dickie Whitten could get away with being mean. It wasn’t fair that I had a grandma who was an old biddy and that I’d never even met my real grandpa, Grandpa Henry, who’d died while Mama was still a girl. It wasn’t fair that all I ever had was a bunch of step-grandpas who never hung around for very long, even when I liked one of them. It wasn’t fair that I didn’t have a father—at all. And it really wasn’t fair, now that I was grounded for a week, that I wouldn’t be able to go to the raffle drawing to see if I’d won a prize for Mama or Beryl Ann. None of it was fair.
I needed to talk to Lester. Lester always listened and talked to me straight, not like I was a baby. But even if I wasn’t grounded, I probably wouldn’t have been able to go over anyway, because Mama was worried about Lester’s health.
Lester’s about the oldest old person in Baylor—not that we have many people to begin with. Baylor’s only got 128. Well, 127 if you don’t count Old Wiley Whiteside, who’s not supposed to, but does, live in the tire shack on this side of the Greasy Ridge Cemetery.
Anyway, Lester’s pretty old, even older than Old Wiley. He says he was born in the last century, the 1800s. He lives right across the road from us, next to the Gas & Go, which is the only grocery or filling station between Bartlettsville and Hiram. Lester knows every mortal soul in Baylor and hereabouts.
He knows lots of other things, too, like how to tell one kind of toad call from another. Does anybody else know that there’s more than one kind of toad call? Or more than one kind of toad? I didn’t, not until Lester told me.
Lester lets me ring up customers on the cash register—if Mama’s not working there to worry that I’m doing it right and the customers aren’t the really cranky ones like Mrs. Beaumont. Also, he lets me help him in the garden and around his house. He tells me stories while we work, about when he was in Europe before the First World War and about all the “lookers” he liked to take out dancing. That always makes me laugh. I can’t imagine Lester dancing, because he walks with a cane now. But he swears he was known far and wide for his fancy dancing steps.
I think Lester likes having kids around because he misses his own family. When you’re Lester’s age, a lot of folks have died on you already. His wife has been dead for years. And they’d only had but one child, Darlene. She and Grandma went to school together. Grandma said she thought Darlene was somewhere up North, maybe Detroit. But Lester hadn’t heard from her in so many years he didn’t know if she was still alive. And his only grandson, Jack, died in a car accident.
Anyway, I hadn’t been over to visit Lester for a couple of days because Mama said he needed some peace and quiet. So Robert and I, and Baby, had stayed away. Now I’d have to wait a whole week to visit, and I’d have to think about all this by myself.
I stroked Mr. Perkins’s back with my fingertip, the way he liked it, and stared out the window toward our vacant field and Martin’s Mountain. Even if I couldn’t visit Lester, there was at least one thing I could do. I’d get an answer to one big question I’d had for a long time, and maybe put an end to Dickie’s mean remarks, too.
I put Mr. Perkins in his glass tank, got out some paper and a pencil, and wrote . . .
July 19, 1967
Dear Dr. Harrison,
My name is Jessie K. Bovey. You knew my mother, Mirabelle Bovey, and my grandmother, Anna Mae Bovey, when you were working in Hiram. Mama says you are a special friend of hers and talks about you a lot.
Anyway, in school when we were practicing communications, Mr. Prichard said to get right to the point in a business letter. So my point is, are you my father?
If you are, I would appreciate it very much if you could stop by for a visit and say “Hello.” I have some things I’d like to talk to you about. Thank you for your time.
Sincerely,
Jessie K. Bovey
P.S. I’m a girl and was born on January 13, 1955.
I’d always had a sneaking suspicion about Mama’s doctor friend. He was working in Hiram at the time I started to make my presence known. And there were some of his letters that Mama wouldn’t let me read. Besides, Grandma always snorted or shook her head when his name was mentioned. So if Mama wasn’t going to talk to me, well, I was twelve years old, and I reckoned that was plenty old enough to start taking matters into my own hands. Oh, boy, wouldn’t Dickie swallow his tongue if he knew my daddy was a doctor!
I felt much better once I’d written the letter and looked it over. It was to the point but still friendly. Just the way Mr. Prichard, our sixth-grade teacher, said business letters should be.
Now I just had to find his address. I tiptoed down the hall and into the kitchen and peeked out the screen door. Mama must have finished hanging up the laundry after Grandma left and gone over to the store or to Lester’s. The coast was clear. I went into her bedroom and rummaged through the top drawer of her desk. Her address book had gotten stuck in the back of the drawer, and when I pulled it out, I pulled out a crinkled letter, too. It was to Mama from . . . yes! There it was. Dr. Warren Harrison’s return address in Chicago was on the envelope.
I snatched up a fresh envelope and a stamp from the top of the desk—I hoped Mama wouldn’t notice just one missing. I smoothed out the crumpled-up envelope and copied the address. Then, before I stuffed the letter and address book back into Mama’s drawer, I turned that envelope over and over in my hands. I wondered if this was one of his letters Mama hadn’t let me read.
I ran my fingers over the neat, small writing of the address. Should I open it and read it? I glanced out Mama’s bedroom window to make sure she wasn’t on her way back. I turned the envelope over again. If he was my father, didn’t I have a right to read it?
I bit my lip and looked at myself in the mirror. Finally, I realized that I’d been standing there for ages. At this rate, Mama was going to catch me. Quickly, I spread open the slit at the top and peeked in. I took a deep breath and glanced up at the window just in time to see Mama coming across the yard.
I shoved the letter and the address book into the back of the drawer, slammed it shut, and ran into my bedroom. I slipped my letter under the lining in my nightstand drawer and lay down on my bed to catch my breath. I was shaking a little. If Mama had caught me, she would have grounded me forever.
Somehow I’d sneak my letter out to Robert to mail while I was grounded, and then that would be one thing taken care of. Now all I had left to figure out was how to get a nicer grandmother, how to control my temper as I’d promised Mama over and over that I would, and how to help Robert get the new glasses he needed.
I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew it was starting to get dark and Mama was sitting by my side, brushing my bangs back and kissing me on the forehead. “Wake up, light of
my life,” she whispered. I pretended to be sleeping to keep her there a bit longer. “Time for dinner. Even if you are grounded, you still have to eat.”
“Hmm,” I mumbled and slowly opened my eyes to look at her. Adam was right; I do have a pretty mama. Her hair is dark and wavy, and when she lets it down, it hangs just below her shoulders. Most of the time she wears it up in a ponytail to keep it out of her way. I think that makes her look even younger than most of the other mothers around, even Mrs. Salyer, Missy’s tiny little mama. And she’s got a lot of freckles, like me. The big difference between us is that Mama’s got soft brown eyes and mine are plain old green. People say I don’t have her smile, either.
I thought about that sometimes and wondered who else had my green eyes. Grandma didn’t. She had brown eyes, like Mama’s. Maybe Grandpa Henry did. I didn’t even know that. And whose smile did I have?
I raised my hand up and touched Mama’s sleeve. “I’m not very hungry.”
“It’s your favorite, bean soup,” Mama said, kissing the back of my hand.
I said, “I’ve been thinking about not fighting, like you told me to. Only it’s hard not to when someone like Dickie is being mean and saying hurtful things.”
“I know it is, sweetie,” Mama said. “But that’s when you need to be really strong. Look at Robert. He doesn’t let it get to him.”
“I know. I wish I could be more like Robert, Mama, but I don’t know how. I just get so mad, especially if Dickie calls Robert or Baby Blue a name. It’s not right.”
“Jessie, you’ve been trying to protect Robert since the two of you were in diapers and shared the same playpen. I know he’s like a brother to you, and it’s good to stick up for your friends. But Robert does a good job of taking care of himself. You need to quit worrying about what others say when they’re being mean,” Mama said. “Just stick your nose up in the air and show them you couldn’t care less. When you give in and fight, they know they’ve gotten under your skin.
“Besides, defending Robert and Baby doesn’t explain the other times you’ve let your temper get the best of you. What about Missy and the spiders you pinned on her mother’s pomander ball in Girl Scouts? That didn’t have anything to do with Robert or Baby Blue, now, did it?”
I leaned way up on my elbows toward her. “Oh, that.” I hesitated, kind of wishing Mama hadn’t brought up the fact that I’d been asked not to come back to Girl Scouts after causing a little ruckus at Missy’s house last year. How was I to know that Mrs. Salyer was scared of spiders? “That Missy Salyer was getting to me with all her ‘My daddy this’ and ‘My daddy that,’” I said. “Besides, who the heck needs a pomander ball with little cloves stuck all over it to stink up your clothes anyway?”
“Jessica,” Mama said.
“Oh, all right. Missy’s OK, I guess. Sometimes I like her. But I didn’t want to hear any more about her daddy’s car dealerships and where they stayed at Disneyland. I bet my daddy is richer and nicer than hers any ol’ day.”
Mama sat back fast and it took me a minute to realize what I’d said and why this strange, sad look had suddenly come on her face. “Mama? I’m sorry, Mama. It just came out without thinking.”
She was staring off into space.
“It’s OK, Mama!” I sat up and grabbed her around the waist. “I didn’t mean anything by that. Honest. I’ve just got a bad temper, that’s all. And sometimes I say stuff I don’t really mean. I’ll try harder. I promise.” I threw my arms around her, and the sob that had been hiding inside me all day escaped. I hid my face in Mama’s blouse and cried.
seven
THE NEXT MORNING I think Mama was surprised to find Miss Woodruff at our door. What with Grandma’s visit and being grounded and all, I’d completely forgotten to tell Mama she was coming.
Mama invited her in, and they talked for a long time in the kitchen about the volunteer work Miss Woodruff was doing. Then Mama let me have a reprieve to go with Miss Woodruff.
“I hope you don’t mind helping me out,” Miss Woodruff said as we walked up our drive toward the road.
“No, ma’am!” I told her, taking a few high skips. “It’s fine. I was gonna be stuck inside, and now I get to show you around instead. Only there aren’t that many folks that live in Baylor. Leastways, ones whose houses you can get to easily.
“Well, let’s see,” I said, stopping at the end of the drive. “Which way do you want to go first?”
We looked up the one patched-over paved road that runs through Baylor and climbs up the skinny valley from the iron bridge at the Little Red River. Past the Ketchum place the road divides, with one branch headed toward Hiram and the other to Bartlettsville. Baylor also has some two-lane dirt tracks that wander up the mountainsides and into the hollers where a good number of folks farm corn or run cattle in steep-sided pastures.
“Let’s do what we can on foot here in the downtown first,” said Miss Woodruff. “Then, if there’s time, or on another day, I’ll take my car and we can drive up in the hollows. I’d like to get to Greasy Ridge or through Dog Gap and visit the families there soon.”
I smiled. I’d never heard anyone say that Baylor had a “downtown” before. I wasn’t sure if one combined gas station—grocery store—post office, one church, and fifteen houses equaled a downtown or not.
I turned left and started toward the river. Thinking about the families up in the hollers, I asked, “How’re the Weavers treating you?”
“Just fine,” Miss Woodruff said. “It is very kind of them to put me up.”
“They aren’t making you sleep on a pallet, are they?”
“No.” Miss Woodruff smiled. “I’m sharing a bed with Vergie, the oldest girl, and with Joycelin. She’s about eight.” She laughed. “I think sometimes their baby brother crawls in, too. It’s cozy, but I don’t mind. Staying there gives me some ideas about what the people here need.”
As we walked, I pointed out the Beaumont house, the Clawson place, Mr. Dutton’s, and Miss Doolittle’s. We stopped at all of them, but only Mrs. Clawson and Mr. Dutton were home. They nodded politely when I introduced Miss Woodruff. When I told them that her job was to see what kinds of things she and the government could help us with, Mr. Dutton said that the church needed a new coffeepot. He said the old one had gotten queerly rewired, and when it percolated, it was way too dramatic for his druthers. Miss Woodruff laughed out loud at that. She allowed she knew what he meant, and said she’d think about how she could help the church get a new one.
Beyond the river the mountains rise up steeply and the road snakes off toward Greasy Creek. So we stayed on the Baylor side of the river and crossed the road at the bridge to start back up toward the church and the Gas & Go. We stopped at the Smiths’, at Boot Milton’s, and at Mrs. Boyd’s house. They, and everybody else, were really polite to Miss Woodruff, and she made a point of shaking everybody’s hand.
“That,” I said, pointing up ahead, “is the New Revivalist Baptist Mission Church. Preacher Beaumont isn’t too bad to listen to. Every so often he gets the call and herds everybody down to the river to get rebaptized—’revived,’ he calls it—in its waters. It’s kind of fun to watch the congregation come out all soaking wet.”
Miss Woodruff laughed again. I liked that about her. And there was something about her I knew I could trust. “I’m not much of a churchgoer,” I confided.
“Why not?” she asked.
“Well, it’s not that I don’t believe in God and the Bible and all. I do. It’s just that Mrs. Beaumont—she’s Preacher’s wife—says I’ll probably burn in hellfire anyway.”
“Oh, my!” gasped Miss Woodruff, stopping in her tracks to turn and stare at me. “Now, why in the world would she say such a thing to a child?”
“She says that bast—You see,” I leaned in toward her and explained, “I haven’t got a daddy. So Mrs. Beaumont, she says kids like me—that don’t have fathers—are abominations anyhow.”
Miss Woodruff straightened up and sucked in her cheeks so hard I
thought she might turn herself inside out. Then she pushed up her glasses. “That’s ridiculous!” she sputtered. “I’ve never . . . never heard such nonsense in my entire life.”
“Yeah, well.” I shrugged my shoulders and took off up the road again, leaving Miss Woodruff to compose herself and catch up.
“So I don’t go to church much,” I continued a few moments later. “Besides, they’re always going on about repenting your sins and stuff. I figure I’m not old enough to have too many yet—except, of course, that one big one, getting born. But I didn’t have a say about that, you know? I mean, if I could, I’d go out and get a daddy tomorrow. It just ain’t an easy thing to do.”
I thought about my letter to Dr. Harrison. “Anyway, I’m kind of working on that. And I’m saving up on my sins and figure I’ll do my repenting all at once and get it over with. That way I only have to get my clothes wet once. I don’t plan on doing much sinning after that.”
We came to the Gas & Go and stopped in. I introduced Miss Woodruff to Lester, who was back at work for a bit. I watched the counter and ran the register while they talked about the president’s War on Poverty and VISTA volunteers. Lester seemed really pleased, and the two of them chatted for a good long time.
I didn’t get much of a chance to speak with Lester myself other than to tell him I was grounded again. He shook his head and squeezed my hand as Miss Woodruff and I left. Sometimes Lester and I understand each other without having to use a lot of words.
Lester’s house was right next door to the Gas & Go. I’d just pointed it out to Miss Woodruff when Baby Blue came out the front door with a slice of white bread in each hand.
“Did you put the rest of Lester’s bread away after you got some?” I asked. Baby nodded at me and fell into step with us. “Where’s Robert?” I asked.