Spitting Image

by Shutta Crum

  There was another long pause, while Mama seemed to be remembering. “Jack and Curtis were friends. One night they were out drinking. They took the hairpin curve down the other side of Martin’s Mountain too fast and flipped Jack’s car. The sheriff said it must have rolled at least seven times down over the side of the mountain until it landed up against a tree, partway down.”

  Mama was staring silently off into space again. I nudged her arm a little. “What happened?”

  “Curtis got thrown free right away, they said. But Jack got pinned between a tree and the car. He lived for a couple of days in the Hiram hospital.”

  Mama shook herself and continued. “And even though Lester was disappointed in his grandson, it hurt him badly. Lester had hopes—hopes that Jack would straighten up and become someone he could be proud of. I don’t think Lester knew what kind of person Jack really was. After Jack died, Lester’s hopes were all gone—all of his family, gone,” Mama said, spreading her hands wide. “Not one left.

  “So I never said anything. He’d been through enough. Besides, Lester knew I couldn’t stand Jack. Jack and I had never liked each other. He was a bully. If I had told Lester that Jack was your father, he’d have guessed the truth about how it happened. And I didn’t want to talk about it or think about it again. I wanted us all to just get on with our lives.”

  Mama watched me intently, her tired eyes on my face. One thing she’d said kept coming back into my head. She’d wanted it all to go away.

  “Mama,” I asked, “do you wish it had never happened?” I swallowed hard. “Do you wish that I wasn’t here?”

  Mama jumped back like I’d hit her. “Oh, God, Jessie! Sweetie!” she said. She steadied herself and took another deep breath. “I wish it had happened differently. Yes. Yes, I do wish that. But . . .” She grabbed me by both shoulders, pulled me up so we were face to face, and said, “I love you. You are, and will always be, the light of my life.”

  I started to cry. “Are you glad I was born, Mama?”

  “Glad? Glad?” Mama said. She wrapped her arms around me and hugged me to her chest. “Oh, Jessie, glad isn’t the right word. There isn’t a second of my life—not one second—that I’m not thankful with every ounce of my being that you came into my life.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.” Then she kissed me and crawled under the covers with me. All night I slept in my mother’s arms.

  thirty-six

  THE NEXT MORNING I woke up before Mama. She was on her side, one foot sticking out from the sheets, her toe almost touching Mr. Perkins’s tank. I crept out of bed, went to the bathroom, and came back. Mama looked tiny lying in my bed, like she wasn’t much older than me. I let her sleep.

  I tiptoed down the hall and into the living room. I pulled back the curtains and looked over at Lester’s house. Early this morning it had dawned on me that Lester must be my great-grandpa.

  It was strange to realize that I had a whole other family. And Lester’s house with its history and his things—now they were my history, too. My fingertips tingled. I wanted to go right over there and make my rounds.

  That seemed like a good thing. And then I thought about the bad part of it. I had that same uneasy feeling I’d had a lot lately, like I didn’t know whether to feel good or bad.

  All my life I had wished that Mama had married my father so I could have a daddy at home like everybody else. And all my life I had wondered why she always seemed sad when I asked about him and why she didn’t want to talk about him. Now I knew why.

  Now I was glad Mama had never married him. He would not have been a good father. He was not a good person. He had hit her and hurt her. Thinking about that made me mad; so mad I wanted to hit something myself.

  I wondered if that part of me that was always so mad came from my father. Maybe Mama was wrong, and Grandma and I weren’t two peas in a pod. Maybe part of me was angry and just plain bad, and I’d gotten that from him. Maybe Mrs. Beaumont was right—that I was never gonna get into heaven, anyway. My stomach felt funny. It was too hard to think about.

  Then I remembered that Mama had been strong. She’d stayed here with Lester, even when no one knew the truth and people had gossiped about her. And now I had a great-grandpa and a whole other history. Lester was my great-grandpa! That made me smile.

  I got very lightheaded. All of a sudden, it seemed like there was a whole lot more of me in the world. It was like after Grandma had told me about Grandpa Henry and the world had welcomed me and said, “It’s OK, there’s room for every little bit of you.”

  While I was standing there staring at Lester’s house, Mama came into the room. She put her hand on my shoulder. “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said and looked up at her. “Lester’s my great-grandpa.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Are you sure he doesn’t know?” I asked.

  “I don’t think so. I never told him. Why?”

  “Well, the other day he said something strange to me. He said that you had something to tell me that wasn’t going to be easy.”

  “What?” Mama looked surprised. She chewed on her lower lip as she looked at me. “Hmm.” She took my chin in her hand and studied me. “Maybe . . .” she mused. “Maybe. Lester’s old, but he’s as sharp as a tack. What should we do about Lester?”

  “And Grandma,” I said.

  “Grandma?” Mama asked. “Yes, you’re right. I need to have a talk with Grandma, too. I owe her that.” Mama hugged me. “Sometimes you amaze me, Jessie.”

  “Can I be the one to tell Lester?”

  “I don’t know. It’s been a long time,” Mama said. “Let’s not jump into things. I tell you what. Let’s eat first; I’m starved. Then we can think about it together.”

  We decided that both of us would go over to visit Lester before Mama went to work. But Mama insisted that I wasn’t to blurt anything out until she saw the lay of the land and made sure Lester was OK.

  Mama took Lester some of the biscuits I’d helped make that morning. While the two of them stood in the kitchen talking, I made my way into the living room. I touched Lester’s books, his pipes, his wife’s figurines, and his pictures—all with just the tip of my finger. They felt new and familiar at the same time. Lester, the wonderful person he was, was mine! My Lester. My great-grandpa. Nobody could take that away from me, ever.

  When I came to the black-and-white photograph of Jack, I picked it up and studied it. His mouth was somehow familiar, but not friendly. His eyes looked brittle, like they’d shatter if he blinked. My stomach did a queasy flip. Now I knew why I’d never liked this picture. I set it back down quickly and turned toward the kitchen.

  Mama and Lester were watching me. Lester smiled. “It seems like you two have got something to say,” he said. “Maybe we all need a drink from the well?”

  We went out on the porch, and Lester hauled up a bucket of water. We dipped in and passed the cold, wet ladle around.

  Lester waited as Mama drank, and then me. When I’d finished, I put my arms around him and hugged him. “The best water in the world,” I said.

  “Yes,” Mama agreed. “The best water in the world.”

  Lester brushed his knobby hand over my head. He turned and took a good swig of well water himself. “Best water in the world,” he said.

  “I love you,” I whispered.

  “Why, you whippersnapper you—I love you, too, and always have,” he said. “From the first minute your mama brought you squealing and squawking into my house. I remember saying to her, Mirabelle, what in the world am I going to do with this little firecracker?”

  “You did?”

  “Yup. And you know what your mama did? She laughed. Yes, sir. That was the first I’d heard her laugh in a long time . . . a very long time.” Lester sighed. “And you know what I thought?”

  “What?” I asked.

  “I thought, Lester, you old lucky dog you, you’ve got another chance. This girl has brought me a great-grandbaby.
”

  “What?” Mama squeaked, falling back against the side of the house. “Lester, how in the world . . .”

  “You didn’t!” I said, hugging him tighter.

  “I sure did,” he said. “I could tell by the way that wide mouth of yours was hitched up to one side and screaming that you had Jack’s temper.”

  I made an ugly face at the mention of Jack’s name. “Mama says I’ve got Grandma’s temper. And Grandma says I’m the spitting image of Grandpa Henry.”

  Lester raised an eyebrow and nodded his head. “Well, they’re right. You are the spitting image of Henry. And as to Anna Mae’s temper, well, let’s just say I’d much rather see that in you than anything of Jack’s. He wasn’t worth a plug nickel. Always knew it in my bones. I tried to blame it on that no-account husband of Darlene’s that up and left when he was little. Fool that I was, I kept hoping he’d straighten up. But then he started going around with Curtis Whitten. Bad stuff they got into. I should have run him off, even if he was my own kin.”

  Then Lester looked at Mama and reached over to put his hand on her shoulder. “Forgive me, Mirabelle,” he said. “I tried not to think about what kind of a person he was back then. I was an old fool. I’m sorry if he . . . well, I’m sorry that he hurt you, Mirabelle.”

  Mama started to say something but stopped. Then she buried her face in her hands and cried. Lester and I both put our arms around her and held her for a long time.

  After a while Lester looked over at me. He said, “The important thing, Jessie, is that you’ve got your mama’s heart and strength.”

  “And Grandpa Henry’s green eyes,” I added.

  “Yes,” said Mama, breaking free of us and wiping at her face. “And Lester’s . . . I don’t know what. Lester’s . . .”

  “My dancing ability?” Lester asked her with a smile. Then he rubbed his hands together. “I don’t know about you two, but I’m feeling pretty spry all of a sudden. Who knows, maybe I’ll go out tonight and get me a fancy woman and go dancing. What do you think?”

  “Lester!” Mama pretended to be scandalized.

  “On the other hand,” he said, wrapping us both up in his arms again, “maybe we could just have us a family dinner after work tonight. I’d like to have dinner with my great-granddaughter.”

  “Yes!” I said. “And with Mama, too?”

  “Of course. She’s my . . . well, what can we say? Mirabelle’s always felt like a granddaughter to me. Will you be my honorary granddaughter?” he asked Mama.

  “I am, and have been since I was a little girl,” she said, and kissed his cheek.

  “What about Grandma?” I asked. “Is she part of this family, too?”

  Lester shook his head and laughed. “I’m not sure I’m prepared to go that far!”

  thirty-seven

  I GAVE THE MONEY I’d saved to Miss Woodruff, and she got the government to come through with their part. So Robert finally got his glasses. I was really happy about that. Mama and Lester were proud of me. But Grandma was the best. She just snorted and said she never doubted I could do it. “You’re a Bovey, aren’t you?” she said. Now I just have to work off the loan—as soon as she gets a new car I can wash.

  We never said anything to Beryl Ann about me raising the money. Mama said sometimes just the doing of a thing is its own reward, and I know she’s right. Oh, sure, Robert still has to hold books and papers up high to read them, but not as high. And he doesn’t squint as much either. Miss Woodruff is looking into getting Robert to a specialist in Lexington to see if anything else can be done for him. I’m keeping my fingers crossed.

  School has started up again. Unfortunately, we don’t have Mr. Prichard this year. But we do have Mrs. Winters. She’s new. I don’t think she’s too impressed with DeeDee or Lorelei. She’s already scolded them for talking in class and makes them sit far apart. I turned around in my seat and crossed my eyes at Lorelei when she told Mrs. Winters she was going to complain to her father the mayor about the seating arrangements. Mrs. Winters just smiled and said, “You may go ahead and do that, Miss McMasters. But in this class we are all equal, and we will behave that way.”

  As it turned out, the folks around here were pretty divided about the first newspaper article. When Baylor made the headlines again, about the showdown at the Ketchums’, people were still divided. Some said that a man had a right to protect his family. And they said the president’s War on Poverty was just an excuse to go snooping around in the private business of others, that it wasn’t much better than revenuers coming around looking for whiskey stills.

  But other folks thought a lot of good was getting done. Baby and many of the younger kids got into Head Start, and the miners’ kids got medicines and new clothes. A class for grownups who wanted to finish high school started, too. None of that could have happened in Beulah County without someone like Miss Woodruff coming here.

  Doyle has to stay in jail a while longer. Mama told me it wasn’t as bad as it sounded because Doyle said he wanted help with his drinking. She said that Mr. Ritchey, the social worker, was going to help Doyle arrange it. I guess Mr. Ritchey isn’t as bad as I’d thought, either.

  And we all heard that Mr. Ritchey made some trips up Dog Gap to the Whitten place. Not too long ago Dickie and Mrs. Whitten packed their bags and moved in with Dickie’s aunt. I was glad for Dickie, though I knew we’d never like each other. Adam was right. No kid deserved Mr. Whitten as a father.

  Mr. Henry and Mr. Birchfield took off out of town as soon as they could. Miss Woodruff stayed. She’s a tough one. The people down here like that. She even got a men’s civic group in Cincinnati to donate a new coffeepot for the church! Mr. Dutton was very pleased.

  On Baby’s first day of Head Start, he was scrubbed clean and wearing polished shoes from the Salvation Army store. He even had a part slicked down in his hair. I was proud of him as Beryl Ann and Robert marched him to school, but I was worried, too. I was afraid he might pick up someone’s snack and eat it himself, or he might wander out of the schoolroom or bring a snake inside—things like that. But Mama said not to worry. She said the teachers know about Baby Blue and how wonderfully “exceptional” he is. Mama was right. I didn’t need to worry. Baby is a favorite of the Head Start teacher, and he’s learning to read already.

  I worry a little about Robert, also. All the kids for miles around know Doyle’s in jail. They all know about Baby and how poor the Ketchums are. But it’s true: Robert is brave. He just ignores any taunts from the kids at school.

  He’s talking to me again, and helping me with my homework. With the new glasses, that’s a little easier. But since Doyle got arrested and school started, we haven’t done much at the clubhouse. The other day I walked in and found him there putting a picture of Sir Edmund Hillary, the famous mountain climber, on the wall. “He’s not a movie star,” I said.

  “So?” Robert shrugged. “It’s dopey to stick with movie stars only. I thought we could branch out.”

  Robert started using Edmund for a middle name, but I don’t know how long he’ll keep it. Just yesterday Mrs. Winters was talking about President Harry’S. Truman, and when Robert asked what the “S” stood for, she smiled and said, “S.” Later I saw Robert with a library book about the president.

  Also, he checked out a book for me about a famous aviator, Amelia Earhart. “I like reading about Amelia Earhart,” I told him while we were in the clubhouse.

  “That’s good. I thought you would,” he said, and sat down on the chair Mama had repaired.

  I sat down on the cooler and stared up at the picture of Sir Edmund. “Do you think he ever did anything bad in his life?” I asked. “Or Amelia Earhart—did she ever do anything bad?”

  “Probably,” Robert said. “Most people have done some bad things in their lives.”

  “Yeah, but what if they were born with some really bad stuff in them? Do you think they’d still be able to do good things? I mean, that badness has to come out somehow, doesn’t it? Even if you climbed
a mountain or tried to fly around the world, one day it could just sneak up on you.”

  Robert looked at me kind of strange-like. “It doesn’t work that way. First off, what you’re born with don’t matter that much. Mama says you do the best you can and start fresh each day”

  I could picture Beryl Ann saying that. “You mean, you don’t think some people are gonna end up in hell just because, well . . . because they got bad blood in them?”

  Robert frowned and leaned forward. “Are you afraid you got bad blood?”

  I lifted my foot and picked at the label on my sneaker. I couldn’t look at him. “I could have,” I whispered.

  “That’s hogwash, Jessie,” he said, sounding angry. “I know who my daddy is, and he did do something bad. But I don’t think he’s gonna go to hell. And I don’t think I am either, just because I got his blood in me! It don’t matter whether you know your daddy or not, or if he ever did bad things, Jessie. All that matters is what you do. Besides”—Robert sat back and touched his new glasses—“you’re my friend. And even if you do lose your temper once in a while, I think you’re a good person.”

  “You do?” I asked.

  “Of course.”

  I smiled and looked around at our collection. “I’d put Amelia Earhart’s picture up, too, if I could find one to cut out.

  “Maybe we could send away for one,” he said.

  Robert was right; we needed to branch out.

  Missy has been over a few times to visit. I found out that her daddy won’t let her have any pets at all. That hardly seems fair. So I let her hold Mr. Perkins whenever she wants.

  We were going through the Sears and Roebuck wish book the other day, and I told Missy about the bra Grandma bought me. She says she has one, too. We decided it might not be so bad if we both wear ours on the same day.