by Mary Morony
Gordy could tell I was frightened. He didn’t say one smart alecky thing to me as he scampered up the tree as easily as any squirrel. He tried gently to guide my free foot to the lower branch. I felt for purchase, but my foot wouldn’t reach. Gordy’s exhortation, “You’re almost there!” only infuriated me.
I kicked at his hand in frustration. “Leave me alone!” I wailed. Our hound, Lance, came over to inspect the situation. Red eyebrows knitted together on his black face. He gave a look of keen interest to the goings-on above. He barked and brayed as if making suggestions then sat and watched. Ethel came back outside, thankfully, without her switch. Evidently she had abandoned all hope of having dinner ready on time. She looked worried. I continued to wallow in self-pity.
“I can’t get her down. Her foot’s stuck. She’s not helping, either,” Gordy called down to her. He leaned his weight into the tree, and then looped one leg around a branch trying to reach my trapped foot.
“Would you quit?” he asked. “I can’t get you down if you’re gonna be kicking. You’re almost there.”
“Gordy, stay right there wit’ ‘er ‘til I get somebody to help,” Ethel yelled.
“Ethel, I wasn’t talkin’ back, I promise,” I cried. That wasn’t exactly true, I knew, but I was desperate. I began to imagine I would have to stay up that tree forever. Then it occurred to me that I might not be alone. Who else might be sharing my perch? I peered around, looking for a bird or varmint nest. Gordy said you could always tell if a rat lived in a tree because a squirrel would have nothing to do with that tree. I racked my brain trying to remember if I had ever seen a squirrel here. I didn’t think I had. It was too early in the spring for snakes, or was it? Last summer Gordy and I had watched a snake scoot right up the trunk of a tree slick as anything.
“Please, get me down,” I pleaded. “Please.”
“Oh, don’ cha worry, darlin’. Ol’ Ethel’ll git’cha down.”
Ethel comforted me as best she could while the sun set in glorious orange hues all around me. The clouds were tinged with brilliant streaks of pink and purple, as beautiful as the shimmery colors of butterfly wings. But I was terrified of the dark night that was to come.
Gordy patted my leg. “It’s gonna be OK,” he said. “You wanna try one more time?”
“No, I can’t. I’m scared,” I wailed.
“OK. I’ll just sit here then. Don’t worry,” Gordy said. Ethel shook her head and put her hands on her hips. Lance flopped down at the base of the tree with a groan and soon began to snore. Darkness fell.
We heard my mother’s car coming up the drive; the headlights made eerie shadows on Gordy’s face. “She’ll be able to get you outta this tree,” he said and started to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
“She’s gonna have to climb up here to get you. Do you think she knows how’ta climb a tree?”
Did she? I wondered. What if she couldn’t? What would happen to me, then? There was no telling when Daddy would get home. I moaned. “Gordy, have you ever seen a squirrel in this tree?”
I heard the thunk of a car door and Ethel anxiously telling my mother what happened. Gordy scampered down to the ground. Before I could get any more worked up, I saw my mother gingerly climbing the tree. She reached the lower branch.
“Put your foot here,” she cooed. Her voice enveloped me like a soft blanket, comforting and warm. She patted the branch. “Put your foot here,” she said. “I’ve got you. I’m not going to let you fall.” Her calm, sure words, and the way she stroked my leg reassuringly either shocked or soothed me into complying. I had never before heard that calmness in her voice. It was magical. I still can’t piece together what or why, just that it was. Daddy drove up just as my mother and I were inching our way down the tree.
“What’s all this?” he asked.
Gordy, practically delirious with excitement, explained the situation. I heard Ethel and Helen talking inside the house. Then Ethel, ever the brooding hen, peered down from the kitchen porch while she made a great show of putting out a bowl for Lance who was already up and on his way to his dinner. She wiped her hands on her apron before disappearing back into the kitchen.
Just then our closest next door neighbor’s porch light flashed on. Mr. Dabney lurched out, the screen door banged behind him. He stood swaying slightly in the harsh light in a stained sleeveless undershirt and dirty trousers with barely contained wisps of hair, and fat sticking out wherever there was a gap in his clothing. He held a beer can in one hand and stabbed the air in the direction of our kitchen with the other.
“I saw that nigger of yers chase that child up the tree and she weren’t gonna let’er down. If you hadn’t come home when ya did I was ‘bout ready to call the cops on her,” he spewed. There was a flash of white behind him. I thought at first that was it was Miz Dabney until I heard what he said. “These nigger lovers think they’re too good for us. We’ll show’em won’t we boy?” I saw a much younger man in a white T-shirt take a swig from his beer and laugh—a real low, mean laugh. Mr. Dabney sorta laughed too, then turned his head back to us and tried to focus. As he stood there pointing and swaying, closing one eye then the other, he looked more comical to me than threatening, though his young friend’s laugh chilled me to the bone.
“Thank you for your concern. Everyone is just fine. We’ll take care of it,” Daddy said. There was steel in his voice. He turned, scooped me from the bottom branch, wrapped his arm around my mother, and gave her a squeeze.
“Well,” he said to my mother, “aren’t you the heroine of the hour!” A broad beam replaced the concern that Mr. Dabney’s words had produced on my mother’s face. I wiped my eyes, suddenly pleased with my little escapade, and held my father tight. I burrowed my face into his neck, savored his earthy scent, and gently rocked against his chest as he and my mother walked hand in hand up the stairs and into our house.
“Dabney’s an ignorant fool,” my father whispered to her. He put me down and pointed me toward the kitchen with a pat on my behind. “Don’t pay any attention to him.”
Chapter 2
On my Easter vacation from school I trailed along after Ethel as she worked: I sprawled in piles of sheets as she pulled them from the beds, or pushed a dust rag around in imitation of her. Ethel, ever practical, shoved dirty clothes into a pair of pants or a buttoned-up shirt rather than haul around a heavy laundry basket from room to room.
“Lemme help,” I pleaded as she stuffed Daddy’s pajama bottoms, making them look like an overfed scarecrow.
When the pajamas looked as if they would split a seam, she put the bundle on the floor. “Roll it to the stairs an’ giv’er a’push,” she directed.
I watched the pajamas tumble down the stairs. “Look, Ethel, Gordy’s drawers spilled out in the front hall,” I said with a laugh.
“Go’n down an’ pick ‘em up now, ‘fore somebody gets home. Ya can push it down to the basement stairs, too, big as ya is,” she said. “I’m goin’ up to the attic to put away these winter clothes and get out yo’ spring thangs. Ya c’mon up when ya get done, hear?”
“Oh goody!” I cried. I loved this ritual of going through my old clothes, rediscovering dresses I’d forgotten, and noting how much I’d grown since the year before. I called up to Ethel, “Wait for me!” I tore down the stairs, picking up bits of laundry along the way. Restuffing by myself wasn’t as much fun as working upstairs with Ethel, but I was happy to help her do anything. Grunting and groaning, I heaved the pajama bottoms, now ballooned to twice my size, to the basement door. I switched the basement light on as soon as I opened the door—you never could tell who or what might be lurking down there in the dark. With one last push, I stuffed the laundry through the small door and down the stairs. Just as I was about to turn out the light, I noticed broken glass and a rock on the basement floor. I quickly flicked the light switch off and slammed the door shut, sliding the bolt to lock it. I ran upstairs to the attic, listening for the safety of Ethel’s tuneless hummi
ng.
The smell of mothballs, and the presence of rounded top steamer trunks and hanging bags gave the attic the feeling of a world far removed from the rest of the house. I was grateful for the haven it provided. As Ethel folded clothing and sorted through hanging bags, I plied her with questions about my family. When my mother was out of the house, Ethel seemed to relish my questions, as if the mere asking of them validated her. I counted on her to fill me in on the history of my parents’ lives before I was born, or, as she would say, “When ya’ll was down da river count’n sand.” I took her accounts of my parents’ history as gospel. My father’s past was shrouded in mystery; my mother’s in a kind of confused awe. Her brothers—my uncles—were disagreeable individuals, I thought, but people always seemed to defer to them. They comported themselves as though oblivious to their social shortcomings—secure in the confidence of their good breeding. Likewise, my maternal grandparents were presumed to be infallible—paragons of southern culture whose legacy we should strive to uphold. It was understood that my father’s family lacked the standing of my mother’s, though neither my siblings nor I quite understood why. We adored our father with a reverence that was intensified by how rarely we saw him. It only made sense to us that, if our mother was descended from southern royalty, our father must be descended from nothing short of the gods. The fact that the scales apparently tipped the other way confounded me. Asking my parents about it was rarely fruitful—”bad blood” between relatives made for raw nerves, and so they had to be in a really good mood to tolerate my questions. Fortunately, Ethel seemed to know more than anyone else. She didn’t mind sharing what she knew and making up the rest.
“Mista Joe’s daddy was one good lookin’ man. He coulda been in da picture shows.” She stopped folding clothes, shook her head side to side, and smiled like she was remembering something fine.
“Did you know him? Did he ever come here?” I asked as I plowed through a pile of last summer’s shorts.
“No, he lived in New York. I ain’t never seen him in person…did see a pitchur of ‘im, though. He died just after yo’ daddy got back from the war, ‘bout a year or so later.”
“How’d he die?”
“Was a big fire that killed ‘im. He weren’t no real doctor, I don’t believe; his lab blowed up.”
I shuddered at such a dramatic demise. “Why wasn’t he a real one? Did he just pretend to be a doctor?”
“He was one of them PhD doctors, not the kind ya go to when you’s sick—a scientist.”
“He must have been mad,” I deduced from my Saturday morning television shows.
“I ‘spect he was. Ya mama tried to git Mista Joe to go to da funeral, but he wouldn’t do it. He never said another word ‘bout his daddy. The two of ‘em had a fallin’ out, and after that, Mista Joe didn’t pay him no mind; even when the man died. Ain’t right if you ask me.”
I was trying on my Easter bonnet from last year, which was too small. “Whadda they fall out about?” I asked. Then I spied one of Stuart’s bonnets. I took it over to an old mirror leaning up against the wall and placed it on my head. I spun every which way, hoping I looked as beautiful as I remembered Stuart did when she wore it. “Think I can wear this one?”
“Is too big. I ‘spect Stuart gonna be fighting with ya mama ‘bout wearing it again dis here Easter.”
“What were you sayin’ about why Daddy fell out with his daddy?”
“The fallin’ out mighta had somethin’ to do wit’ Mista Joe decidin’ that lawyerin’ wasn’t for him no mo’. I don’ rightly know all of it…I just know he got this big shoppin’ center idea after he come back from the war.” She sighed and heaved open another trunk. “He been working on it for a good while and he asked his daddy for money to help him along with it. I ‘spect the old man said no. Mista Joe came back from that trip fit to be tied.”
When I asked such questions of my mother, she would snap, “Mind your own business, Sallee!” Often she’d say I was rude or even impudent, though she never told me what that meant. Given her tone, I was pretty sure it wasn’t good. With Ethel it was different. She let me push and prod about the past and told me endless stories; which always seemed to leave me with more questions.
“What exactly is a shopping center, anyway?”
All I knew about shopping was our twice-yearly drives with my mother to the big Thalhimers and Miller and Rhodes department stores in Richmond. I couldn’t imagine buying anything here in Charlottesville except shoes or groceries.
“Honey, I wish I knowed, much trouble as it’s caused in dis here family.” She shook her head and bent over to pick up a bundle of clothes. “Pick up that stack an’ let’s get on downstairs. Yo’ mama’ll be back ‘fore long, and I gotta get lunch started.”
I gathered the stack of clothes and followed her down the steps, “Oh,” I said, “I almost forgot to tell you. There’s broken glass all over the basement floor and a rock, too.”
“Huh,” Ethel said. When Gordy came into the kitchen for lunch, she put her hands on her hips and asked, “You ain’t been throwin’ rocks at de house, has ya?”
Gordy looked at her like she’d hit him in the head with one. “I know better than that,” he muttered. He continued to munch on his peanut butter sandwich.
“Hum, I hope so,” she said.
One morning shortly after school had let out for the summer, my mother swept into the kitchen. “Ethel!” she called. “Miss Dorothy, Miss Della, and Miss Emily are coming over this afternoon. Make sure the children are presentable. It’s just a small tea. A few sandwiches and some of those marmalade tarts will be all we need.” She checked her new diamond watch. “Oh, and Ethel, put out some sherry glasses. You know how Miss Emily likes her sherry,” she laughed. “I’m on my way to the car, Stuart. Your tennis lesson starts in ten minutes. Let’s go.”
“Can I go?” I asked.
“I suppose so. We’ll be back in time for you to get cleaned up,” she said. Stuart, who was always late, had to run back to her room to get her racket. “Come on, come on,” my mother grumbled while we waited in the car. I sat in the back seat. “Oh Lord, there’s that dreadful man again,” she groaned. “Come on, Stuart.”
“What dreadful man?” I asked. I glanced about seeing no one but Mr. Dabney sitting on his back porch. He waved and I waved back. “Mr. Dabney? He’s OK. ‘Sides, his wife is really nice. She makes…”
“Sallee, you stay away from those people. Do you hear me?” She glared at me over the back of her seat. Stuart jumped in the car and we roared out of the drive.
“For once I’m glad I’ve got a stupid lesson this afternoon,” Stuart said. As soon as the words tumbled out of her mouth, I knew she was in for it. My forehead was pressed against the window. I looked up to watch my mother’s reaction in the rearview mirror.
“Why on earth would you say such a thing, Stuart Mackey?”
Stuart shifted a little in her seat. “Cuz I hate those parties. I don’t get why we have to go. They’re not our friends.”
“Darling,” my mother’s voice took on a sugary tone, but her eyes narrowed. “How are you going to learn how to behave in polite society if you don’t practice? It’s important.”
“Important? To you maybe.”
“Not just to me. If you know how to entertain, you will be a tremendous asset to your husband.” She reached over and pinched Stuart’s arm playfully. Stuart writhed away. “Why, a wife who is comfortable in any social situation...”
“What if I don’t want to get married? What if I don’t want to be anybody’s wife? Then I don’t need to know all that stuff.” Stuart glowered at my mother and rubbed her arm. She fished a kerchief from her pocket and tied it around her head. “Who’s coming anyway?” she asked.
My mother sighed, casting a sharp look at my sister. “Mrs. Mason, Miss Eades, and Miss James.” She glanced at the kerchief. “I wish you would let your hair grow. You are so much prettier with your hair longer.”
“Just what I want to
be—a miniature you,” Stuart muttered. “Maybe I should wear it up just so and wear sapphires too,” she added. I noticed Stuart had moved a bit closer to the car door.
When Stuart talked to our mother that way, I always battled the feeling of being in class and having to pee, but the teacher won’t let me go. It made me feel fidgety and downright uncomfortable. Did she always have to be looking for a fight? I wondered. “Don’t you like how it makes your eyes look?” I asked Stuart, hoping to avert the coming storm. When I saw she was about to direct a sneer at me I quickly added, “I think it makes you look pretty—longer hair, I mean.”
Stuart rolled her eyes. “And it’s so important to look pretty. Right, Sallee?” Then she turned on my mother. “You seem to be getting what you want from Sallee. Congratulations, another convert to the Happy Homemakers’ Club.”
Again my mother sighed. I couldn’t quite tell if Stuart had just said something bad about me.
My mother was silent, but the storm was still brewing. I tried to change the subject. “Hey,” I piped up, “why does Miz Mason always wear gloves and long sleeves even when it’s hot outside?”
“Hay is for horses, Sallee,” my mother said crossly. My diversion had worked. I was so relieved I barely listened to her answer.
“I can’t remember what it’s called, but she has some type of pigmentation problem—sun damage or something,” my mother said. She glanced from the red stoplight to her wristwatch. “Her doctor warned her never to go outside without being covered up. She is very sensitive about it. Apparently nothing can be done, and it is only going to get worse, poor dear.”
“A pig?” I said. “Miz Mason?”
“What? Sallee, hush! I can’t even think.” Gravel crunched under the tires as we pulled up by the tennis courts. “Stuart,” she said, “You’re coming home with Kathy.” Stuart leaped from the car. “If my guests are still there when you get home I would appreciate it if you would come in and speak to them,” my mother called as Stuart’s back disappeared behind the fence. “Good luck, make me proud and don’t forget your manners!”