by Mary Morony
The taller policeman cleared his throat. “Is Mr. Mackey home?”
“No, sir, he ain’t,” she said, a little taken aback. “Miz Mackey ain’t here, neither.”
“Is this their son, Gordon Mackey?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where can we git in touch with Mr. Mackey?”
“I don’ rightly know. Miz Mackey’ll be back soon.” Ethel attempted to reach out to Gordy, but the fat little policeman put himself in the way.
“We found him in the Dabneys’ garage.”
Ethel stood in the doorway with her hands on her hips, glaring at Gordy as if she were Superman and her x-ray vision was going to melt him into a puddle right there on the porch. “Boy, what done got into you? I know one thang: when I git my hands on ya, Imma make it so ya cain’ sit fo’ a week, hear me?”
“We need to talk to the person responsible for this kid.”
“I’s responsible fo’ des here chil’ren. I raised ever’ las’ one a ‘em.”
“The parents, girl. Where are they?” The fat little policeman barked. He reminded me of the big kid down the street who bullied everybody, always hitching up his pants, and strutting around like a pigeon.
“Day’s out. I’s in charge. What ya’ll gotta say ya’ll kin says ta me.” Ethel puffed up like she was going to take a swing at the mean little policeman. I was pretty sure, judging by the fuzziness of her hairdo, that she had taken a “nip” or two. Gordy had worked it out that you could get a good estimation of Ethel’s sobriety by how tightly her hair was arranged. She tended to get cranky when she was drinking, so her hair became our mood barometer. I prayed in this situation that she hadn’t launched a full-scale attack on the gin bottle she always seemed to have stashed somewhere these days.
“I ain’t telling no nigger nothing ‘bout a white boy,” the short policeman spat out. “You better get somebody quick, or we’re taking him downtown.” The tall policeman looked like he was going to say something, but didn’t.
I could see anger flash in Ethel’s eyes, but she hid it from the policemen by looking down at the floor. She was thinking what to do. “I’m gonna call Mista Joe,” she finally said, looking at the short policeman. “Don’ be standin’ here wit the do’ wide open letten’ in da cold. I’ll go an’ call ‘im. You stay right here jest a minute.” She pointed at the hallway floor.
When the policemen stepped in, she shut the door after them and lumbered down the hall to the phone. She looked back every few steps like she thought they might steal something if she didn’t keep an eye out. Gordy looked pale and worried, but he smiled as he watched Ethel’s bustling waddle. The mean policeman inched his way farther into the hall, looking after Ethel as she made her way to the phone; the taller one stood by the door with his hat in his hand.
The mean one sort of whistled and said, “Anybody dumb enough that would let a nigger in here by themselves with all this and leave nothin’ but a bunch of kids to watch ‘em…Shit, that nigger could steal ‘em blind and they’d deserve it.” I scowled at the little policeman from the dining room. I was too afraid to come out into the hall. Daddy said people who talked like that were ignorant. Ignorant and stupid must be the same thing, I thought. I found myself hating this man. Gordy looked like he wanted to kick him.
“Hello, Mista Joe, dis here Ethel,” she boomed into the phone. “Day’s some po’lease mens here. Day’s got Gordy. Day say day found ‘em in de Dabneys’ garage an’ if’in ya’ll don’ come an’ talks ta ‘em, day is gonna puts him in da jail house. Yes, sir. Jest a minute.”
Ethel bustled back. She said with some pride, “Mista Joe want ta talk to ya’ll.”
The tall policeman followed her back to the telephone. We weren’t able to hear what he said, but when he came back he said to his partner, “Come on, let’s go.” His partner grunted, leered at us, and left without a word. The tall policeman said to Ethel, “Sorry about all that.”
It was lucky for Gordy that the mean little policeman had called Ethel a nigger. That had made her madder than what Gordy had done. I thought she would give him a tongue-lashing hot enough to peel his hide. She huffed and puffed like the big bad wolf, pacing the hall. I think she was so mad she didn’t know what to do. Finally she said, “Gordy, go’n up to yo’ room righ’ now. Don’ you sit down and get nothin’ dirty. You gots oil all over ya. Yo’ Daddy comin’ over an’ he gon’ give you a piece a his min’.”
I started up the stairs after Gordy. “You git right back he’ah, missy. Don’ lemme catch ya anywhere near yo’ brother this evenin’, hear? Go’n upstairs wit’ Helen and take a bath and git ready fo’ bed.”
The green splatterwear tin cup Ethel used to hide the gin she drank appeared from under the kitchen sink a few days later (never a good sign) from where it had been hidden behind the Joy and Comet. Sometimes she’d conceal a beer in the cabinet where the pots and pans were stored—an oversized Pabst Blue Ribbon bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag. Before a binge really got underway, Ethel would attempt to be discreet. But as time wore on, and her nips turned to gulps, she became as sloppy with her concealment as she was with her person.
Helen and I were sprawled on the floor in the sitting room watching The Wild, Wild West. Ethel stormed into the room. One of her buns had come loose and the other three buns were in varying stages of disarray. We had learned from our rapidly accumulating experience that the best approach to Ethel in that condition was to pretend she was not there. We continued to watch the television. Ethel stood just inside the door, swaying menacingly and glaring at us with unfocused eyes. As if someone had turned a switch, she started ranting, “Tha word is ‘negro,’ not nigger.”
Helen and I looked up, bewildered.
“Don’ you ever call me a nigger. Look it up in tha dictionary, it’ll tell ya.” She lunged toward the bookcase, found a dictionary, and fumbled around with it. Then, giving up the search, she began flailing it around like a preacher on Sunday. Three more times she said, “Tha word is negro.” Then she left the room.
It was two days before I could get Gordy alone since he was grounded and I was expressly forbidden to go into his room. From a downstairs window I watched him riding his bike up and down the drive. When I could see nobody was around, I scurried outside and got on my bike.
“What happened?” I yelled as I came alongside him. We rolled along in silence. I squinted at him, trying to nudge a response. “Well, what?” He skidded his bike to a stop, dropped it in the dirt, and climbed up to a favorite perch in his tree. I followed silently and sat on the branch below his; my back against the trunk, legs swinging. I waited. He still didn’t say anything. “Gordy,” I bleated. “What happened?” He just sat there, looking off in the distance.
Then he looked at me. “Just after you left I saw a bowl full of some greenish-looking stuff,” he said. “You know how antifreeze is that kinda electricy-yellowish-green? Like that. There was a piece of butcher’s paper next to that bowl. I think Mr. Dabney put some meat in it and Lance ate it. I figured that I’d wait until the police came and show them. So they could arrest him.”
“Where was Miz Dabney?”
“I don’t know. Will you shut up and listen! He called down the steps a couple of times. At first he was trying to sound sorta nice. He said, ‘Who’s there? I’m going to call the police. You leave or I’m calling the police.’
“‘You poisoned my dog, didn’t you?’ I yelled. I couldn’t believe I was talking to him like that, but I knew he did it, I just knew it.
“He said, ‘Who’s there? You come out right now or I’m calling the police.’ I told him, ‘Call the police. I’m going to wait. I’m not leaving until they come and take me outta here.’ I was sure they would be takin’ him out, not me. It was getting dark. I decided the best thing I could do was to just sit down and wait. I didn’t want to get into any trouble, but I was pretty sure that when they came and saw the poison in the bowl and the paper, he’d have to go to jail. The garage was all creepy in the dark.
There wasn’t any place on the floor not covered in junk and trash. I went to move some stuff so I could sit down. I must have sat on the end of a board or something because the other end went up in the air, knocking a bunch of cans over. Ol’ Dabney turned on the light upstairs and started creeping down the stairs. He was carrying a broom. ‘I called the police,’ he said. ‘You’re going to be sorry now, buster.’
“When he saw me, he started whaling on me with that broom. ‘I know who you are,’ he said. ‘You’re one of them Mackey brats. Go on home to your nigger-loving parents. Get the hell outta my house.’”
My eyebrows shot up. “He hit you with a broom?”
Gordy nodded solemnly. “I screamed at him, ‘You killed Lance. You killed my dog.’ I tried to get away from that broom, but I tripped and knocked over the bowl of antifreeze. I couldn’t get up; there was so much grease and muck. He kept hitting me and yelling, ‘All you Mackeys think you’re so high and mighty just like your Ma. You ain’t nothing but a nigger loving lowlife—breaking into my house.’
“Sallee, I never heard a grown-up talk like he did, except for those men in that car. I’ll bet he was one of ‘em, ya know?” Gordy shivered, like he was cold. “He just kept banging on me with that broom, yelling all kinds of stuff. When the police finally came, he quit hitting me. ‘I found this kid sneaking around,’ he said. ‘Had his foot on the step going up to our bedroom like he was goin’ to rob us. I chased him down here. Probably learned his thieving from that nigger woman next door and that bully father a his.’
“The tall policeman asked me, ‘Son, what were you doing in these folks’ house?’ So I told him, ‘He poisoned my dog. Look, there’s a bowl of antifreeze and some meat paper right there where he did it.’ I pointed. But all the stuff was scattered and the bowl was turned over. ‘He’s a lying little burglar,’ Mr. Dabney screamed, ‘And I’m going to press charges. Just like I did on his no count daddy’ The tall policeman took me to the car while the fat one talked to Mr. Dabney some more.
“‘He killed my dog. I know he did,’ I said to the tall one. He started to say something, but the fat guy opened the door and got into the car. He turned and looked at me over the seat. ‘Nobody killed your dog, kid,’ he said. ‘And you’re in a powerful lot of trouble. If you know what’s good for you, I better not ever find you near this house again. Breaking and entering is a felony. That’s what we’re talking about there. You could spend a lot of time in jail. It don’t make any difference who your parents are.’”
Gordy sniffed hard. I could tell he was trying not to cry. I reached up from my perch on the limb below him and patted his leg. “I’m glad you didn’t go to jail,” I offered.
“You know, Sallee, I think Mr. Dabney musta known Momma before, like when they were kids or something.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked while trying to think of a story that could include two such unlikely characters.
“Something ‘bout the way he said we were all just as uppity as her.”
The next day the sheriff called our house to report on the autopsy. Lance had been poisoned by antifreeze, just as Gordy thought. But the sheriff didn’t believe the nails and Lance’s death were related—just two accidents, is all. Daddy seemed unhappy with what the sheriff said. He was sitting on the back porch, smoking. I stepped out on the porch and plopped onto his lap. “Sallee!” he snapped, “Go sit over there.”
I slunk over to the indicated spot next to Gordy. “Mr. Dabney did it on purpose,” Gordy said, looking at Daddy.
Daddy regarded him gravely. “I don’t know,” Daddy said. “I wouldn’t have ever thought it was on purpose…” He pondered for a moment. “Probably they were just accidents. There’s no way to tell.” He cut Gordy a hard look. “And you had better not even think about trying to find out more, young man.”
My mother came through the screen door all giddy and excited, like she had been ever since Daddy left. She looked so pretty; smiling and happy. “I have a little surprise for you,” she said to Daddy.
He didn’t even look up. He crushed out his cigarette in the ashtray.
“What is it?” Gordy and I asked.
“Where are the rest of you?” my mother asked.
“I’ll get ‘em,” I volunteered and opened the door into the house. “Stuart, Helen! Mama’s got a surprise. Hurry up!”
“Dammit, Sallee,” Daddy said. “Stop screaming. Go get ‘em.” Now that he was gone so much of the time, it hurt worse than ever to have him angry with me. I sidled inside and ran upstairs, wishing things were different.
Once I’d gotten Stuart and Helen out on the porch, my mother, who loved to draw things out, said, “Now everybody close your eyes. Don’t peek.”
“For Christ sake, Ginny, get on with it,” Daddy sighed.
I wanted to cry. I squeezed my eyes shut as tightly as I could, trying to stem the tears. I heard the screen door open and shut, then open and shut again. “OK, now open your eyes,” my mother said. Her voice was tinny.
“A puppy!” we all shrieked, scaring the poor little creature to death. Daddy got up and went into the house without a word. He took what happiness there was with him. The puppy cowered. My mother hesitated, like a bird on a hot wire, and then followed him inside. Ethel appeared at the door and watched as we tried playing with the puppy. Stuart finally picked up the terrified little dog and snuggled it close. She stopped on her way through the door and laid her head on Ethel’s shoulder. Ethel patted her lovingly for a moment. Then Stuart disappeared into the house.
Gordy and I went down the steps into the yard. “It’s cute,” I said. “It looks like Granny Bess’s dog. Remember?” I scanned the yard and let my eyes fall on Lance’s old doghouse. The puppy had perfect floppy ears and the softest fur, but still, I felt funny about having a new dog.
“It isn’t Lance,” Gordy replied gruffly. “He was just too big a dog for a dumb puppy to take his place. I don’t even care what she names the ol’ thing,” he said, kicking at a clump of weeds. “I don’t know why she’s always trying to ruin things.”
“Who? Who tried to ruin something? Mama?” I asked as I ran my foot through a pile of wet leaves. We looked expectantly at the scattered leaves, hoping to find we didn’t know what.
“Yeah, Lance hasn’t been dead two weeks and she’s gone out and bought another dog. It just ain’t right. Some things ya just gotta let happen. Give time.”
“Hum,” I said. I had never known Gordy to have so many opinions. “How’d you get so smart all of a sudden?”
“Shut up. Let’s go over to Mr. Gentry’s and see if Ethel’s right. Maybe the old bastard really did kill Lance.”
“Whew, boy, you better not let Ethel hear you talk like that. She’ll wash your mouth out with soap sure as you’re standing there.”
“I don’t care if she does,” he shot back as he turned to go.
“Hey, wait, you said it was Mr. Dabney who killed Lance.”
Gordy weighed this for a moment. “Maybe they all did, damn grownups,” he concluded then stomped off toward the street.
“Don’t go that way,” I hissed. “Ethel’ll see you. She just told us not to cross the street.”
“Are you comin’ or not?”
“I don’t know. I don’t want to get in trouble. It’s gettin’ dark.” I watched Gordy cross the street and disappear into the darkness. I hesitated, wondering whether to follow. I was unsure why I felt so threatened. Finally, I slunk back to the house.
Helen and I went to bed early that night. From their room across the hall, I could hear my mother and father talking as they dressed to go out. My mother loved going to parties. Daddy didn’t think much of them. I was glad he was back in their room. When he’d come home to deal with Gordy, he’d brought his suitcase with him. We children all hoped it meant he was back for good.
“Damn it, Ginny, would you lay off?” I heard Daddy bark. “I know what I’m doing. How many times do I have to tell you, you don’t need to worry? Nobody is going t
o hold you responsible. It’s not always about your damned ass.”
“Joe, the talk is getting more and more unpleasant. With all the things going on, I’m beginning to worry. Why did you think we needed a shopping center, anyway? It’s embarrassing. Why couldn’t you build something important like a new post office or a library at the university? Maybe a wing on the hospital…Betty told me that Bernard overheard at the club the other night that…”
I heard drawers slamming. It sounded like the ones in my mother’s dressing table. I imaged she’d put on her makeup and was looking for jewelry to wear like she always did. She was pretty good at driving home a point by slamming whatever drawer was handy.
“Jesus Christ!” Daddy yelled. His voice sounded like he was near the door. Then, quieter, he said, “As much as you love to shop, you’re going to love this new shopping center. You wait. You’re gonna feel like a queen when everybody starts using it. You’ll see. Besides, what the hell does Betty know? She never had an original thought in her over dyed head. If she had, she wouldn’t have married that windbag Chambers who spends his life gossiping—looking for ways to run people down.”
“Would you listen? Bernard said that Pete is pulling out of the project. He says you’re way behind schedule…losing money…that you’re in way over your head.”
“Who are you going to believe, me or that sack of shit Chambers? I’ve told you a thousand times, you don’t have anything to worry about. Pete and I played golf yesterday, and he didn’t say a word to me about pulling out. We talked a lot about the delays. If he were nervous, I’d know.”
“But honey,” my mother pushed on, her voice soft and calculated, “what about Lance? Surely you don’t think this shopping center is worth putting our family in danger.”