One Good Mama Bone

by McClain, Bren; Monroe, Mary Alice;

“I’m not acting.”

  Sarah allowed herself to look at the stretch of stained glass windows down the side of the church. There were four of them, stretching as tall as a person. She couldn’t make out a distinctive pattern like the flowers in her mother’s church windows, but these carried more colors, the colors of the dresses Sarah had made.

  “You asked me one time if Luther loved me.” Mildred’s voice had gone quiet. “The answer is no. He does not love me. He just wanted me for my money, and I knew that, but still went right ahead and married him. I was nineteen years old and afraid I’d wind up an old maid. But turned out that’s exactly what I became anyway, old and a maid.”

  “No, ma’am. Turned out you became my friend.”

  “Friend, yes,” Mildred said.

  Sarah did not smell peppermints.

  “Let’s go get your Christmas present, Sarah.”

  Sarah opened her door and stepped out. They walked to the front of the church, where she placed her foot on the bottom step. “My mama’s church had twenty steps up the front of it. Twenty steps to Jesus, I’d always say.”

  “A tall one,” Mildred said.

  “A tall one.”

  “We’ve only got two.”

  “A short one,” Sarah said.

  “A short one.”

  They giggled.

  Sarah had never thought this day would come, when she could step inside a church. But this day had come, and it was thanks to her new friend, Mildred Creamer, who might have married a man who did not love her, but Sarah loved her, and she suspected a lot of other people did, too.

  They walked the steps. Mildred opened the large door and held it for Sarah, who stepped inside, her eyes taking in the windows, the stained glass, the colors. Her mother’s words returning, “And that pretty colored glass all around out where the crowd sits, they’s three windows right beside each other, and right in the middle of all three, they got flower petals. Four of them. Two straight up and one on the right and one on the left. It looks like a cross, the kind Jesus died on for our sins. For our real bad ways. He wiped them all out. All the bad we do. Every bit of it. Every blame bit of it.”

  From a door up front walked five ladies, each bearing the colors of red and green. “Merry Christmas, Sarah Creamer,” Mildred said and held out a box the size of a five-pound bag of Dixie Home sugar.

  But Sarah didn’t take it. She didn’t want to be selfish and the only one getting a gift.

  “Open it!” several of the women called out.

  Sarah took the box. It was wrapped in shiny green paper with curly red ribbons. Inside laid a measuring tape, a tablet, a fountain pen, and money stacked as high as rolled dough for biscuits.

  “Merry Christmas to all of you,” Mildred said. “I’ve been telling you about my special friend, Sarah, and her masterful sewing ability. Some of you have even bought her dresses. I hope she’ll do you the honor of measuring each of you for a new one.”

  “Oh, yes,” the women said, and Sarah wanted to say thank you, say it louder than was possible, but her lips trembled so, she could only open her arms.

  As she stood in the midst of all that color, it came to her that what her mother was doing that night when she’d talked of the stained glass was asking for Sarah’s forgiveness for not letting Sarah go to church and get saved all those years. Her mother was saying that Jesus forgave her, so maybe Sarah could do the same.

  Sarah did the same.

  …..

  Emerson Bridge was hiding beneath his bed when Mr. Merritt’s truck came past his house that morning. The county agent called his name. And then his mother’s. But Emerson Bridge stayed quiet.

  A knock came on the screened porch door. His heart raced against the wooden planks. Mr. Merritt called their names again. Emerson Bridge wanted to forget names. He put his hands over his ears and pressed, and, in his mind, a new name formed, one he thought he could pass for, too, Roy Rogers, Jr. He had dark hair like the King of the Cowboys, and dimples like him, too. He’d noticed them on that big screen at the State Theatre with Mr. Ike. They flashed as big as slivers of moons.

  He listened for Mr. Merritt’s truck to leave, and when it did, he ran to his mother’s room, to the mirror on her chifforobe, and made himself smile. There they were, his dimples. His mother didn’t have them, nor did his papa. But Roy Rogers did. He had been thinking he didn’t want to go that morning to the Roy Rogers Riders Club meeting with Mr. Ike and the cowboy picture show afterwards, but now he did. He wanted to see Roy Rogers’s dimples.

  He returned to his room and put on his Rider shirt and jeans and, in his shirt pocket, slid his Roy Rogers Riders Club rules card. On his collar, he fastened his special clip with a picture of Roy Rogers himself on it and then slipped LC’s two silver dollars in his pocket.

  Mr. Ike came at the appointed time of 10:30 and stood outside the porch. As soon as Emerson Bridge started down the steps, he asked Mr. Ike, “Guess what my new name is?”

  Mr. Ike hunched up his shoulders.

  “Roy Rogers, Jr.!”

  Mr. Ike giggled, not like he didn’t believe Emerson Bridge, but like he did, and it was their secret. They both galloped to the truck like they were on horses.

  On the way to town, Mr. Ike asked him what Mr. Merritt had said about Lucky.

  “Not much,” Emerson Bridge told him and pressed his foot against the floorboard like it was the gasoline pedal. He wanted Mr. Ike to drive faster.

  At the State Theatre, Emerson Bridge pulled out one silver dollar and held it for the attendant in the admission booth. “For two real cowboys, ma’am,” he said. But Mr. Ike gently moved his hand away and paid with his own dollar bill. Emerson Bridge knew the man was not his papa, but at that moment, he wanted him to be and reached for the man’s hand. Mr. Ike looked surprised but then smiled and settled in by swinging it high, then low.

  The stage was full of people and shiny equipment and wires. Always before it was empty, except for the life-sized poster of Roy Rogers and a table with a sign that said “State Theatre Roy Rogers Riders Club.” Mr. Sanders directed Emerson Bridge to the right side of the stage, where at least a dozen boys huddled, and then told them of a special Christmas present. “The good people at WAIM Radio are broadcasting our meeting live today.” The boys began to clap, and so did Mr. Ike, who was easy to spot. He was the only one wearing a cowboy hat. “As soon as we’re on the air,” Mr. Sanders said, “I’m going to say a few words about our club, and then I’m going to ask ten of you lucky boys to come to the microphone and give one of the rules.”

  “Me!” several of the boys said and thrust their hands into the air.

  “Me!” Emerson Bridge called out and looked to see if Mr. Ike was watching.

  He was.

  He wished LC was there that day, but LC wasn’t a Riders Club member. His papa wouldn’t let him, said it was “too common.”

  “Do we have a preacher in the audience?” Mr. Sanders asked and held his hand above his eyes to shield the bright light. “I usually read Mr. Rogers’s prayer myself, but since today’s a special day, I thought we’d see if we have a preacher among us.”

  No hands were raised. Emerson Bridge knew that Mr. Ike used to be one. “My Mr. Ike!” he called out and pointed the man’s way.

  Mr. Ike put his hand on the top of his hat and lowered his head. He was shy like that.

  “And he knows it by heart, too,” Emerson Bridge called out. Every time they’d been to a meeting, Mr. Ike always said the words along with Mr. Sanders.

  “I bet Mr. Rogers would really like it if a preacher did it,” Mr. Sanders said.

  Those words drew Mr. Ike’s face forward. Mr. Sanders waved him up on stage and then began tapping boys on their shoulders and calling out a number. He tapped Emerson Bridge and said, “7.” “My name’s Roy Rogers, Jr.,” he told the man and flashed his dimples.

  The boys lined up in order behind the microphone. Mr. Sanders told them, “Go ahead and get your cards out and learn your number by heart
so when it’s your time, you’re not reading but saying it like you mean it, the way Mr. Rogers would want you to.” Emerson Bridge removed his card and located number seven. “Be kind to animals and take care of them.” A flush shot up him.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen,” Mr. Sanders said, “we are thrilled to be broadcasting live from the State Theatre for the Christmas meeting of the Roy Rogers Riders Club, a club that gives our young boys wholesome rules to live by. We honor Mr. Rogers’s wish for us to begin with his prayer.”

  Mr. Ike bowed his head. “Lord, I reckon I’m not much by myself,” and Emerson Bridge knew he should close his eyes, but, instead, he whispered to the boy in front of him, “Want to trade with me?”

  The boy made no sound.

  “Please,” Emerson Bridge said and reached for a silver dollar. “I’ll give you this.” Mr. Sanders looked his way and shook his head fast.

  Emerson Bridge felt like he might cry.

  Mr. Ike was saying, “And when in the failing dusk I get that final call, I do not care how many flowers they send. Above all else, the happiest trail would be, for you to say to me, ‘Let’s ride, My Friend.’ Amen.”

  “Let’s ride, My Friend, indeed,” Mr. Sanders said into the microphone.

  Let’s not ride, My Friend, let’s not, Emerson Bridge wanted to scream.

  The line moved quickly, the boys saying their words and stepping away. Emerson Bridge thought about running off the stage, but the space in front of him opened, and he stepped forward, the shiny microphone aimed at him like a pistol.

  He got as far as “Be kind” before his throat closed, and he could say no more.

  “That’s right, son,” Mr. Sanders stepped in and said. He put his hand on Emerson Bridge’s shoulder. “But be kind to what?”

  Emerson Bridge no longer could see anything. He took a deep breath and said “animals,” then grabbed his stomach, bent double, and fell onto the floor.

  …..

  “Sorry I’m late,” Merritt told Luther, who stood near his lot with his boot pressed on the bottom strand of barbed wire. He shoved a small tin box filled with Mildred’s fruit cake cookies towards the county agent.

  Merritt took the box but did not open it.

  “It ain’t a bribe or nothing. Just some Christmas cheer,” Luther said.

  Merritt kept his eyes towards the ground. “Sure hope everything’s all right with the Creamer boy. LC probably told you, but I handed out that paper to sign yesterday. Should have told him his steer’s fate from the start.” He kicked at the dirt.

  LC had not told Luther. He’d get right with him after Merritt left. LC was with Uncle at the hammer mill, shoveling in corn cobs the way they should be shoveled. His boy knew better than to try any more monkey business.

  Luther took a cigar from his pocket and stuck it in his mouth and lit it. He’d let the man keep going with his words, hoping he’d address how the steer was feeding out.

  “The feed trough was turned over, and I couldn’t get anybody to the door,” Merritt said.

  Luther pulled hard on his cigar and tilted his chin up. Buzzards circled above. Maybe the Creamers were dead. Killed themselves at the whole drama of it. Luther blew a smoke ring. It was almost perfect.

  “Older boys don’t seem to have a problem with it. They get used to it. Every year, they get a little more numb. But young ones like the Creamer boy, and even yours, Luther, they’re little.”

  “Hey, is this a Creamer convention or something? You’re supposed to be over here telling me that my boy’s slaughter steer is going to leave the others, including that Creamer one, in the by God dust.”

  Merritt appeared to look into the lot where the steer was tied to his post.

  “LC!” Luther yelled and waved his arms like a wild man until his boy looked his way. “Merritt’s about to praise your steer. On the double now!” Luther clapped his hands at the pace he wanted his boy to run. “It’s important to put boys through this. Look at that boy coming here. It’s making him into a man.”

  “That year I competed,’ 41 when that McClain boy won, I was just a boy,” Merritt said. “It’s a tough row to hoe. Sold out my best friend.”

  “Must not have been too tough. You advise other boys now how to do it.”

  Luther brought LC around in front of him. He wished that Charles was there, too, but he wasn’t coming home for Christmas. Charles was so smart, Clemson College was sending him out west to tour some big ranches.

  “Am I in trouble about yesterday, Mr. Merritt?” LC asked. He sounded like he had a smile on his face. “I think I deserve a punishment.”

  Luther knew his boy had been in a fight, had come home with a bloody lip, but all Luther had wanted to know is if the other boy looked worse.

  Merritt shook his head. “Beats all I’ve ever seen.”

  The words Luther had been waiting for. He had picked a good one for his boy.

  “Yeah, that Creamer steer has made a full recovery from the bloat, and if they can get enough feed in him between now and the show, that’s what—ten, eleven weeks—he’ll be the one to beat. He’s got the best frame I’ve ever seen. Just a matter of finishing him out.”

  Luther clenched his fists. “I asked you how my boy’s steer looks.”

  “All right,” Merritt said. “He looks all right.” He started towards his truck.

  “You sure I ain’t in trouble?” LC called out.

  “Just all right?” Luther hollered and made long steps to get in front of the man. He pointed to his own chest with his hard finger and said, “My boy’s the one to beat.”

  “I’ve told you before, Luther, the Creamer steer was a real down-the-roader.” Merritt stepped around Luther and kept walking.

  Luther shouted at his boy, “Hey, get out there with that beast and show off how good he can do. Show him how you’ve made him follow you around like you’re a king.”

  Merritt’s door closed.

  “And bring him over here and let Merritt get a look at the meat cuts on him. Show him his rump. Hurry up, boy!”

  Merritt cranked his truck.

  Luther ran hard towards it, flung open the driver’s door, yanked Merritt from the cab and threw him on the ground, where Luther straddled him like a horse, his knees pinning the man’s arms to the dirt. “I said by God look at my boy’s steer!” Luther jerked the man’s head towards the animal, which stood silent with LC twenty feet away. “Tell me he’s the one to beat. Tell me!”

  “Dad!” LC called out.

  Luther grabbed the collar on Merritt’s coat.

  “I can’t do that, Luther!”

  Luther shook him. “I said say it!”

  “Maybe the second one to beat.”

  Luther felt sick to his stomach. He took a swing at Merritt’s face, while Merritt tried to move his arms from beneath Luther’s knees. Luther pressed them stronger. The man’s legs began kicking and soon bucked Luther off, the two men now rolling across the dirt. When they stopped, Luther regained his position in the saddle. “So, why do you do it, then?” Luther yelled and tasted blood on his lips. “If it tore you up so bad, why do you put more of them through it?”

  Merritt’s body became almost limp. “Responsibility,” he said. “It teaches them responsibility.” The man’s eyes looked glassy and full. He turned his head and spit a wad of blood.

  Luther gave Merritt’s shoulders one big push and then removed himself.

  Merritt got on his feet and brushed away the dirt. “At least that’s what I tell myself.” He returned to his truck.

  LC and the steer were no longer in sight. Nor was Uncle. The hammer mill was silent now.

  Merritt drove away.

  “I got your one-to-beat-down-the-roader!” Luther called out, his bottom lip stinging.

  But then a thought came to him. How about a down-the-road goner?

  He kept those words to himself and returned to the fence. Merritt had left the cookies on the ground. Luther picked up the tin box, full of color. It showed a scene
with snow and fancy horses and fancy carriages in front of a fancy house, a king’s house.

  You put them through it, Luther told himself, because it’ll make you a king. A by God king.

  …..

  Ike Thrasher picked the boy up and carried him to his truck. The boy wrapped his arms around Ike’s neck.

  On the ride home, Emerson Bridge stayed pressed against the door. Occasionally, he whimpered like an animal that had been hurt.

  When they arrived at the house, the boy got out of the truck and went inside. Ike wanted to go with him, but he was not invited. He did not know how long the boy’s mother would be, but he would wait in the shadows until she returned.

  He moved his truck to the road, put his vehicle in reverse and backed up to just beyond his father’s house, where he pulled off to the side and parked. “Don’t you worry, I’m not about to touch your land.” He said those words out loud.

  Snow flurries danced through the air. He could see his breath from the cold.

  “This probably is a git-up I’ve got on, too,” he said and ran his hands down his denim-covered thighs. “But, Daddy, it’s all I’ve got.”

  He spotted his mother’s trellis, visible from this side of the house. It was covered in vines, gone dormant, but still alive. His teeth began to chatter. “The people across the road, they’re good people, Daddy. The boy and his mama. And don’t laugh at me, but I’m trying to take care of them.”

  Where the boy had sat, his Roy Rogers Riders Club card remained. It lay crumpled.

  Ike took a deep and abiding breath. “Lord, I reckon I’m not much by myself,” he recited. “I fail to do a lot of things I ought to do. But, Lord, when trails are steep and passes high, Help me ride it straight the whole way through.”

  And then his own words, from his own prayer came forth. “Lord, watch over those people. And help me to do my part good.”

  …..

  Sarah stepped inside her house carrying five sacks of fabric and notions and patterns. The clerk at Gallant-Belks was kind enough to place each woman’s materials in separate sacks, along with her name and measurements. Mildred’s box sat on top and still carried the stack of money. Sarah had expected to use it to buy what she needed for the dresses, but Mildred paid for everything and said the money in the box was “for you, just for you.” Sarah had not counted it yet, thinking it would show her too desperate if she had fingered the bills, lingering with each one, in Mildred’s presence.