Natural Bridges

by Debbie Lynn McCampbell

  Birdie walked in through the garage door about that time, carrying Jimmy.

  “Birdie, what have I told you about bringing him in the kitchen?” Momma said, shaking the beater at Birdie. Mashed potatoes dripped to the floor. “People eat in here.”

  “Is that guy still here?” Birdie asked me, struggling with Jimmy’s weight.

  “Yes. He’ll be eating with us,” I said. “Go out there and talk to him. Show him Jimmy. But put him down and let him walk; he’s too big to be carried.”

  “No he ain’t,” said Birdie, relentless. Her face was pink from the strain.

  “This boy,” said Momma. “He works for Clem?”

  “No, he bought gas there. Lives in Lexington. We were just trying to catch some bass up a ways here,” I said.

  “He’s from Lexington?” asked Hazel.

  “He’s there for college. He’s from Florida.”

  “Will he eat turnips?” asked Momma.

  “Florida?” asked Hazel.

  “College?” asked Florabelle. “You went fishing with a college man?”

  Hazel looked at Florabelle, mused a moment, nodded in approval.

  “They didn’t catch any fish,” said Birdie.

  “How long will supper be, Momma?” I asked.

  “’Bout another ten minutes. I just need to drain this corn. See what everybody wants to drink. Florabelle, Hazel, put out your cigarettes, clear them catalogs off the table. Birdie, put Jimmy in the garage.”

  When I went back through the swinging door, Culler was sitting on the other end of the sofa, watching TV. No one talked to him. A news team was at the scene of the crash, interviewing survivors.

  “Supper’s about ready,” I said.

  “What is it?” called Jason, feet propped up on the coffee table.

  “Roast and potatoes. Wash up.”

  I smiled at Culler, motioned for him to come on. I quickly introduced him around the kitchen.

  “Hope you like to eat,” said Momma. “We got enough for a whole picking crew.”

  “Sure we do,” said Hazel. She looked at Culler. “So you’re from Florida,” she said, accusingly. She associated everyone from Florida with her ex-husband’s affair, since that was where he’d run off to.

  “That’s right,” said Culler. “Orlando.”

  Florabelle waddled over to Culler to shake his hand. “Fern says you’re going to college.”

  “That’s right,” said Culler.

  Florabelle sneered at Jason, turned to Culler. “What are you studying at college?”

  “Engineering.”

  “That must be interesting,” said Florabelle. “You’ll probably make lots of money.” Again she frowned at Jason, scoffing.

  “Florie, sit down,” said Momma. “Birdie, pour your sister some milk. A full glass.”

  I sat down between Culler and Hazel.

  As everyone got settled at the table, Culler fiddled with the salt and pepper shakers, trying to make small talk.

  Birdie said grace, showing off.

  Daddy usually did. He carved the meat.

  “Is it too tough, Raymond?” asked Momma.

  “No, Sylvia, it’s fine.”

  Momma asked that same question every time we sat down to eat. Daddy would always tell her the meat was fine, even if it was charred or too rare.

  “Pass the potatoes,” said Jason.

  “Wait for the company to get his first,” said Florabelle.

  “What company?” Jason scowled.

  “Fern’s friend.” Florabelle smiled at Culler, set the bowl of potatoes down gently in front of him.

  As the serving bowls were passed around the table, no one talked. Momma cleared her throat twice, breaking silence, and Jason belched once in his beer, breaking rules.

  Except for the clinking plates and glasses, the room was quiet for five minutes maybe. I kept watching Culler for a sign, boredom, perhaps, or fear. I wondered how he must have felt, surrounded by us, realizing for the first time perhaps that at the end of some driveways are completely different worlds.

  “Plane hit the control tower in Detroit, killed sixty folk, they think,” Daddy said.

  “God help ’em,” said Momma, chewing fat.

  “They don’t make those airplanes safe enough to fly a mule,” said Hazel.

  “That ain’t true,” said Jason. “I flew up to Canada on an Eastern plane that had no trouble whatsoever.”

  “See, Hazel, them planes are fine for mules,” said Florabelle, looking at Jason.

  “Culler’s dad works at the Space Center as an aeronautic engineer,” I volunteered.

  “Where in Canada did you fly?” Hazel asked Jason, ignoring what I said.

  “Trenton,” said Jason.

  “That’s on Lake Ontario, isn’t it?” asked Culler.

  “Sure is,” said Florabelle. “Blew all his money on some dumb fishing trip.”

  “I brought you home some pretty good size trout, though, didn’t I?” Jason swigged his beer, crushed the can, threw it at the trashcan by the garage door, missed.

  “Go pick that up,” said Momma.

  “I could care less about fresh trout,” said Florabelle. “If you hadn’t blown your wad on that trip, we’d probably had a honeymoon.”

  “Well, we didn’t need a honeymoon to get sparks a’ flying, did we?” Jason leaned over, ribbed Culler and started heehawing like a mule.

  “Cut that out,” said Daddy. “We’re at the table.”

  “Florabelle, you ain’t touched your milk. Drink it up,” said Momma. “Baby needs it.”

  “I’m so sick of folks telling me what this baby needs. What I’m saying I need is a honeymoon.”

  “Florabelle doesn’t want her baby,” Birdie told Culler.

  “That’s not so, Bird,” said Momma, “she’s just scared, it being her first.”

  “I want it,” said Birdie.

  “Birdie, a baby ain’t no doll to play with,” snapped Florabelle. “It’s not like having a puppy either.”

  “When is the baby due?” asked Culler, being polite.

  “Any damn day,” said Florabelle.

  Birdie looked at Culler. “Are you going to make Fern pregnant?”

  “Birdie!” said Momma.

  Culler smiled. “I only lured in the catch today.”

  Everyone looked at him.

  I could feel my face flush.

  “Speaking of fishing,” said Momma, sensing my embarrassment, “Fern tells us you got hurt today.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I got a fishhook caught in my neck, but Fern got it out and put in stitches.”

  “Fern stitched you up?” asked Hazel.

  “Why didn’t you call Dr. Glenn?” asked Momma.

  “We did. He was in Bowen,” I said.

  “You let her sew you up?” Jason used a fork with meat on the end of it to point at me.

  “Sure did.” Culler scooted his chair out a little for everyone to see his wound and admire my work.

  “Get a load of that,” said Florabelle.

  Hazel got up to have a closer look. She leaned down over Culler’s head and squinted. “Sylvia, come see this.”

  Momma and Hazel hovered over Culler, evaluating.

  He looked a bit self-conscious.

  “Fern, did you use a closed cross-stitch or open-hole?”

  “Open,” I said.

  “Birdie, go get your Aunt Hazel her glasses,” said Hazel finally.

  A few moments later, Birdie came back with Hazel’s glasses. Hazel, Florabelle, Birdie, and Momma all gathered around him.

  Looking through her bifocals, Hazel ran her finger lightly over Culler’s stitches. “Did you double the thread, Fern?”

  “No need to; it’s nylon,” I said.

  “Tie off the knot?” she asked.

  “No, not supposed to,” I said.

  Hazel stood there a few more minutes.

  Culler kept his head bowed over his plate.

  “I’ll be damn. That’s some n
eedlework,” said Hazel.

  When they’d all sat back down, I looked across the table at Daddy. He was eating, not paying a bit of attention to any of us. “Culler’s going to be an engineer,” I said, signaling him to talk.

  Daddy frowned when I kicked him under the table, and put down his fork. “Mechanical or electrical?” he asked.

  Culler finished chewing a bit of food. “Architecture.”

  “Hmm,” said Daddy. “I was just going to say there’s some whippersnapper college kids down at the plant where I work in Service who think they’re experts on everything. I never went to no college, and I know more about pump machinery and all their workings than any of them. You don’t need college to know how to fix things.”

  “That’s probably true,” said Culler.

  Jason reached across Culler for the salt. “If you’re going to be fixing things, what you need is a hammer, not a college diploma. I always say there ain’t nothing you can’t fix with a hammer. If you can’t repair it, then you can bust it up and throw it away.” He reached again for the pepper.

  “That’s what he gave me for a wedding present,” said Florabelle. “A goddamn hammer.”

  “Florabelle,” scolded Momma.

  “Well, that way if I ain’t home and something breaks, you can fix it by yourself,” argued Jason. “All it takes is a hammer and a steady hand to hold the nail head.”

  “I’m fixing to use that hammer on your head. Steady or not,” said Florabelle. “And quit reaching over people. If you want something, then you ask somebody to pass it.”

  Jason stared at Culler. “Pass the turnips.” Then he took another large helping and kept the serving spoon in his own plate. “What I’m saying is a hammer fixes everything.” He turned to Florabelle and mumbled, “Everything but a broken record.”

  “Culler’s planning to design and build,” I said, “not fix.”

  “That’ll be something,” said Hazel. “Maybe you’ll design homes for the movie stars. I once had a hair customer come through Dayton who claimed she’d decorated Lucille Ball’s home in Beverly Hills.”

  “You can build houses?” Birdie asked Culler.

  Culler smiled. “I’m learning how to.”

  “Jimmy needs a doghouse,” she said.

  Culler looked at me. “Maybe I’ll survey the yard sometime and give you an estimate.” He leaned forward and looked at Birdie, who was sitting on a phone book at the end of the table. “What do you want to be when you grow up, Birdie?” he asked.

  “I am grown up,” she said.

  “What about when you’re a big girl, like Fern? What do you want to do, then?” he asked again.

  Birdie looked at me, hesitated. “I guess I’ll do whatever I’m supposed to do.”

  “Birdie’s going to surprise us all, I bet,” said Hazel. “She’ll go off and be a dress designer or a famous Hollywood cosmetologist.”

  Birdie frowned, still looking at me. “I don’t have to go anywhere if I don’t want to,” she said.

  “That’s right,” said Momma, “You can stay here and take care of your Grandma. That reminds me, Raymond, Mother needs more storage space. Her room is cramped. You reckon you could get down there sometime and put up a couple shelves? There’s just no room for all her things.”

  Daddy looked at Momma, eyes narrowed. “I don’t have the time.”

  “It wouldn’t take you long, Raymond,” said Hazel. “She just needs a couple small ones up over her bed.”

  “I said no,” said Daddy.

  “Daddy, Grandma needs shelves,” said Birdie, defiantly.

  “Don’t sass me,” said Daddy.

  “Raymond,” said Hazel, “you can’t stay angry forever. It’ll give you ulcers.” She poked me under the table. “Talk to him, Fern.”

  I looked around the table; all eyes were on me. “Daddy,” I started, “you’re going to have to get over your mad. For everyone’s sake. Grandma still needs our help.”

  “Oh, like the kind of help you were today?” he barked.

  I took a deep breath. “It was just this once,” I said. “And I wasn’t gone long.”

  “All afternoon,” he said.

  “You know why I was late,” I said, avoiding his eye.

  “You didn’t tell Momma where you were going,” accused Birdie.

  “Hush up!” I told her.

  Everyone was still staring at me, except Culler, who was trying to concentrate on his food. Birdie started to sob.

  “This is ridiculous,” I said. “I go fishing for a few hours and you all act like I was gone a week.”

  “Raymond,” said Hazel, “I agree with Fern, you can’t carry this grudge towards Mother forever. All we’re asking you to do is hang a shelf.”

  “Leave me out of this,” said Daddy.

  “Leave you out of it?” yelled Hazel. “If it weren’t for you kicking her out of her house in the first place, we wouldn’t be having all this trouble!”

  “She had me arrested, for Christ’s sake,” yelled Daddy.

  “She’s sorry!” Birdie was bawling, now.

  “I have an idea,” said Florabelle. “Jason, since you’re such a expert on fixing things, you do it. You have time. You go down there tomorrow after work and put Grandma up some shelves. I’ll even let you borrow my hammer.”

  “She’s no kin to me,” said Jason.

  Florabelle’s face turned bright red. “SHE’S MY GRANDMOTHER AND YOU’RE MY HUSBAND!” she shouted.

  “AND WHOSE IDEA WAS THAT?” yelled Jason. “You had to go and get yourself knocked up …”

  “Pipe down, the both of you!” said Hazel.

  Florabelle picked up her spoon and threw it across the table at Jason.

  The spoon flew between Birdie and Jason and hit the refrigerator.

  Birdie ducked, dodging the spoon, sat up and glared at Florabelle. “Pissant.”

  “Birdie, that’s enough out of you, now,” said Momma. “Drink the rest of your milk and go to your room. Hustle.”

  Birdie stood up, dumped the rest of her milk. It splattered to the floor.

  “God help us,” said Hazel.

  “Hey!” yelled Daddy. His fists hit the table. “I’ve seen and heard enough!” His eyes were fierce. He looked at Birdie. “You quit your crying and clean that up!” He pointed a finger at Florabelle. “And you get up right now and pick up that spoon. And don’t ever step foot in this house again if you’re going to act like that.”

  Florabelle stood up, waddled over to the spoon, picked it up, hurled it in the sink. It clanked against the dishes and cracked a glass as it landed.

  Momma gasped, looked at me.

  I continued to eat, not flinching.

  Culler, too, kept right on eating. He never looked up.

  “That’s it!” shouted Daddy. “Fern? You see what you stir up by going off horseplaying instead of being here where you supposed to be?” He scuffed his chair back, left the table.

  Birdie was kneeling on the floor over the puddle of milk, her face streaked with tears, eyes red with anger. “See,” she shouted. “If Fern can be grown up and stay here, so can I!”

  Her reply hit me like a line drive in foul territory. I recognized for the second time just recently what my worth was as an individual. I had forfeited self. I was an assistant, everyone’s helper. In the big game of life, I was second string.

  I felt Culler’s hand take mine under the table. He gave it a hard squeeze. I fought back tears.

  “Jason, we better go,” said Florabelle. “Thanks, Momma.” As she passed by me, she touched my shoulder, lightly. “See ya, Fern.”

  Culler got up quickly to move his jeep.

  When it was just me, Momma, and Hazel in the kitchen, Momma said, “Fern, you shouldn’t have snapped at Birdie.”

  “She needs to grow up,” I said.

  “She’s just little,” said Momma.

  “So was I once.”

  “Well, she don’t understand what all’s happening.”

 
“Yes she does; that’s just it.” I rose from the table and went out through the garage to meet Culler.

  He was still in his jeep, pulling it up closer to the house. “I guess I should go,” he said.

  I nodded. “I’m real sorry.”

  He reached out the window, laid his hand on my face, wiped away a tear. “It’s not like you didn’t warn me.” Then he leaned out and kissed me lightly on the cheek. “I’m going to call you.”

  I looked up. “You sure you want to?”

  He smiled, nodded, and this time leaned way out the open window, careful not to bend his neck, and kissed me hard on the mouth. “Remember,” he said, “slow and steady.”

  18. Dollars and Scents

  After the table had been cleared and all the dishes were put away, I went upstairs to find Daddy. I didn’t think that everything that had happened at dinner was all my fault, and I wanted it settled.

  Daddy had a room upstairs in the back of the house where he, alone, enjoyed a hobby. Daddy collected guns. He had revolvers and rifles, some bolt-action, and he would spend hours polishing the stocks. He would clean the barrels, align shells among other miscellaneous projectiles, and peer through the site at simulated danger around the room. Every gun had an appointed storage or display location, whether in the cabinet, vault, or drawers; and the workbench was draped with royal blue velvet for examining pieces of particular interest.

  He had a favorite, a Smith and Wesson that he believed resembled a Colt Gold Inlaid of 1851, popular during the Civil War. This treasure, kept in a safe-lock leather case with a large gold embossed “R,” brought Daddy supreme joy. Its chambers, he boasted, were grand enough to sip brandy through.

  Daddy had collected guns for fifteen years now, and Momma still strongly objected to his fascination, forbade Birdie from coming into the room, argued that the room should instead accommodate sewing and embroidering activities, and feared for our lives. She was constantly leaving articles from Ladies’ Home Journal on the back of the toilet, about guns going off accidentally and killing entire families.

  Daddy had a .22 fully disassembled when I walked into the room.

  “Cleaning the barrel?” I asked him.

  “Just messing,” he said, not looking up at me. “Kitchen cleared?”

  “Yes.”

  “Birdie in bed?”