July 7th

by Jill McCorkle

  “I saw it, too, and you ain’t going out of your way to help me get over the shock.” Bob stands up and pulls his cap down low. “Harold saw it, too.”

  “But you’re trained in it, Bob, that’s what you said.” For some reason, she is feeling better, feeling better enough even to be a little nicer to Bob, especially now that he’s getting ready to go. That boy is staring at her; it seems like he’s watching her every move.

  “You’re right,” Bob says and takes his hat back off. “Maybe I’ll just have a couple of those hotcakes myself to get my energy up.”

  “Well, I ain’t got time for this,” Harold says and stands. He leaves a dollar on the counter and walks to the door. “Hey Sam!” He turns and yells and that boy looks over. “Maybe we’ll meet at a convention of some sort some time.” The boy just nods and rolls his head back toward Corky. It’s a damn shame that that boy’s feeling so bad. Some people just can’t hold their booze, Harold reckons. He steps outside and already it is hot as pure fire. He thinks for a minute that he ought to get in his truck and drive right over to Maple Street, tell Juanita all the things that he’s thought of to say, tell her she ain’t fit to raise his children, give her a slap or two and tell her to go live in that damn trailer park, but he doesn’t have the time or energy, not when he’s got to go see Maggie Husky, and especially not when he’s got to spend the afternoon at his mother’s.

  Harold gets in his truck and decides that hell head on over to Maggie’s before all the church women arrive to cry and carry on reading old sad poems and singing those sad songs like “The Old Rugged Cross.” His Mama had enough balls to tell those women to cut it out when his Daddy died but Maggie Husky ain’t that kind of woman. She’s sweet and kind and Harold can’t even stand the thought of facing her. There ain’t a car there but Maggie’s old Rambler, and he’s relieved that he can speak to her by himself and then leave. He walks slowly up the walk where Maggie’s got some great big pretty pepper plants. He figures instead of flowers, hell just tell Maggie that when his melons are ripe that he’ll bring her all the honeydew, cantaloupe and watermelon that she can eat. He rings the bell, takes off his John Deere cap and steps back.

  “Why Harold Weeks!” She has on her bathrobe, curlers in her hair. She opens the door and steps back. “Come on in.”

  Harold steps in sideways so he doesn’t brush against her and just stands with his hands behind his back, a couple of feet from the door. This is a nice house, neat as a pin. Juanita could have taken some lessons from Maggie Husky way back. There’s a plate on the kitchen table with fresh tomatoes, a big bowl of scrambled eggs, some bacon strips. “I’m sorry, Maggie, didn’t want to interrupt breakfast for you.”

  “Oh, I’ve eaten already. Have a seat, Harold.” Her hands immediately go up to her curlers. “I’m afraid you caught me looking a sight. Charles ought to be here any time now. That new man has been coming in late to relieve him all week long.”

  Harold sinks into the big overstuffed chair and rubs his hand over his face. “Maggie, I …”

  “Oh, I’m so rude, how about some breakfast?”

  “No, thank you, I’m not hungry, I don’t…”

  “If you’re in a hurry I’ll just tell Charles you stopped by.”

  “Hasn’t anybody been here to see you?” Harold gets up and paces over to the fireplace. On the mantle is a picture of Charles and Maggie, with Charles holding up a great big bass.

  “Well no,” Maggie says and then her voice softens and Harold can hear her creeping across the room. “Harold, nothing’s wrong is it?” Her eyes are wide, and now as Harold watches, the color drains from her face. “Harold?” Her voice is trembling and her hand is on his arm. “Something’s wrong. I can feel it.”

  “Maggie, I’m sorry, I don’t know how to tell you but—” Harold cannot look at her face any more. He turns away and rests his head on the mantle, and he can see his reflection in the glass of the picture. He can’t keep himself from crying and he puts his fist up to his mouth and presses it against his teeth.

  “Was there an accident?” Now Maggie is crying arid squeezing his arm. “Please.”

  “He’s dead, Maggie.” Harold wraps his arms around her and he can feel the wetness on her cheeks soaking into his shirt and against his chest. He can’t say anything else and just stands there rocking her back and forth like she might be some large stuffed doll. It seems like he has been standing there forever when the doorbell rings and he pulls Maggie away, gets her to sit down, and he goes to open it himself. Harold sees the Chief of Police’s car parked behind his truck before he even notices the man. “She already knows,” Harold says and wipes his face. “Where the hell you been all this time?”

  “Sorry,” the chief says. “That goddamn Bobbin didn’t tell me till just now.” He steps inside. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Husky.”

  Harold goes over and squats by her chair, holds her hands. “Let me know if I can do anything, Maggie. I’ll do anything I can.” He squeezes her hands but she doesn’t look up. “He was a fine man, the damned nicest man a person could know.” Maggie just nods and pats his hands. He can’t stand it any more, can’t stand to see that breakfast sitting over there for Charles to come and eat it when Charles ain’t ever gonna eat breakfast again.

  “Somebody ought to string you up by your ass,” Harold says to the chief. “I could break your fucking neck.” Harold is ready to knock his face in, but he hears Maggie sob and turns to see her hunched over in that chair with her hands over her face. “Stupid son of a bitch.” He runs out to his truck, cranks it up, scratches off.

  Fannie and M. L. go out on the front porch of the boarding house to wait for Mr. Foster. Mr. Foster is always there right at eight o’clock and Fannie is always out on the porch so that he won’t have to wait. Mr. Foster gives M. L. a ride either to the YMCA where this nice young lifeguard agreed to watch him or over to the playground at the recreation department. It’s the nicest thing in the summer that M. L. can go to these places or go to Bible School when it’s in session, and Fannie doesn’t have to worry about him all day long. That boy can swim like a fish, and it makes Fannie so proud the times that she has taken a taxi over to the YMCA to watch him. None of her children ever learned to swim that she knows of, and she never did herself. The only pool to swim in before the YMCA was that country club pool where she had never been, and Sherman River, she used to go down to the river and sit there under a shade tree while Jake splashed around, but that current was too strong and there were snakes, too, big old moccasins. Lord knows how many people drowned there in Sherman River.

  “I’m gonna jump off the diving board today, Fannie,” M. L. says, and goes and sits in that old kitchen chair that is propped against the porch wall.

  “Don’t you get too fancy,” she says. “You make sure somebody’s always watching after you.”

  “Jesus watches after me.” He hops out of that chair and walks up and down the porch, stopping to put his foot in each opening between the spindles. “That woman at Bible School says that Jesus watches everybody all the time.”

  “That’s the truth, too, M. L. But, that means Jesus is so busy he might not could pull a little boy outta the water fast enough.” She sits down on the concrete steps and fans herself with a little notepad that she keeps in her purse. “Gonna be hot today. You got your lunch, baby?” M. L. waves the brown bag and then puts it back down right beside his towel. Fannie knows deep down that she probably loves that child too much. It might not be right to love one as much as she loves him. She watches him going around and putting that little foot in all those holes. He’s got on a nice little swimsuit, bright red and blue, that she found at J.C. Penney’s with a little terry cloth shirt that matches. “You remember not to be out there swimming right after you eat that lunch. Might cramp up.”

  “Okay.” M. L. walks over and sits right beside her, moves an old cigarette butt around with his toe.

  “I thought I told you to put on your shoes, mister.”

  “I g
ot ’em.” He grins at her and she can’t tell if he’s fooling her or not. It’s gotten to the place that that child is wanting to pull all kinds of tricks on her, come home one day with a little rubber spider that some boy had give him and had it perched up on Fannie’s radio.

  “Well, where have you got ’em? Upstairs in the closet?”

  He just grins again and presses his face into her arm. “They’re under my towel, Fannie, fooled you.”

  “You let me see,” she says and pushes him away. “Go get your stuff so we’re right ready to go. Mr. Foster is a busy man and ain’t got time to fool with us.”

  “Right here.” He holds out a pair of sneakers in one hand, his towel and lunch bunched up under his other arm.

  “Well, you weren’t really fooling old Fannie.”

  “You ain’t old.” He puts his things down beside her and starts dancing around. It tickles Fannie to death to see him dance like that and he knows it. Hell do it to her every chance he gets, especially if they’re out in public, had those people down at the Piggly Wiggly in stitches one day and he was singing a song right along with it. He told Fannie it was a Michael Jackson song and she didn’t know where on earth he had listened to such. He sure didn’t hear it at home, so it must’ve been either at the playground, the YMCA or maybe even from Corky Revels, because Corky is forever playing music when she’s at home and M. L. loves to visit her because she always is giving him cookies or bubble gum. “You dance,” he says and does a little turn and it makes the tears come to her eyes.

  “You’re a sight, you are. I wish I could snap your picture and send it to your Mama.” Fannie doesn’t really mean that. Sometimes she feels like she has to mention his Mama, though, so he won’t forget that he’s got one. Every now and then Elizabeth sends a letter, and every single birthday M. L. gets a little something, and on Christmas, but still, Elizabeth don’t know what she’s missing.

  “When am I gonna see my Mama?” He stares at Fannie with those brown eyes wide open. They go through this every now and then. Every now and then he starts getting curious, and more and more now that he’s older and sees other children with one or both of their parents.

  “Would you like to?”

  M. L. just shrugs. “I bet she don’t look like that picture no more.”

  “Any more.”

  “Bet she don’t look like that picture any more.”

  “She might. Your Mama’s a pretty woman and that’s why you’re so handsome.”

  “And what about my Daddy?” They have been through all of this before, too, and Fannie always answers him even though she does hate to lie.

  “He was as handsome as you’d ever see.” Fannie is relieved to see that big Chrysler round the corner because she hates to lie to M. L. She hates it mostly because she knows that one day she’s gonna have to tell him the truth, that she don’t know who his Daddy was and doubts if Elizabeth herself knows.

  “Hey Mr. Foster!” M. L. scrambles into that big backseat as soon as the car stops.

  “Good morning, Fannie,” Mr. Foster says and Fannie gets in and closes the door. Even this car is cold as the inside of a refrigerator. Some mornings M. L.’s lips get to quivering before they even let him out.

  “Morning, Mr. Foster.” Fannie doesn’t much like to talk to him because he always acts so aggravated.,

  “I want to go to the YMCA today,” M. L. says and leans up against the front seat. “Can we play music?”

  “Now, M. L., he might not want that radio blaring this early.”

  “It’s fine,” he says and turns it on. The news is on and Mr. Foster doesn’t even try to find music, knowing full well that’s what M. L. was wanting. The three of them ride along without saying a word, now that good morning is out of the way. M. L. leans up and kisses Fannie’s cheek when they stop, and he hops out and stands there waving just like a little man, and then Fannie catches a glimpse of him running up to a group of children.

  “Nice sunny day, isn’t it?” Fannie asks and puts her notepad back into her purse. She sure doesn’t need to be fanning in this air conditioning.

  “Hot.”

  “Yeah, sure is hot.” Fannie doesn’t really like to talk to him anyway. She just likes to ride and look out at all the pretty green lawns and flower beds, the vegetable gardens. It gives her a good feeling to be in a car and riding, makes her feel like she’s really going somewhere when she knows all along what’s waiting for her, beds to make, breakfast dishes to wash, and probably a basket full of ironing. They pull through that big gate that says the name of this area and then down the curve and up that long driveway.

  “Mrs. Foster may still be asleep. I know the children are.”

  “Okay.” Fannie opens the door and gets out.

  “Tell Mrs. Foster that I may be later than usual today. You may have to get a taxi today.”

  “Okay.” Fannie slams the door and doesn’t even try to say good-bye, because that’s something Mr. Foster won’t do. Hell say good morning first thing, but he ain’t about to say good-bye or anything else. He’s a soured person, and Fannie thinks it’s a shame when Mrs. Helena Foster acts so friendly much of the time. The sun feels good during that short walk between the car and the front door, but then it’s cold all over again. Fannie gets her sweater from where she keeps it in that front closet and goes into the kitchen to make some coffee. One thing she does before she starts working is sit down and have herself a cup of coffee. She sits right there in the kitchen and stares out that big picture window at the pretty shrubbery and that fine bricked patio with the pool. She has thought so often how nice it would be if she could bring M. L. with her and let him swim out there. He could probably teach that little Parker Foster a thing or two about swimming, cause she can’t even do the back float and stay there, not like M. L. showed her that day. And that Billy Foster, she has yet to even see him get in that pool with his skinny self.

  This is the prettiest kitchen that Fannie has ever seen, with that nice stove that don’t have real burners but has them drawn onto that flat top so all Fannie has to do is wipe over it with a rag, and those big copper pots and pans hanging from the ceiling, a pantry full of good food, and all kinds of little spice things that smell so good, makes the whole house smell like a florist; cool and spicy, that’s the way it is, and spick-and-span once Fannie gets done. She likes to get her cleaning done bright and early so she can watch the story that she likes that comes on T.V. at one. If she misses it, though, Corky Revels can tell her exactly what happened and so could Mrs. Foster, but Fannie hates to ask her.

  “Good morning, Fannie.” Mrs. Foster comes into the kitchen and she is still in this slinky pink gown and robe. She pours herself a cup of coffee and sits in the chair right across from Fannie. It’s okay when Fannie sits here by herself but it makes her feel funny with Mrs. Foster or Mr. Foster sitting with her, makes her feel lazy. “I didn’t mean to sleep so late,” she says and takes a sip of coffee. “I’m glad Dave picked you up on time. We have got so much to do for the party.” Mrs. Foster always says that every time there’s some sort of party to be had, and there never is that much work to it, fix a little food, iron the tablecloths, set flowers in water, do the regular cleaning. Fannie could have it all done right by herself and still get to watch the story, but for some reason Mrs. Foster don’t feel like she’s going to have a party unless she rushes around all day long, stepping back and staring at flowers or plates and such. Fannie probably won’t get to see the story today and that bothers her a little, because she looks forward so to seeing that crazy Opal Gardner and Phoebe Tyler Wallingford. Those white women are the biggest sights that Fannie McNair has ever seen and they tickle her to death. She better get up and start doing something before Mrs. Foster thinks of something for her to do.

  Fannie opens up the dishwasher and there it is, crammed full of dirty stuff, and when she left here yesterday around three there wasn’t a thing dirty to be found. She fills up the sink with hot suds and starts washing some of the dishes her
self, turns on the dishwasher for those other ones. She told that good-for-nothing Jake once, way back, that she’d love to have herself a dishwasher cause she had just seen one for the first time.

  “Got me a dishwasher,” he had said, and pulled on her tit. It used to bother her so the way that he’d do that. “One that makes money at it, too. Ain’t no machine that can go out and earn money or I’d have married one of them.”

  “Go on with your lousy self,” she had said and kicked her feet where she was sitting there by Sherman River. She remembers exactly what she was wearing, too, some stretch black shorts and a loose white blouse that had a little lace around the collar, and her stomach was starting to push out a speck with Thomas. Elizabeth was wrapped up in a cool piece of sheet and laying under the shade tree. Fannie remembers it so well, the wisteria hanging out of those big trees and smelling so good, the hot white sand and cold brown water. She remembers watching Jake wade out in that river to where he was chest deep and he’d walk around out there, couldn’t swim a lick, and she remembers wishing right then and there that she wasn’t going to have no baby, that she didn’t even want the one that she had, and she wished that Jake would go under and never come back up.

  “What are you thinking about so hard this morning?” Mrs. Foster is standing there filling up her cup. She has time to sit and drink more than one.

  “Oh, thinking about old Sherman River.”

  “Where’s that?”

  Fannie throws back her head and laughs now. Mrs. Foster can be as funny as that Phoebe on All My Children sometimes. “It runs right back here behind Piney Swamp.”

  “There’s a river back there?” Mrs. Foster is truly shocked. Imagine living right here and not even knowing.

  “Yeah there’s a river, bout a mile or so down. That’s where I used to go to swim or rather to get wet. Ice cold water and those old snakes would be curled up in trees looking like limbs.” Fannie watches the look on Mrs. Foster’s face and knows that she can’t stop with that. “Those old snakes would be swinging in the breeze and looking around just waiting for a boat to pass so they could hop a ride.”