July 7th

by Jill McCorkle

  “I thought you didn’t have a family.”

  “Well, sort of my adopted family. We are related, though. Granner is my great-aunt, but I never knew her before I moved here.” She laces her shoes, pulling the strings tightly, the ends of her hair drying in light wisps around her shoulders. “You met Harold and he’ll be there.”

  “I’d love to if it’s really okay.” He reaches out his hand and pulls her up. He would like to pull her closer, to press his face against her neck. His legs feel like rubber, as if she has removed all fear, as if he is losing control.

  “Sure, it’s fine!” She steps away, pulling him by the hand. “You’re not scared, are you?” She laughs again, that mood of a little earlier returning, like she might start skipping at any second.

  “I just wish I had some different clothes, you know? Some hair.”

  “You look fine.” She pushes him back and stares him up and down, the dirty tennis shoes, that old green shirt, the worn-out jeans. “We can say you just had brain surgery or something, and they gave you that shirt as a souvenir.” She pulls him into the hall and locks the door. “That didn’t happen, did it?”

  “No.” He follows her down the dark stairwell. “I just wanted to be different, that’s all. You know, I was afraid of being like everybody else.”

  “Oh yeah, well, you look different all right.” They go out on the front porch and it is so bright that it makes Corky squint, that flicker of heat above the hot tar pavement. They walk down the sidewalk, both of them stepping over the cracks in the warped old cement. It is cooler once they get past the far end of Main Street and have the big shade trees to line the sidewalk. “How long you guess you’ll stay?” she finally asks.

  “I don’t know.” He squeezes her hand. “I just don’t know.”

  “You want to eat dinner with me?” She doesn’t even look at him or give him time to answer. “I promised that I’d watch M. L. McNair a little while tonight but he’s six and you know he’ll watch T.V. or something. We could eat late. I like to eat late because it’s not so hot then.”

  “Okay.”

  “Huh?” She goes to the edge of the street and walks on the curbing, her hair down around her face while she watches her feet.

  “I’d like that,” he says, now simply trying to remember just that little bit ago when he was sitting so close to her, the profile when she was leaning against the window. He would like that very much.

  Harold spots that yellow Toyota from a block away and gets up to go fix himself another drink before the others see her coming. Kate and Ernie may as well have stayed at home, the way that they talk among themselves about this person or that hotsy totsy. It makes Harold sick and it makes him even sicker when he peeks out the kitchen window and sees Juanita standing there in those tight terry cloth shorts and that bushy hair flying every which way. What the hell if she stays or if she doesn’t? Juanita opens the trunk of the car and pulls out this great big box all wrapped up in bright paper, probably last week’s Sunday comic section. That’s what Juanita always does, even at Christmas, she wraps things up in newspaper and puts big red bows on top. She says it’s for the paper shortage, but he knows she does it cause she thinks it’s cute. Juanita Suggs always has thought that she was cute, and the damn shame of it is that she is, everything about her is cute. Juanita Suggs can even thump her chest and burp great big like a man after she’s had some Coca Cola or beer, and even that’s cute. Harold takes another big swallow and decides hell just stroll on out there. After all, he ain’t got a thing to be ashamed of.

  “Hi Harold,” Juanita says as soon as he gets out that screen door, and all of them, even Kate and Ernie, shut up and wait to see what he’s going to do. Hell if he’s gonna let them get any satisfaction out of this.

  “Getting that way,” he says, and rubs his hand over Harold, Jr.’s, head, acts like he’s gonna sock Patricia in the stomach, and sits down.

  “Huh?” Juanita looks at the others and rolls that curly head from side to side. “Oh hi, like high. I get it.”

  “Oh Mother,” Patricia says and goes and sits near about on top of Harold. Juanita would think that she’d say “Oh Daddy,” with him sitting there getting crocked. But no, it’s all her fault, and she’s paying too high a price for that little accidental happening with Ralph Britt.

  “Happy Birthday, Granner!” Juanita yells and puts that present down in front of Granner. “This is from me and the kids.”

  “I got a present for her from the kids already!”

  “All right, then this ain’t from the kids. It’s from me.” Juanita sits down right there on the porch, one leg tucked up under the other. She does just what she damn well pleases when she damn well pleases.

  “What you got in there, big slab of meat? The W-D brand?”

  “Harold, you hush up and look at this fine big present that Juanita has brought, wrapped, too.” Granner thumps that box and then sits back in her rocking chair. “That’s cute, the way that Juanita always wraps with the funny papers, isn’t it?” Granner looks over at Kate and Ernie, and Kate gets that strained, exasperated look that Granner hates so in her but loves to see her do.

  “Yes, cute,” Kate says.

  “Probably got a big batch of pork chops in that box.” Harold swirls his glass, tips his cap and then pulls it forward on his head. “Probably got them special cut in that back room.”

  “Please now, Harold!” Juanita glances at the children and then stares at Harold. Harold, Jr., is getting down in those bushes with Petie Rose to look for roly-polies or some kind of bug, but Patricia is taking in every word.

  “Probably got Ralph Waldo Emerson Britt to cut them for you.” Harold laughs and stomps his foot. “Or maybe you just thought you got some pork chops, maybe you just thought all of that and there ain’t nothing inside of that box.” Harold is on a roll now. “I reckon Ralph Waldo Emerson Britt has to slip into Harold, Jr.’s, pajamas when he comes over cause he’s such a teeny little thing.”

  “I don’t have to stand for this!” Juanita looks at Granner as if she might say something, but Granner’s too busy fiddling with that present.

  “Then just keep your seat.” Harold waves his hand at her. “I believe Juanita likes teeny little things.”

  “I have never in my life!” Kate twists around in that swing. “Of all the disgusting things.”

  “It was disgusting!” Harold takes off his cap and puts it on Patricia’s head. “It was so disgusting when I found Juanita back in that meat room.”

  “Harold!” Juanita’s face is fiery red now, just the way he likes to see it.

  “You both make me sick!” Patricia throws Harold’s cap to the floor and runs inside.

  “Now you see what you’ve done,” Juanita hisses. “I never should have come over here but, no, I thought maybe you could act decent. I wanted the kids to come and I wanted them to see that I wouldn’t miss Granner’s birthday, either.”

  “Thank you, Juanita.” Granner leans forward. “Will you get the phone the next time that it rings and tell Mr. Abdul that I’m not home? Kate answered a little bit ago and she didn’t tell him what I asked her to.” Granner glances over at Kate and Ernie. “I do like this comic strip paper; by the way, did you see today’s paper with my birthday greeting?”

  “No, I didn’t, must’ve missed it.” Ernie says, and Granner just looks over at him and laughs, winks and laughs, to show that she ain’t a fool.

  “Mother, I told you that those were children playing on the phone. That’s probably what’s been going on the whole time to confuse her,” Kate says, mostly to everyone but Granner.

  “Mr. Abdul pulled one over on you, Kate.” Granner nods her head and pushes off the floor to get a good rock going. “He’s a sly one, foreigners are, you know.”

  “I’ll answer it next time,” Juanita says and moves over to where she’s sitting on the top step. “What are you two finding down there?”

  “Petie found a granddaddy longleg,” Harold, Jr., yells. He loo
ks so happy down there in the dirt, and Juanita is so glad to see him having a little fun. All it took to make him happy was to have his drunk Daddy rub his head. God, she wishes she could get down there in the dirt with the bugs and spiders, and it would make her feel that good.

  “That’s good, honey.” Juanita is thinking that she ought to go inside and see if Patricia will talk to her, but she thinks she should let her calm down a little bit. The phone rings and it gives Juanita a good reason to get up and leave, except for the fact that Granner is right on her heels with Kate right behind her. “Hello?” Juanita holds the phone close and she can hear some children laughing in the background. “Is your refrigerator running?” that little voice says, and Juanita just laughs. “Mr. Abdul, we’re tired of this and we’ve got this number tapped. Right this minute the policemen are coming to get you, and believe me, they’ll catch you a hell of a lot easier than I’d catch a refrigerator.” Juanita stands there twisting that cord around and around, even though those children have hung up. “I’m telling you, Mr. Abdul, Granner don’t want to date a foreigner.”

  “Oh be serious!” Kate says and goes into the kitchen.

  “Okay, you do the same, Mr. Abdul, as long as it’s elsewhere and you’re not calling here every breath. I’m telling you that we’ll have you arrested.” Juanita hangs up the phone. “Now, Granner, I bet he won’t call back another time.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Granner says, and hugs Juanita. “At least somebody believes me,” she yells, so that Kate can hear her. Granner goes and gets her other presents and carries them onto the porch so that she’ll be right ready for the opening as soon as Corky gets here. Juanita goes into the kitchen to get herself some iced tea.

  “Thanks a lot,” Kate says. “Here I am trying to keep my mother on course, and you, what do you do but play along with her?”

  “I just did what I thought might help.” Juanita opens the refrigerator and gets the jug of iced tea. There’s only a little bit left, which means that Harold has just about had the rest of it. Juanita’s got enough on her mind without having to deal with Kate. “I like those shorts. Did you get them at J.C. Penney’s?”

  “No, these are designer’s. I drove all the way to South Cross to buy these and several other things.”

  “I wish I’d known, because they’ve got some here in town that look just like them, same cloth and everything.” Juanita sits down and massages the back of her thigh, tight as a drum that muscle is. “I started to buy me some, but plaid makes me look big around the hips.”

  “I rarely go to Penney’s. It’s always so crowded and you can’t get anybody to wait on you.” Kate leans back in her chair. “I enjoy getting out of town once in a while, too.”

  “I buy most of my things at Penney’s. Some people just don’t have the time or money to go shopping all over creation.” Juanita leans forward and props her elbows on the table. “Sometimes I find cute things at Woolco. They have cute shorts and tops, and I love to walk around and help myself.”

  “Unless you’re at the grocery store.”

  “That’s not fair, Kate.” Juanita sits back, and now she feels her face getting warm. She knew Kate must have heard all about it, but she never thought that she would bring it up.

  “Well, it’s not fair for you to sit there and make fun of me, make me feel like it’s some kind of sin that I can afford to shop somewhere besides Penney’s.”

  “I never said that,” Juanita says, and is about to ask Kate just what all she’s heard, what all those women out in Cape Fear Trace are saying about her, but Patricia walks in.

  “Could I talk to you, Aunt Kate?” Patricia stands there slump shouldered and does not look at Juanita once. “Alone?” Juanita starts to say something again, but decides to leave well enough alone. She stops at the door and is about to tell Patricia that she’s sorry, about to tell Kate that’s she’s sorry, but Patricia is waiting for her to leave. She goes back out on the porch right when Corky Revels is walking up. Corky is a cute little thing, but that boy that she’s with is a sight. Juanita smiles and speaks, though, because she’s friendly to most everyone.

  “Hey, Buddy,” Harold says, and lifts his hand to that boy. “Thought you would have caught yourself a bus by now.” The boy just shakes his head and looks at Corky, shifts around from one foot to the other.

  “Everybody, this is Sam Swett,” Corky says and pulls him up on the porch. She takes an envelope that’s all folded up in her back pocket and hands it to Granner.

  “My, what you reckon this is?” Granner asks and drops it on top of that big box that Kate and Ernie brought. It’s the biggest and the prettiest in Granner’s opinion, even though Juanita’s paper is cute. Harold Weeks either didn’t care enough or didn’t have sense enough to even wrap his.

  “His Daddy’s a Shriner over in South Cross. You know that area, don’t you, Ernie?” Harold pulls some Red Man out of his pocket and puts a little in his jaw. It’s a fine art to be able to chew and drink at the same time, learned it when he used to be in the softball league. It makes Juanita sick to her stomach to see him do it, which is why he is doing it. She looks over at him and he makes sure she sees a little of his chew before he takes a big swallow.

  “Nice area.” Ernie nods his head and stretches his arms out over the back of the swing. “Kate and I have thought of retiring there.”

  “Thought you just now retired out in Piney Swamp or whatever it is.” Granner says, but she can’t bear to take her eyes off of those gifts. She just can’t wait any more.

  Ernie chuckles and shakes his head back and forth, looks at Sam Swett. “It’s called Cape Fear Trace, fairly new neighborhood, outside of the city limits.”

  “Except it’s really called Piney Swamp, Snot Face Trace.” Harold spits a straight line over the banister, and Petie Rose and Harold, Jr., both come scrambling from behind those bushes with their hands held over their heads. It makes Harold laugh till he could split wide open.

  “Have you ever thought of using a can or something?” Juanita asks. “Instead of spitting out in the yard, spitting on the children?”

  “Does a deer wear a brassiere?” Harold stands up and holds onto the bannister, leans over so he can see Harold, Jr., down on all fours near the dogwood tree. “How bout if I spit off to this other side?”

  “Good!” Harold, Jr., says and lifts his leg like he’s a dog pissing on that tree. It tickles Harold so, got him to do that when he was just a tiny boy and he still remembers. Harold sits back down and looks at Ernie and starts laughing again. “Cape Fear Trace. Shit by another name smells like shit.”

  “Watch it, Harold,” Granner says, but now she is focusing on that boy with Corky; he looks like he might be foreign, with that head shaved. “Where did you say that you’re from?”

  “He’s from South Cross, Mama, where’ve you been? Been daydreaming of Mr. Abdul?”

  “I asked him, Harold, not you.” She looks him up and down. He’s a sight, and Corky such a cute girl. His head makes her right sick to her stomach, reminds her of a rotten coconut, probably won’t be able to eat a bite of that coconut cake she worked so hard on.

  “South Cross.”

  “Ever been out of this country?”

  “I went to Europe when I was in high school.” He is twisting one foot around and around. It makes him nervous for everybody to look at him this way.

  “Did you hear that, Ernie? A Mason that’s been to Europe, you never been to Europe, now have you?”

  “Not yet.” Ernie stretches his arms. “We’re planning to go real soon.”

  “Do you use the telephone right regular?” Granner asks, and he can’t bear to look at that old woman. She looks wild-eyed, looks like she could fall over dead any minute. He shakes his head.

  “So do you golf?” Ernie asks before Granner can ask her next question. “I may have met your old man before. I know a lot of people over in South Cross.” That boy just shakes his head, and that aggravates Ernie so when he’s trying to make conn
ections. “What does your Daddy do?”

  “He’s in textiles.”

  “How do you like them apples, Ernie, a mill worker who’s a Shriner? Sounds to me like I ought to retire in South Cross, sounds to me like I’d fit in better.” Harold spits off the side of the porch.

  Sam Swett grabs hold of Corky’s arm and clings to it, his hand lightly cupped around her elbow. It has always bothered him for people to ask him questions, even when he was in college and went around to some fraternity houses they asked that same kind of question about what does your Daddy do, where did you go to high school, as if that mattered, as if those things would make him a different person. What bothers him most is that there were times when he did want to fit in, even though he didn’t really have anything in common, even though it would have been a lie. “My Dad’s a neurosurgeon,” he had said at one of those places, and he didn’t belong there; it seems that he doesn’t belong here. His Daddy was a mill worker, a mill worker that worked himself like a dog and got way on up, making good money so that Sam could have everything that his parents never did, Europe, college, a car, graduate school if he decided to go back, but not the kind of money the man in the pink pants is talking about. Sam Swett is not blue collar or white collar; he is the product of hard-working people who want him to have the best of everything, to do everything that they’ve never done. Why did they do that? Why have they settled for such a life that revolves so around him, worked all those years so that he would have all these decisions to make that are so difficult to make? “Where are you going to apply for school?” they had asked. “If you could have a car,” his father had said, looked across the table at his mother. “I said ‘if’ now, we’re talking wishes. What color would you want?” Why did they do that to him, even now, “What are you doing, Sam?” Why is it important to them what he decides to do? What if he never decides what to do, what then? What if he can’t decide?

  “That boy can drink some, too.” Harold points at Sam and it makes him jump, clutch Corky’s arm tighter. “Drinks like a fish, can’t hold it worth a damn, but you sure do try, don’t you, boy?”