Jump into the Sky

by Shelley Pearsall

  I couldn’t help casting my eyes around their kitchen as if some other sign of him might still be hanging around. Wondered what were the chances of traveling all the way to North Carolina and ending up in the same spot where my father had eaten Sunday dinner? Half my brain insisted this coincidence must be a good sign. The other half said, Who the heck cares? because he still wasn’t around.

  Standing at the range, stirring a bubbling frypan of sausage gravy, Peaches started lobbing a bunch of questions at me. I had the feeling she and Cal must’ve come up with a whole list of them the night before, after he’d brought me here, and now she was sorting through the pile, one by one. “First thing I want to know”—she reached for some flour and dumped a powdery handful in the gravy—“did Boots know you was coming down here or not?”

  See, there was the same tricky question Cal had asked me. No, my father didn’t know I was coming—but it wasn’t exactly his fault. Or mine. Not sure what made-up answer to give, I finally admitted he didn’t have any idea.

  Peaches frowned. “Cal told me your aunt was the one who sent you down here. She’s one of your daddy’s folks, then? His sister?”

  I nodded, picturing Aunt Odella at the train station again—those sad old shoes she was wearing, and everything about her looking worn and tired.

  “So she sent you here, not knowing your daddy had gone and shipped out. She thought because he was training down here, you could drop by and pay him a visit, right?”

  I mumbled, “Yes ma’am.”

  Not saying the visit was supposed to be permanent, of course.

  Peaches kept stirring and I cast a desperate glance toward the pan of sausage gravy, hoping it would cook faster. Peaches must’ve seen my look because she slid a steaming bowl of gravy and a plate of biscuits in front of me soon afterward.

  Man oh man, it was like going straight to food heaven.

  She wasn’t giving up on the conversation, though. While I filled my plate, Peaches kept talking. “Well, we don’t want your aunt worrying about you. Soon as we can, me and Cal will let her know what happened, and we’ll get you back on a train to Chicago.”

  I tried to be as careful as a soft-boiled egg with what I said next. “Not meaning to be rude, ma’am,” I mumbled between mouthfuls, “but I don’t believe my aunt wants me back right now.”

  “What?” Peaches stopped what she was doing and gave me a hard stare. “You in some kinda trouble back home, Levi? That why she sent you here—for your daddy to straighten you out?” The lady looked like a symbol of female righteousness, standing there glaring at me with the crusty gravy spatula still in her hand. “You tell me the real story straight out. Right now. I got four younger brothers and I don’t put up with no nonsense.”

  Heck, where was I supposed to begin? Way back with how my life was always about leaving? Or with Aunt Odella deciding my time was up? Mostly I just wanted to make it quick before my gravy got cold. So I started with how my aunt often got stuck taking care of everybody in our family and ended with how it wasn’t my daddy’s fault he had to make a living, and then the war had come along, and the army had shipped him from one place to the next.

  I could see my story was having an effect on Peaches, but not the one I expected. As I talked, her whole face took on the appearance of a warrior queen. The spatula in her hand started to resemble a deadly weapon. “That ain’t right,” she said after I was done. “Your aunt sending you down here like a cast-off because she’s tired of taking care of you. Who does that to a boy? Especially when your daddy’s been sacrificing and serving his country these past three years.”

  I shrugged and told the lady how I was thirteen now and fine with taking care of myself. Hadn’t learned to walk yesterday, you know.

  “Thirteen ain’t grown-up in my book.” The cast-iron pan clanged heavily on the range as Peaches moved it from one side to the other. “Me and Cal will have ourselves a little talk. Your daddy wouldn’t want us sending you back home if your people don’t want you there.”

  Well, Aunt Odella wasn’t that bad, I wanted to say. She wouldn’t fry me for lunch if I came back, anyhow.

  The lady eased into the chair across from me, her angry eyes still popping like sparkle-fire sticks. Next to the table was a shabby icebox, and Peaches reached over to open it. Scooping out a handful of ice chips from the top, she offered me one and folded the rest into a dish towel to hold on her neck.

  “It’s gonna be a hot one today,” she said after a long silence.

  I was eyeing the gravy bowl left on the table, wondering about taking thirds, but she nodded toward the screen door that separated the kitchen from a little side porch. Flies were already collecting on it. “Why don’t you go and do some exploring while Cal’s away this morning? We got a real pretty creek running through our town. Called McDeeds. Maybe you could try some fishing or catch some crawdads or something like that. Cal’s got a pole outside if you want one.”

  I’m sure Peaches was only trying to be helpful and make me feel at home, but I wasn’t keen about exploring anywhere, not after all the things that had happened to me the day before. Honestly, I’d just as soon stay put and not set one foot in a world where people would shoot you over a soda pop. Took my time chewing on that ice chip and tried to change the conversation.

  “This your own house?” I said, glancing around.

  “Naw.” Peaches smiled and shook her head. “We only rent one room. For a while there were eight of us army wives renting the house and sharing this tiny kitchen. Couple of children running around too, if you can believe that. We were like pickles in a jar.” She looked around as if the people were still there. “With so many of the soldiers shipping out this spring, all of the families have been moving out and going home. Can’t get used to the quiet these days. Guess it’s just us until some new folks move in.”

  The other soldiers had their families with them? Hearing that news kinda set me back a little, and I think Peaches must’ve seen the look crossing my face as I put two and two together, because she hurried on to say, “It was just a few little ones here and there. Nobody as old as you.”

  Which just goes to show you—not all mothers take off and leave their children behind.

  Peaches waved her hand toward the screen door again. “Go on and take a wander around outside this morning. You don’t want to be cooped up with me all day.” Putting the cold cloth against her pretty forehead, she closed her eyes as if she wanted some peace and quiet. Not wanting to wear out my welcome, I unfolded my legs reluctantly and stood up.

  Beyond the kitchen door, you could see the yard already shimmering in the morning heat. It didn’t look real friendly. An overgrown shrub crowded the porch steps. A few big pinecones lay scattered here and there on the open stretch of sandy dirt. I stood at the door for a good few minutes before getting up the nerve to ask how white folks in Southern Pines felt about colored folks.

  Peaches laughed. “Ain’t no white folks living around here,” she said. “This is the west side of town. West Southern Pines. White folks live over on the east side, where the sun rises and sets on money. You’ll know it if you happen to stumble over there. Golf courses. Big fancy houses with tile roofs and iron gates. Flowers like something outta a magazine. All you have to remember is the clay roads are always our roads. Paved roads are theirs. The creek’s mostly ours too. You’ll be fine. Around here, white and colored folks are polite enough to each other, not like some other places.”

  Paved roads for whites. Clay for coloreds. White water. Colored water. Criminy, who could keep it all straight? The South was a complete mystery.

  Peaches told me it was simple to find the creek. She drew a map on the checkered tablecloth with her finger. Go down the road they lived on, which was called Stephens. Turn left at the house on the corner with the chinaberry tree. Walk down the hill toward the bridge and the railroad tracks, and there’s the creek. Can’t miss it.

  Just being polite, I took Peaches’s advice and headed for the creek later
that morning. Wearing one of the school shirts Aunt Odella had packed, I swear I stood out like a target with my brown skin and my starched white shirt. Good God. I coulda been one of Jim Crow’s signs, walking around. COLORED.

  If it were up to me, I woulda rather stretched out on the shady porch that wrapped around Peaches and Cal’s house and taken a snooze under the drying pillowcases flapping there. I didn’t give a darn about exploring a creek. As I started down the dusty road, my body was a walking ball of knots.

  On both sides of the street you could see small tin-roofed houses with wide porches and square dirt yards around them. Some of the houses sagged like tired grannies on their concrete blocks, but others had nice victory gardens and fresh-painted outsides. I could hear voices as I walked, but I didn’t spot a living soul. Couldn’t help gawking at some of the odd-looking pine trees growing in the yards around me, though. Never saw trees like them before. They reminded me of something from a cartoon, with their skinny trunks and hairbrush branches. Guess I was so caught up with staring at those crazy trees, I almost missed the sound of somebody calling my name.

  “Levi?”

  At first I thought it might’ve been a radio playing. Nobody knew me down there in Southern Pines, did they? I moved a little faster, my fists bumping like rocks against my sides.

  But the voice came through loud and clear the second time.

  “That you, Levi Battle? Don’t you go passing by my house without saying a good morning. I been setting here all this time waiting to meet you.”

  Heck, I didn’t know what to think.

  15. Keeper of Secrets

  I’m sure I must’ve looked like a complete fool, standing smack in the middle of the road, turning around as I tried to figure out where the voice was coming from. The closest house looked like a run-down shack. It didn’t even appear lived-in. There wasn’t a lick of paint on the place. A jungle of overgrown vines and big clumps of baskets swallowed up the front porch. Scruffy chickens pecked in the yard.

  “Boy, up here.” Among the vines and baskets, there was a sudden flash of color as something moved. Thought maybe I saw a hand waving. “I’m setting up on the porch,” a voice called. “Gate’s open.”

  Never noticed the gate until then. Right in front of me was a plain wooden gate with a faded sign hanging on it: OPEN. BASKETS FOR SALE. Still feeling cautious, I stepped carefully toward the porch, squinting into its green, dapply shadows. Somebody was sitting there, I could tell that. Only the person didn’t seem to have much shape.

  As I got closer, I could see the outlines of a lady who might’ve stepped straight outta slavery times from the way she looked. The woman was sitting in an old cane-backed rocker, and she wore a shapeless gown made of mismatched remnants—as if a bunch of cast-offs had been turned into somebody’s idea of a dress. A red cloth turban was knotted around her head. As I reached the porch steps, the turban leaned forward and two eyes peered at me from a face so wrinkled, the eyes coulda been mistaken for knotholes in a tree. How those little bitty eyes could see, I don’t know.

  “You Levi?”

  “Yes ma’am,” I answered, wondering how in the world my name had already reached this lady. Word didn’t even travel that fast in Aunt Odella’s building, where the walls were paper.

  “Heard about you already,” the woman said, leaning back in her ancienty chair. “You come down here looking for your daddy, ain’t that right?”

  Her words ran together worse than slow syrup pouring. Wasn’t sure I caught half of what she said, but I nodded anyhow.

  “You been looking for him for a long while, I hear.”

  No, I’d only left Chicago on Saturday, I told the lady.

  The old woman shook her head. “Way longer than that you been looking for your daddy. Way longer than that, I’d say.”

  I gotta admit, those words rattled me. Couldn’t tell if she was just an old lady babbling nonsense or if she knew about my life somehow, or if I was hearing every single word wrong. She reminded me of something you’d find in a museum—something that you’d stare at and wonder what the heck it was. She was an odd, talking artifact.

  “Folks around here call me MawMaw Sands,” the woman continued, picking up a half-finished basket near her feet and licking the end of her finger. Working on the top edge of her basket, she started pushing a flat, green reed through the woven coils using the sharpened handle of a spoon to make holes. Then she’d pull the reed through the holes and wrap it around the top. It was hard to tear your eyes away from watching the rhythmic pattern of her dark hands working.

  “Almost nothing in this world I don’t know about.” The woman’s eyes flashed up at me quickly, two tiny pinpricks of light. “You ask any folks around the Pines and they all know me. White, black, brown, purple. Don’t care what color they is. I been here way longer than anybody else. I seen it all and then some.” The old fingers kept working as the woman talked. “Heard you been searching for your daddy since you was a little child. Ain’t that right?”

  Now the real creepy-crawlies were popping out all over my arms. How did she know all these things about me? I eased up two of the sagging porch steps, trying not to look as all-out curious as I was, but I’m somebody who likes proof, you know what I mean? Had she met my father, maybe? And what other sorry stories about me had she been told?

  There was a faint smell of vanilla as you got closer to the top of her steps, and I swear there must’ve been an entire squadron of fat bumblebees buzzing around the purple flowers dangling from her porch. Had to keep ducking out of the way because I did not want to get hit by any of that deadly yellow and black ammo, let me tell you.

  When I reached the top step, the old woman put the basket in her lap and rested her elbows on the arms of her chair. “So, you come from Chicago,” she said, closing her eyes for a minute. “Busy place, I hear. Lots of hustle and bustle going on.”

  “Yes ma’am.” I nodded, still wondering how she knew.

  “So that makes you a northern boy. A Yankee. A brown Yankee.” Her eyes snapped open and she chuckled at her own joke. “Let’s see—you’re smart but quiet. Big and strong, but not as tough as your last name sounds. And you got a place in this world but no home.”

  Well, she might’ve been right about some things, but she was dead wrong about the rest. Gotta admit it burned me up a little to hear the old lady making judgments about how tough I was or wasn’t when she didn’t even know me. But the remark about me not having a home and all that—well, those words were tiptoeing close enough to the truth that it gave me more goosebumps on top of the ones I already had. I was convinced she’d talked to my daddy.

  “You know Lieutenant Charles Battle?” I asked.

  Couldn’t tell if the lady missed hearing what I asked or was flat-out ignoring it. Saying nothing, she picked up the basket from her lap and started working again, her thin lips staying as tight as the coils she was making. The rocker creaked back and forth in the silence.

  Tell you what, the curiosity was killing me.

  Aunt Odella probably woulda said it was impolite to keep on pestering—she was an old lady and the morning was warm—but I tried repeating my father’s name, louder this time, and asked MawMaw Sands if she’d heard about him leaving town with the other soldiers.

  This time the old lady nodded and glanced toward the side of the porch. “Go on over and get that basket for me.” She pointed at one that looked more like a round cookie jar than a basket. It was made of coils of dark and light grass with small handles on each side and a woven lid covering the top. “That’s a sweetgrass basket you’re holding,” the old woman said as I carried it to her. “All my baskets is made of sweetgrass. They all got names. That one’s called Keeper of Secrets. Go ahead and open it. See what you find.”

  I lifted the woven lid reluctantly. Who knows what would be hiding inside, waiting to jump out and scare the daylights outta me, right?

  But the basket was empty. Just some bits of grass and a vanilla smell, and that�
��s it. “Nothing in there,” I told her. Tried not to sound irritated at being taken for a big fool.

  MawMaw Sands plunked her weaving spoon down in her lap and gave me a glinty stare. “Now, if there was to be something in there, it wouldn’t be called Keeper of Secrets, would it?” She jabbed one finger in my direction. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. War is full of secrets. Some you can see and some you can’t. That’s the hard part—believing what you can see and trusting what you can’t.”

  Right then, the only thing I believed was that MawMaw Sands was making up absolute jib-jabbering nonsense. Showing me an empty basket and telling me it was full of secrets—only you couldn’t see them? Well, Archie mighta fallen for that trick, but not me. Half the time he believed everything he saw in the movies was real too. One time he dragged me around Chicago searching for a gangster’s stash of gold. Nearly got both of us flattened by a train. Me, I was somebody who liked proof. Don’t try and ask me to believe something dumb.

  Still, I tried not to make it too obvious that I didn’t buy one word of the story. She was an old lady, after all, and you don’t want to be disrespectful. Setting the basket back down on the porch, I pretended to take a minute to study some of the other ones hanging there, like maybe I was interested in them too.

  Brushing bits of grass off her lap, the old woman came shuffling over. “All these baskets here got names,” she said. “This one’s called Cat Chasing Tail.” She reached for a basket with a thick coil twisted around the outside and showed me how you couldn’t tell where the coil started and ended as it circled around and around the basket.

  “And this one’s Signs and Wonders.” She held up a flat, star-shaped basket about the size of a dinner plate. “Made it after I saw a shooting star land in my garden one night and grow into a tree.”

  Didn’t believe that story either.

  Next to the star basket hung a heart-shaped one.