During it all, Mama lost the two shiny buttons Master gave her for her years of faithful toil. Mama was busted so badly, she couldn’t do chores for a whole day. Mistress Anderson ordered an account of her day’s labor, and having none, Mama confessed.
Then Mistress had my mama whipped under the Osage tree, shouting out “Frannie Crow is a thief” to the yard niggers. She said Mama done stole the buttons and a day’s work, cheating all of ’em. Mama never said a word while the blood ran down her length, soaking her skirts.
Two weeks later, Mama hobbled out to that ol’ Osage tree and picked its fruits to make Mistress a soothing tea for the new babe she was carrying in her womb. After Mistress drank it, she claimed she got her monthly courses, and that’s when Master came out to the barn and tied thirteen knots into a rope. Then he hooked the noose ’round my Blinkie’s neck.
Blinkie bucked and strained his neck against the rope, trying to get away. His square eyes popped, looking fit to bust.
I tried to follow Master and plead with him. But he yelled at me and knocked me down into the dirt.
I cried when I heard Blinkie bleat for me. I begged Master to spare him. Master wouldn’t listen. He just kept right on dragging my little goat over to that Osage tree.
When it was over, Master pointed to me and said to dig a hole, that I could keep the skin, but to save the meat for his supper.
Later that night, the town marshal came out to Hark Hill. Master gave him his hangman’s rope, and the lawman took my mama away. I knelt down on Master’s fine boots and begged.
After they hung my mama in Town Square, Master ordered me and Uncle to take down the gallows and store the hardware and wood back on Hark Hill Plantation.
My eyes leaked buckets for two years, until one day Master gave me my Freedom Papers, and two hogs and the wood from my mama’s gallows. Master told me to use some of the wood to build me a pen, but to save him the finer pieces of oak and iron to build a sitting bench for Town Square.
I built Master Anderson his fancy bench, pounding Crow sweat into its planks and polishing the wrought iron with my blood—Frannie’s blood—and a tad of Blinkie’s for good measure.
Over the years, the name “Anderson Bench” changed to Liar’s Bench. And though it’s 1923, folks ’round here still like to sit a spell and spin a tale on this ol’ Liar’s Bench. I know somewhere, whether Heaven or Hell, or in between, the ghost of Frannie Crow smiles.
C.A.W.—For Husband Amos Crow
I picked up a hedge apple and rolled it between my hands, pressing in my pain, Amos’s sorrows, and Bobby’s rage until the ball split and ran sticky sap over my clean jeans.
Bobby rubbed his jaw and then lit into Liar’s Bench, hammering his fist onto the empty spot between us. “Another stick for the mutt dog. I’m a damn Anderson!” he blasted. “I can’t believe it. That’s why Gramps never showed me,” he said, disgusted.
I quickly covered the wood between us, taking Bobby’s hand in mine, and said, “Most folks have kin connections if you dig deep enough.... You’re still Bobby Marshall. You’ll never be him.” I swallowed hard. “I knew it was bad with Frannie, but I never knew it was this bad for everyone. . . . It’s like one of those napalm bombs in Vietnam that scatters its sticky fire onto everyone in its path. Bobby, I am so sorry for your family. . . . My Grammy Essie must’ve known about Amos’s letter when she recorded Frannie’s history. I guess Jessum or Sara shared it with her, but she didn’t get around to recording it.”
“He wouldn’t want it anywhere but in his Bible.... Let the devil be damned.” Bobby set an angry jaw as he folded up the letter. He gave a flick to the paper. I held my breath, praying he wouldn’t tear it up in a fit. It was important to keep Amos’s history.
“Bobby, it wasn’t unusual back then to . . . you know, have blood of a . . .” I let the words trickle. “You know, we have your family pieced together now,” I said softly, rubbing the edge of the bench, thinking about Amos and his strong hands polishing and pounding. “You’ll build your tomorrow on this.” I thought about his plans for law school. “Put it back into your pocket, Bobby. It’s history, everybody’s history. Amos had his wife pen his words for family—for you. We have their markers now. We’ll have it all recorded and clean up the cemetery and we’ll—”
“Do nothing, Mudas, because ain’t nobody gonna care about the graves of darkies.”
I placed my hand on top of the letter. “That’s not true, Bobby. I’m going to care.”
Bobby breathed a weary sigh.
“Forever,” I promised.
Bobby kissed the tear that had rolled down my face. “Mudas, you know what?” he whispered hoarsely. “I believe you. I believe you will.”
We sat for a long while, not saying anything, just giving the bench and each other the tender needed.
After a bit, Bobby got up and paced, muttering about Jingles’s whereabouts.
I kept one eye locked on the jailhouse. Growing anxious, I fished inside my pockets, withdrew the recipe card, and fanned my face. I tapped the paper on my lips, thinking about how badly I missed Mama.
I spied ThommaLyn with three of her brothers circling Town Square. She was riding shotgun in the Nova, and two of the boys were grocery’d in the back. I stood up and waved her over, excited to see her, but unsure of how to explain everything that had happened in the past twenty-four hours. Or even if I should explain. I’d already brought Bobby into this mess and he’d been rewarded for his trouble with whizzing gunshots and threats. Did I really want to drag anyone else I loved into my mess?
The Nova pulled up in front of Liar’s Bench and ThommaLyn hopped out. Her brothers sat in the car waiting.
“Hey, you two!” she called as she made her way over. Bobby nodded and waved. “Where have you been, Muddy?” she said in a huff. She glanced at Bobby, then pulled me aside and inspected my face. “You were tight-lipped about where you were going yesterday. . . . And your old man stopped by the house looking for you.”
“Daddy and I had a fight yesterday.” I shrugged away a blush. “I’m okay.” I stuffed the recipe into my back pocket and rubbed my thumb across my fingertips.
“You don’t look okay. Your face is all bruised and scratched up. Your jeans are torn. And look at your knee.” ThommaLyn inspected my cut and ran her eyes over the green T-shirt I was wearing. Questioning. She tugged on the hem of Bobby’s oversized tee, eyebrows raised.
“I’m okay.”
She reached for my runaway fingers and placed her hand over mine to still them. “You’re ticking off troubles.” She gave a squeeze.
I tucked my thumbs into my back pockets. ThommaLyn knew my hands were a dead giveaway that I was worrying. She knew every inch of my wardrobe, which didn’t include any oversized green T-shirts. But I wasn’t about to go into the steamy details of last night—not here on Liar’s Bench with Bobby sitting two feet to my left and ThommaLyn’s brothers over there in the car. I knew that if I tossed my romance into the daylight, my face would light up in red for all the world to see. No way. I’d wait until ThommaLyn and I were alone to spill. Better yet, alone and in the dark.
“We’ll get together real soon. And I’m fine. Just fine.” I stepped aside and took a seat next to Bobby. “I just went for a walk in the woods, that’s all,” I said, rubbing my fingers over Liar’s Bench, kneading my lie into the old wood. “Tripped over a stupid log,” I fibbed.
“A log?” ThommaLyn asked, looking to Bobby for confirmation. She lifted my hand. “You and those logs.”
Bobby looked from me to ThommaLyn and back again. “I should go say hi to the boys,” he said, clearing his throat, “and welcome Bernie back. I haven’t seen the hero since he got back from Vietnam.” He walked over to the Nova to lean inside and chitchat with the brothers. Within a minute their friendly-like voices carried across Town Square.
ThommaLyn plopped down on Bobby’s spot and studied me. She flipped her ponytail, a dangled bird’s nest of fried curlicues that I’d given her with
a home-perm last month.
“I haven’t been able to talk to you.” She poked my arm. “Two whole days since Ella’s funeral . . . I’ve been fretting ever since you called yesterday. You hung up so quickly. And I could hardly sleep for worrying last night after your daddy’s visit. Everyone’s worried about you. Jeez, hon, I’m worried.”
“Yeah, I know. I just need some time. I’m still working things out,” I said flatly, looking away. A silence settled between us.
“Ya know, school’s starting soon.” ThommaLyn smoothed back the curls tumbling out of her ponytail. “And I know your world’s crazy right now. But why don’t you take a break and come over to my house? We’re going boating on Mayfly Lake this weekend. And the State Fair’s coming up. C’mon. It’ll be good to get away. Mama and Daddy have been asking about you; they’d love to see you.” She covered her worry with a floppy smile. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah, it’s . . . well, Daddy and I had that argument. And I ran off after I gave him a heaping bucket of what-for.” I shot ThommaLyn a guilty glance. “Ya know, that was liberating for all but a minute, just a minute. Until I saw how much it hurt him . . . and me.” I winced. “Still, he had it coming.”
ThommaLyn nodded sympathetically.
“What did you say when he came by last night?”
“I told him you were in the bath. That Mama was taking care of you, and would make sure you got supper and rest. He asked about your car, and I said that James had asked to borrow it to run an errand for Mama and was that all right? He bought it, Muddy. And, thank goodness, I was able to get him off the porch and gone before someone came along and lit truth to the tale.” She crossed her fingers and traced an imaginary X across Liar’s Bench, leaving her signature mark—a token for laying her lies down on the bench.
“Thanks for covering for me, ThommaLyn.”
“Well, I owed you. You covered for me and PJ when we spent the night in Nashville.” She nudged me mischievously.
I nudged her back.
“Muddy, he called again this morning. I told him you were helping Mama bring berries in from the field while I did up the breakfast dishes. Your daddy said to tell you he had to run into Nashville for the day, but that he’d be home around suppertime. Asked me to tell you to have a good day.” ThommaLyn squeezed my hand. “You sure you’re okay? I know how bad you must be missing your mama.”
My soaked lashes answered for me.
“Oh, hon, I know you are.”
“I’m missing her something fierce. Never dreamed she wouldn’t be here for my graduating year. We would’ve gone shopping in the city for my school stuff this week.” She’d already bought me these new Levi’s. I ran my hand over the rip in my jeans.
ThommaLyn gave me a tight embrace and sniffled. “You know my mama would love to take you to buy your school supplies and new clothes, Muddy.”
“Shopping?” For a second I was tempted to tell her that Bobby had asked me to the prom. To ask her about dress shopping. But if the words fell, would I risk jinxing it? Especially here on Liar’s Bench . . . it just might gobble them up . . .
She patted my back. “You should come on over to supper tonight. Let Mama put some ointment on that knee ’fore it gets infected.”
“Bobby gave me some. And thanks, but I can’t come over tonight. I promised to hang with Bobby.” I pulled away.
“I just hate to leave you like this. . . .”
“I’ll be okay. Bobby’s here,” I insisted. “And Mayfly sounds cool for this weekend. I’ll call you tonight.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Her brother gave a short horn blast and motioned to his sister. ThommaLyn whipped her head around and glared back a warning.
We both rose. I felt better already. I thrust my hands into the pockets of my jeans and rocked lightly on the balls of my sneakers.
“Bring a swimsuit and don’t forget a cute outfit,” she suggested in typical ThommaLyn fashion. “That way Mama can take us to the city to shop after we’re done boating. We need to get P.E. uniforms—oh, have you made up your mind about track?”
“Think I’m gonna quit,” I answered, running my eyes down the length of my legs. “Like I told you, two years of dealing with Coach Grider is ’bout all I can take—him always yelling, calling me clumsy, making fun of us girls.”
“Polecat.” ThommaLyn’s voice soured.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you, but right after you left to visit your aunt in Nashville, Grider called a meeting on the football field. He had the gall to tell us we needed to sew aprons onto our running shorts. Said it right in front of the cheerleaders and the football team.”
“Peckerhead!” she puffed.
“Yeah,” I sighed. “Everyone laughed, even some of the runners on our team, especially WallaceAnn and Carole. Then WallaceAnn and Carole said they were gonna ask our Home Ec teacher if we could actually sew the aprons. And put the school’s letters on them in pink.”
ThommaLyn frowned. “Just heard last night that Carole’s not coming back to school. . . .” She cupped her hand over her belly and slid it up and down.
I thought about the pills tucked inside my dresser. “That makes three we’ve lost this year.”
“Well,” ThommaLyn said, “always knew a box of rocks is smarter than those two. Carole’ll be sewing that pink onto bibs now.”
I shook my head, wishing it weren’t so. Carole’s daddy was junk-yard-dog mean, her mama already ball ’n’ chained with a litter of small kids. I reminded myself to take her a package to help with the draw checks.
“Grider’s such an ornery cuss,” ThommaLyn went on. “Just yesterday, I heard him bellyaching in the Top Hat Café about how teed he was when the principal told him the government passed Title Nine and—”
“Yup, President Nixon signed it, but Jesus Christ himself could lay signature across the mighty Ohio River and Grider would still find a way to drown it. He’s a joke. And I’m tired of fighting Coach Grider by myself. I’m through.”
“Bummer. You’ve won trophies for track; I always thought you’d get a scholarship, maybe have a shot at the Olympics someday.”
“Coach Hall over in Mallardsburg said that, too.”
“He should know, he’s the best!”
“Yeah, but I dunno if I care about it anymore. And the trophies . . . well, I never said anything, and don’t you either, but Daddy bought ’em for me and the other girls,” I said, cheeks heating. “He picked them up in a Nashville pawnshop after Grider said no to using the athletic money on girls.”
“Bastard!” ThommaLyn growled.
“Grider keeps saying he isn’t gonna allow the silly-minded females to dry up the boys’ funds.” I shook my head. “And it’s the girls’ cake-baking sales that raise money for sports in the first place.”
“Well, hon,” ThommaLyn soothed, “ya know you don’t need that damn track scholarship anyway. With grades like yours, I’m sure you’ll get others. Everyone knows you’re gonna be valedictorian.”
One of ThommaLyn’s brothers hung his head out the window and bleated her name. She flicked her hand over her shoulder, shushing him.
She nodded. “Okay, Mayfly Lake, we’re on. Cool! I’ll tell Mama. And glad to see you have Bobby around. I’ll talk with you tomorrow and you can fill me in.” She tugged knowingly at the sleeve of my borrowed T-shirt and turned to leave.
I couldn’t keep it in any longer, my one piece of happy news. I decided to take my chances with jinxing it—I just had to tell her. I took two big steps away from Liar’s Bench for insurance. “ThommaLyn, wait!” I motioned for her.
She rushed back to my side. “What?”
I cupped my hand and whispered into her ear, “Remember that prom dress I fell in love with at White’s department store last year? The one you insisted that I try on?”
ThommaLyn’s eyes popped wide. She bobbed her head.
“Well, I’d like to go shopping for one just like it.”
T
hommaLyn opened her mouth and glanced at Bobby out of the corner of her eye.
“That’s right, ThommaLyn.” I dropped my whisper to barely a buzz. “I’ll need help on deciding which color prom dress would look best for the senior prom. My prom.” I wanted to clap out the word in a cheer; instead, I lazied my speech. “Now, I’m a’thinkin’, ThommaLyn, a warm honey, a peony pink, or maybe a soft jade?” Then I quickly placed my hand over her mouth and cut off what I knew would be an ear-splitting squeal. She grabbed me in a bear hug and danced us around in a circle until we were both drunk with giggles.
“I knew that boy would have a slow hand,” ThommaLyn teased.
Her brothers called out, complaining of the heat. I nodded to her to go ahead.
Happy, she slipped up behind Bobby and tapped his shoulder. “We’re going boating this weekend, Bobby Marshall. Maybe you’d like to come along?” Then she climbed into the Nova, leaned out the window, and yelled a very winded, “Yeeeeeee-haw!”
I laughed.
“Don’t forget. Mayfly Lake,” she shouted as they pulled off, her hand waving until the car disappeared around the corner of Main Street.
“What’s ThommaLyn hooting about?” Bobby rested his arm over my shoulder.
“Just . . . shopping.”
“Shopping?”
“Yup.”
Puzzled, he shook his head. “I’m running over to Peck’s for a soda. Need anything?”
“Nah, I’m good.”
“Be right back.” He gave me a loud smooch.
I plopped down on the bench and watched as he jaywalked across the street, then disappeared into the pool hall. Wisps of smoke and a jukebox’s streaming honky-tonk seeped out.
After a few minutes, I spotted Gladydoo Mitcham, the seventy-five-year old organist over at United Methodist Church, my day brightening from seeing her and from the chat with ThommaLyn.
Mrs. Mitcham strolled out of Ginny’s Bloom Up n’ Dye beauty salon, her blue-rinsed hair nicely coiffed, complementing her electric-blue eyes but clashing with the long purple duster she wore. Still, her signature cherub smile made her look like the tree-top angel that Mayor McKinney put atop the store-bought pine in front of the courthouse every Christmas. She fumbled with her pocketbook, dropping her green-striped parasol.
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