by Brenda Woods
Mr. Summerlin sighed. “Just doesn’t feel right . . . your folks not knowin’,” he said, and then he looked at Miss Duval, as if seeking her opinion.
She reached into her purse, took out a fancy kerchief, and wiped sweat from her forehead before nodding in agreement.
Miss Duval then turned to Mrs. Betty Babcock, who said, “Wouldn’t surprise me if they already know.”
As if thinking that Mrs. Babcock was probably right, the three of them snatched looks at one another and grinned.
“Y’all have a lovely Sunday,” Miss Duval told Mrs. Babcock and Mr. Summerlin, and then she turned her attention to me. “And Gabriel?”
“Yes ma’am?”
“Please be more cautious. Might not be anyone there to save you the next time you choose to be careless with your life.”
“Won’t be a next time, Miss Duval,” I informed her.
“Good to hear. Have a good day,” she said, and strutted off in that way she does, heels clicking, head held high.
And that was when the man who had saved my life strolled toward us, guiding the bicycle. He and Mr. Summerlin greeted each other politely, but Mrs. Babcock stared off down the street, as if the man were invisible, the way some white ladies do when there’s a colored man close by.
“’Bout good as new as I could get it, young man,” he said.
I checked it over from end to end. He’d even fixed the light.
“Holy mackerel!” I exclaimed. “It really is good as new! Thank you, Mr. . . .” I’m never too good at remembering names, and with everything that had happened, I’d forgotten his in a flash.
“Hunter, Meriwether Hunter,” he replied. His short wiry hair was black, and his skin was dark brown. He had a nice smile and a thick mustache and was tall, but not so tall that a person would think too much about it.
I introduced myself. “I’m Gabriel.”
“It’s a fine name,” he replied.
I read the sign around his neck again.
“Can you fix cars?” I asked.
“Most things with an engine.”
“Even a P-51 Mustang?” I inquired.
“A fighter plane? Never worked on one, but I suppose an engine’s an engine.”
“My uncle Earl was a pilot, flew a P-51 in the war. He was even at the Battle of the Bulge,” I boasted.
He looked away before replying, “That so . . . Battle of the Bulge?”
“Yeah, but not long after that, he got hurt . . . Broke some bones when he crash-landed, but they were able to fix him so he’s almost good as new.”
“Kinda like your bicycle,” he said.
“Yessir, I spoze so,” I answered, then continued, “He’s a gen-u-wine war hero, and soon as I’m of age, I’m gonna enlist and go to flight school too. He’ll be in Charleston on Saturday. They’re havin’ a big parade for all of the South Carolina war heroes,” I informed him.
He looked up at the sky, squinted into the sun, then gazed off toward the green foothills. “A parade” was all he said.
Mr. Summerlin finally cut in, “’Bout time I headed back to work—and Meriwether?”
“Sir?”
“Thank you . . . for preventin’ this from becomin’ a very tragic day.”
“You’re mighty welcome, Mr. Summerlin, sir,” he replied.
“Gabriel?” Mrs. Babcock interrupted.
“Yes ma’am.”
“Hurt or not, I’d like to see to it that you get home safe and sound.”
“But I was ’bouta go show Patrick . . .”
She didn’t let me finish. Instead, she spoke to Meriwether. “Do you think the bicycle will fit in my car, boy?”
Meriwether’s eyes met the ground. “In a big ole Roadmaster? It sure oughtta, ma’am.”
“But . . .” I pleaded.
“But nuthin’, Gabriel Haberlin. I’ve decided,” she replied softly, but there was steel mixed in with her words, like Mama’s words get when there’s no changing her mind, so I knew Betty Babcock meant it. “Put the bicycle in the car,” she commanded Meriwether.
“Thank you again, sir,” I told him.
“Welcome,” he replied.
And just like that, I was sitting next to Betty Babcock. While she started the car, I swiveled and peered out the back window. Mr. Meriwether Hunter stood there alone on the sidewalk, frozen like something carved out of stone, the Need Work sign still around his neck.
Mrs. Babcock gently patted my hand and put her foot on the gas, and the big yellow chariot zoomed down the street.
CHAPTER 5
I didn’t know if Betty Babcock was bad at anything else, but it took me less than a minute to figure out that she was really bad at driving. In fact, Betty Babcock was such a dreadfully rotten driver that I was curious about how she’d ever passed a driving test. Less than half an hour earlier, she’d nearly killed me, so you’d think that would have made her drive cautiously, but no—instead she sped, swerving and careering around corners like she was behind the wheel of a race car at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway.
When she screeched to an abrupt stop at a stop sign, I actually smelled burnt tire rubber. The car hadn’t even come to a complete stop when she put her foot on the gas and sped off again.
“Aren’t you spozed to actually stop and look both ways?” I asked.
“Oh shush! You sound just like that pesky man at the motor vehicle place . . . the one who gave me my driver’s test. I’m an excellent driver. Got good instincts.”
That started me giggling.
She took her eyes off the road and gave me a look. But then her lead foot eased up and she began to drive at a normal speed, causing me to let out an extremely long sigh of relief.
I stared out at the countryside the rest of the ride home and started wondering exactly who might be calling my parents right now—Mr. Summerlin or the butcher or Miss Duval or someone else? Knowing how fast news travels in this small town, I could be certain someone had.
When Mrs. Babcock pulled the car to a stop in front of my house, I quickly climbed out. Made it, I thought.
And right then, Cousin Polly and Them pulled up behind Mrs. Babcock. Their black Ford was sputtering the way it always does, and their hands were waving and their faces were smiling.
I was about to wave back, but I didn’t have time to because Mama had come running out of the house and wrapped her arms around me. “Gabriel!” she yelled.
Tink climbed out of their car, pointed her camera at us, and snapped a photo. It wasn’t the first picture I’d daydreamed about her taking of me today, but it was definitely part of this day’s story.
My assumption that someone had squealed and filled Mama and Daddy’s ears with news of my mishap was now a crystal-clear certainty. Daddy stood in front of me, and I could tell he didn’t know which path to take, the thankful or angry one. I was happy when thankful won. His eyes got watery, and he patted my head. Mama finally released me and wiped at her tears.
Tink looked out from behind her camera. “What’s buzzin’, cuzzin?” she asked me.
Mrs. Babcock, who had joined us on the sidewalk, answered for me. “What’s buzzin’ is that Gabriel was being careless as he rode his bicycle down Main Street and sailed through a red light, but I am happy to say that my excellent driving skills allowed me to avoid a tragic accident. So here he is, alive and well, safe and sound.”
“But Mrs. Babcock . . . that man, Mr. Meriwether, he pushed me out of the way just in time. Wasn’t for him, I might have got killed.”
“Well . . . that too. Yes.”
“That’s exactly what Miss Duval told us,” Mama informed her.
So, Miss Duval—who everyone claimed was a speedier carrier of news than the Birdsong Gazette—had been the informant.
Minutes later, the bicycle was out of the car and Mrs. Babcock had been than
ked. Daddy shook her hand, and Mama even hugged her.
If you knew what a terrible driver she is, I don’t think you’d be so grateful, I thought. Boy, I couldn’t wait to spill the beans on her. But the shocked looks Mama, Daddy, Cousin Polly, and Them passed around when Mrs. Babcock screeched off in her Roadmaster made me figure they wouldn’t require much convincing.
To my surprise, Daddy handed off the bicycle to me, and together we all strode to the front porch.
“Swanky cycle, Gabriel,” Tink commented.
“Yeah, it’s really swell, and boy, does it fly,” I told her.
“Attention! Everyone halt!” Tink suddenly ordered. “I wanna take a picture.”
Her father, Teddy, chuckled. “And what else is new?”
As directed, we stood together and posed.
Tink pointed her camera and focused. “This is a special day we should always remember.”
“Yes ’tis . . . Gabriel’s birthday number twelve,” Auntie Rita replied.
“But it’s even more special than a birthday,” Tink said. She had a sly grin on her face.
“Why’s that?” Cousin Polly asked.
Tink snapped the picture. “Because his birthday almost became his death day.”
Tears returned to Mama’s eyes, and she squeezed Daddy’s hand and my shoulder.
“Tink! How can you be so crass?” Cousin Polly hollered.
“Jeepers creepers! It was just a joke,” she replied.
Auntie Rita shook her head. “Tsk, tsk, tsk . . . Death ain’t sumthin’ to poke fun at, Theodora.”
At the sound of her real name, Tink frowned.
“Apologize to Gabriel this instant!” Cousin Polly insisted.
“I’m sorry, Gabriel.”
“Thank you, The-o-dora.”
Tink sneered, “Rub it in deep, why don’t you?”
I smirked and replied, “I just did.”
Daddy interrupted the silliness. “Gabriel, put the bicycle in the shed. We’ll talk about what we are going to do with it later.” He had his no-nonsense look.
So I gave him my no-nonsense answer. “Yessir.”
The look in his eyes gave me a clue about what was coming. And from what I surmised, the bicycle might not be part of my future.
CHAPTER 6
“You know, I’m really happy you didn’t croak, Gabriel. And I didn’t mean to make everyone flip their wigs,” Tink said, tagging along as I walked my bike to the shed.
“Flip their wigs?” I asked.
Tink interpreted, “Get upset.”
More and more, since a girl named Helene from New York City had moved in next door to Tink and become her best friend, Tink had started using what Daddy refers to as modern lingo. But recently, because Helene was making Tink see things in a whole different way, more than Tink’s words were new. Just last month, when they’d come to visit, the two of us were walking to the movie theater when she’d stopped abruptly in front of a store called Lolly’s Antiques. Tink’s eyes had focused on the whites-only sign in the window, and my cousin had frowned. “Can you imagine bein’ colored and havin’ to put up with this injustice?” Tink asked me. “Helene says they don’t have such signs in New York City.”
Of course, Tink had snapped a picture of the sign, and when I asked her why, she’d told me she was preserving history. “Because according to Helene’s father, who is a professor of American history, whites and coloreds won’t be segregated in the South someday, and all these things he calls Jim Crow signs will be gone.”
Now Tink said to me, “So, your parents are gonna wait ’til after we leave to bust your chops, right?”
“Bust my chops?”
“Yeah—yell and fuss . . . get stinkin’ mad at you. And probably take the bike away.”
“I spoze they will,” I answered solemnly. “Can you get a bunch of pictures of me on it?”
“Sure thing, cousin. Plus, it’s all good practice for when I get hired at Life magazine or National Geographic. Only then I’ll be off taking pics of faraway places or indigenous people.”
“What’s indigenous?” I inquired as she posed me.
“The people who were in a country first, like the Indians were here. Or the Maya in Mexico and the Aborigines in Australia. I’m already making a portfolio of my best photographs. As soon as I graduate high school, I, Tink Waldrop, am gonna blow this place called South Carolina and travel the world. And that’s not just me flappin’ my lips. I’m really gonna amscray.”
“You are really something else, Tink,” I said, then crossed my eyes at her.
“And you, cousin, are off the cob.”
This time, I wanted to pretend that I understood what she meant, but my curiosity quickly conquered my pride and I asked, “Off the cob?”
“Corny.”
“Oh, I get it.”
While Tink snapped away with the camera, I did my best to look as happy as I’d felt when I’d just gotten the bicycle, but it was hard. When she was finished, I parked it in a corner inside the shed and stared at it for a while. “I’m just a pigheaded lamebrain. I can’t blame anyone but myself. I should have been payin’ attention.” I didn’t want to cry, but sadness had already sent its message to my eyes.
“Dry your peepers and stop your snivelin’, Gabriel,” Tink told me, “because I’m in the know about this kind of thing.”
“Okay, snivelin’ stopped. Now explain what you’re talkin’ about.”
“I’m gonna give you some advice that just might help you keep your bicycle.”
“Give.”
“First—and this is real important—admit you were wrong. Then, tell them you’re so very sorry because you know how much they love you and how upset they must be. Plus, promise that you’ll be extremely careful from now on. Finally, try your best to look sad all day—but especially through dinner, even when you open your presents and see the candles on the birthday cake. When everyone tells you to make a wish before you blow out the candles, fold your hands and close your eyes like you’re prayin’. Make ’em feel sorry for you. It’s a good formula but not foolproof, meanin’ there’s a chance it won’t work.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Hmm? Can’t say, but it oughtta be duck soup.”
The rest of the day reminded me of warm saltwater taffy—easily stretched out, very sticky but tasting good.
Obeying Tink’s rules was the sticky part, making me feel like a circus performer walking a tightrope, trying hard not to lose my balance. Whenever I faltered on my invisible high wire by kidding around, a warning glare from Tink was all it took to keep me from falling. The tasting-good part was how Cousin Polly and Them usually make me feel—same as beams of sunshine sneaking through clouds on a rainy day. And the stretched-out part was the way the minutes were pretending to be hours, until I finally figured this was only because I was anticipating the verdict about the bicycle that would be given at the end of the day.
CHAPTER 7
When Cousin Polly, Mama, and Auntie Rita headed off to the kitchen to get dinner ready, Daddy began bellyaching to Teddy about how one of his two mechanics had quit without any warning.
“No warnin’ at all?” Teddy asked.
“None whatsoever. Found him a lady friend up in Raleigh and he was gone like the wind. Most beautiful woman he ever laid eyes on is how he tells it.”
Teddy grinned. “Can’t blame him for that, now, can we?”
Daddy laughed and shook his head.
The smells coming from the kitchen were making my mouth water. Finally the kitchen door swung open, and in no time flat, the table was loaded with steaming food. Roast beef, mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans, corn that had been shaved from the cob, biscuits dripping with butter and honey, and a pitcher full of lemonade crowded the table. Teddy nearly knocked over the pitcher as he reached across for t
he potatoes.
“As y’all can see, we clearly need a larger table,” Mama said, and everyone agreed but I accidentally smiled, causing Tink to nudge my leg under the table and shoot me a look that said Cut it out, which in turn led Auntie Rita to take notice.
“What have you two cooked up?” she asked, searching our faces for clues.
“Nuthin’s cookin’, Grand-ma-ma,” Tink replied.
“And stop callin’ me Grand-ma-ma. Call me Nana like you always have.”
Cousin Polly joined in the conversation. “Until Miss Helen-with-an-E Reynolds from New York City arrived next door.”
“Her name’s Helene, not Helen-with-an-E, and not only is she intelligent and enlightened, but she’s also a gas,” Tink told us. “A total gas.”
Cousin Polly clicked her tongue. “Fulla gas is what I call it.”
Chuckles and laughter were popping up when Tink spouted off, “As usual, Mama, you are off the cob.”
Cousin Polly glared at her. “That’s some kinda cruel insult, ain’t it? I’m ’bouta jerk a knot in your tail.”
I scooped up a forkful of corn and interpreted, “It just means corny.”
Teddy patted his wife’s hand. “See, Polly . . . Don’t have a hissy. And Tink?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
“Even if you don’t . . . can you at least pretend you have some breedin’?”
Changing the subject was something Auntie Rita was known for, and that’s exactly what she did. She cleared her throat twice and asked me, “Gabriel, were you aware that to have been saved the way you were today means you likely have a special destiny?”
“No ma’am, I wasn’t.”
“And for a total stranger to risk his life to save yours . . . My oh my, ain’t that somethin’ that surely leaves a sweet taste inside you?”
I nodded.
“I’ve heard tell that when someone saves your life, a special bond is created ’tween you and it’s likely you’ll be indebted to him.”