by Brenda Woods
“So, I owe him?” I asked.
“Indeed,” she replied.
“What’d you say his name was?” Daddy asked.
“Meriwether,” I responded.
At the mention of the name, Teddy’s face lit up. “Fine name, Meriwether. Meriwether Lewis was the soldier and explorer who headed the Lewis and Clark Expedition back in the 1800s and reached the Pacific Ocean in—?” Teddy searched his memory for the answer and found it: “1805.” Teddy claims his mind is full of mostly useless facts, but Auntie Rita proudly boasts that her son’s so smart, he ought to be a contestant on the radio show Twenty Questions.
“I learned about Lewis and Clark in history class, but first names didn’t get talked about, at least I don’t think they did,” I told him.
“Don’t care much about what his name is . . . Mighty glad he happened to be there is all,” Mama said, her eyes brimming with tears again.
Auntie Rita patted her hand. “I am doubtful that he just happened to be there, Agatha. This was certainly divine intervention.”
Cousin Polly rolled her eyes.
But Auntie Rita, who usually doesn’t miss a thing, caught a glimpse of Polly’s shenanigans and slyly remarked, “Well, bless your heart, Polly Waldrop, ain’t you precious.” It didn’t sound like an insult but it was. “I’m fixin’ to delve into somethin’ of spiritual importance. Is that all right with you, dear?”
Polly’s face looked the way Mama’s does when she pricks herself accidentally with a sewing needle. “I reckon.”
“Now then, look at me, Gabriel, and try not to blink,” Rita ordered.
“Yes ma’am.”
As usual, she stared deeply into my eyes, and I wondered if the old soul was still in there and, if it was, could she see him, and if she could see him, exactly how old he was. But this time she peered for so long that I got fidgety, because it seemed like she was tinkering around inside my thoughts.
Finally, she looked away through the open window and up toward the sky. “Yes, my boy with the old soul . . . you most surely have a special destiny.”
“Special destiny?” I asked.
“Perhaps you’ll have a lifetime fulla exceptional good works or achieve something of remarkable significance during your earthly time. A special destiny should never be interfered with by no one, no way, no how.”
Suddenly, I felt as if I’d stepped into a moonlit swamp. I shivered.
Tink noticed. “Stoppit, Nana . . . You’re givin’ him the willies.”
But Auntie Rita continued, “And I hope y’all can appreciate that it certainly wasn’t meant to be . . . for the very automobile sold by the daddy . . . to take the life of his child.”
To me, that sounded like she was blaming Daddy, so I sprang to my feet. “He’s not the one to blame! It was my fault for not being careful . . . all mine! Well, maybe some of it belongs to Mr. Babcock for buyin’ a car for his wife, who is the rottenest driver in all of Birdsong . . . probably the worst driver in all of Carolina, North and South. And I bet Daddy didn’t even know about that . . . so you can’t blame him, Auntie Rita, you can’t blame Daddy for nuthin’!”
Auntie Rita calmly replied, “Not puttin’ blame on your daddy, Gabriel. Just sayin’ you clearly weren’t meant to be harmed by a car your daddy sold.”
Daddy took a deep breath. “All right now, Rita.” Which I took to mean that it was time for her to be quiet.
Auntie Rita didn’t take the hint and started up again. “And one more thing—”
But Teddy cut her off and blurted, “In other words, Mama, put a button on your lip!” So she did.
Cousin Polly giggled.
Soon as supper was over, the pineapple upside-down cake was placed on the table and the twelve candles were hastily lit.
“I didn’t burn it this time, y’all,” Mama said proudly.
As Tink had schooled me, I joined my hands together and whispered a prayer no one could hear but me: “Please, God, lemme please, please, please keep my bicycle.” Then I finished with a loud “Amen,” and when I looked into my parents’ eyes, I thought I saw pity.
With one long breath, I blew out every candle and hoped.
CHAPTER 8
I sat between Mama and Daddy on the tan sofa in our parlor. Matching white lamps with yellow daisies painted on them rested atop identical wooden tables and cast their glow on us. Cousin Polly and Them had gone, the radio had been turned off, and the house had returned to its normal quiet state.
As I’d expected, Daddy began the questioning. “About Mrs. Babcock . . . Her light was green, wasn’t it?”
“Yessir.”
“And your light was red?”
“Yessir.”
“So, rotten driver or not, is she to blame?”
“Nossir.”
He continued to grill me. “And is Mr. Babcock even a little bit to blame for buyin’ her the car?”
“Nossir, not a bit.”
“Have I made my point, Gabriel?”
“Yessir, better than Perry Mason.”
Mama laughed.
Then I spouted off some of the things Tink had told me to say. “I admit I was wrong, and I’m really sorry, because I know how much you love me and how upset you must be.”
Except for Daddy clearing his throat, they were quiet and still.
“About the bicycle,” I added, “the man fixed it almost good as new.”
“Let’s all go have a look at it, then,” he finally said.
Together we headed to the shed and Daddy went over it from front to back. “He’s right, Agatha. It’s ’bout good as new.”
“Yeah, he’s really good at fixin’ things,” I said.
“Tell you what, Gabriel. I want you to bring the almost-good-as-new bicycle into the house and take it to your room.”
“Why, Daddy?”
“I want you to park it there for two weeks.”
“Then what?”
“Do you suppose that being forced to look at it day and night for two weeks but not being able to ride it will supply you with enough torment?”
“More than enough.”
“Then that’s your punishment . . . two weeks,” he remarked.
Was I hearing right? “I get to keep it?”
“Yes,” Mama answered, “but if we hear any tittle-tattle that you’ve been careless on it, it’ll be gone for good, understand?”
“I understand . . . Thank you, Mama. Thank you, Daddy! You won’t be sorry. I’ll be extra careful from now on, I promise!”
I led the bicycle through the back door and into my bedroom and parked it next to the window. They had trailed me and stood together in the doorway, Mama’s head resting on Daddy’s shoulder, another pretty picture that wouldn’t be taken.
“About that man named Meriwether who pushed me out of the way . . . He knows how to fix engines too, so maybe he could come work for you now that the other fella up and quit.”
“Sure,” Dad replied in a nonchalant way. “Happy birthday, son. G’night.”
Mama came over and pecked me on the cheek. “G’night, Gabriel . . . Sleep well.”
I gazed at the Schwinn Autocycle Deluxe and told them, “Thank you for letting me keep it.”
“Welcome,” they said at the same time.
CHAPTER 9
I was somewhere between where sleep ends and awake begins when I heard Patrick outside my bedroom window, calling my name. “Gabriel! Gabriel! Gabriel! You awake?” My eyes fluttered open.
I rolled out of bed and parted the curtains. Patrick was wearing swimming goggles and grinning. His hair was wet, and it was likely he’d already been to the pool, where he went first thing ’most every morning because he’s got it in his mind to become a US Navy frogman.
“Where is it? You still got it or did they take it away?”
&
nbsp; I knew what it was—the bicycle. As usual, the news had taken less than a day to fly around the town. I motioned for him to come around to the kitchen door.
Like most mornings, the smell of coffee from the percolator filled the room.
“Mornin’, Mama,” I said.
“Mornin’,” she replied. “That boy ever hear of a doorbell?” She smiled before answering her own question. “I guess not.”
My hand was barely on the doorknob when Patrick pushed inside. He peeled off his goggles, which left round imprints around his eyes. “Mornin’, Mrs. Haberlin,” he said politely.
“Mornin’, Patrick. Still aimin’ to be a frogman, I see.”
“Yes ma’am. If the United States Navy’ll have me. I’ll be mighty proud to serve.”
“I’m sure they’ll be more than proud. You hungry for some oatmeal and toast? I was fixin’ to make some.”
Patrick replied, “You know I never turn down a meal, Mrs. Haberlin.”
As soon as Mama got to cooking, he nudged me and whispered, “Well, where is it?”
“Follow me,” I replied, and Patrick was on my heels.
“A Schwinn Autocycle Deluxe,” he said, reaching out and touching it. “I cain’t hardly believe it! Are they lettin’ you keep it?”
I nodded yes.
“You gotta be kiddin’. After it nearly got you killed? My mama and daddy said they woulda taken a sledgehammer to it.”
“Can’t ride it for two weeks, though, and it’s gotta stay here in my room, where I have to see it night and day.”
“May as well crucify you, huh?”
“May as well.”
Soon as we’d finished breakfast and I’d done my daily chores, I announced to Mama, “Patrick and I are going to town and then by Daddy’s work.”
She was getting her jars ready to can some peaches. “Make sure you cross the threshold to this house before twilight.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Let’s go fishin’,” Patrick suggested. “Get your pole.”
“Naw, I got somethin’ important to do,” I told him. “I gotta find the man who saved my life so I can tell him about the job.”
“Oh, the colored man,” Patrick said.
So, I thought, that detail had been spilled too. “His name’s Meriwether . . . like Meriwether Lewis, who led the Lewis and Clark expedition,” I rambled, trying to impress him with how smart I was.
“Yeah, I remember. How we gonna find him, anyway?” Patrick asked.
“Dunno. Maybe he’ll be sittin’ right where he was yesterday.”
“What if he ain’t?”
“We’ll head to Mr. Summerlin’s drugstore. He might know ’cause Mr. Meriwether does work for him now and then. Plus, probably not another man in town has that name. We’re sure to get a lead that way. It’s never that hard to find someone unless they don’t want to be found, right?” I replied.
“You’ve had your ears tuned to a lot of detective radio shows, Gabriel.”
He was right, I had.
Mr. Meriwether wasn’t sitting or standing anywhere in town as far as we could see, so we made a beeline to Mr. Summerlin’s place. He was waiting on a customer who was filling him in on the details of his recent gallbladder surgery and lifted his shirt to show him the scar. “Lordy be!” Mr. Summerlin declared.
I was itching to find Mr. Meriwether, and it was hard to wait while the man went on and on. Just when I thought he’d run out of words, he’d start up again.
“Finally,” I said when he left.
“No bicycle today, Gabriel?” Mr. Summerlin asked.
“Nossir, not for two whole weeks,” I replied.
“Must feel like a long time to someone your age,” he remarked.
“Yessir . . . but at least it’s not forever.”
“Yeah . . . there’s no end to forever,” Patrick added, but right away he asked, “Did forever even have a beginnin’?”
Mr. Summerlin looked as confused as I felt. “Hmm?” was all he said.
“About Mr. Meriwether?” I asked.
“Mr. Hunter is his name, Mr. Meriwether Hunter,” he corrected me.
“I was hopin’ you might know where he lives ’cuz I need to talk to him ’bout a job at my daddy’s. One of his mechanics up and quit, and he, Mr. Hunter, told me he knows how to fix engines. So . . . I was figurin’ they could help each other.”
“That’s mighty good of you, Gabriel. I don’t know the exact address, but I know the street and the house because I gave him a lift home one night after he’d done some work here and it was pourin’ rain. Of course, it’s on The Other Side. Holly Street near Eagle, third house from the corner, if I remember correctly . . . left-hand side of the street.” Then, the way people do when a memory that was asleep suddenly wakes up, he smacked his head and started scrolling through his card file. “Filled a prescription for his wife a while back, and I always keep a record of the address and phone number if there is one. Here it is: Hunter, 127 Holly Street.”
“127 Holly Street. Thanks, Mr. Summerlin.”
“Yeah, thanks, Mr. Summerlin,” Patrick echoed.
And we were off.
An army of clouds had gathered above, cooling off the morning, defending us from the summer sun as we walked.
Patrick fingered the chain around his neck and then displayed the silver medal that he wore day and night. “Mama said if you’da been wearin’ a Saint Christopher medal like mine yesterday, it’s likely none of that woulda happened. Also said she’s gonna get you one next time she’s in Charleston and even get it blessed by the archbishop for double protection.”
“I’m not Catholic,” I reminded him. “I’m Methodist.”
“Don’t matter . . . ’Least Mama claims it don’t. Saint Christopher’ll protect you anyways.”
I shrugged and replied, “Okay.”
“When you get your bicycle back, can I ride it sometimes?” Patrick asked.
“You betcha,” I promised.
He patted my shoulder. “Two weeks ain’t really that long. It’ll go by in no time.”
I hoped he was right.
Ahead, the railroad tracks and small grocery store right beside them let me know that we were about to cross into what most folks around Birdsong refer to as The Other Side.
I come here now and then with Mama when she drops off a lady named Mrs. Masters, who helps her with spring cleaning and serves when we have Christmas parties. Mostly colored people live here, and that includes, according to Mrs. Masters, five families of Gullah-Geechees who somehow made their way here from the Carolina Sea Islands and speak their own language.
Patrick and I strolled through The Other Side and passed a Baptist church and the colored school, which is actually just a small house. Once, just a couple of weeks earlier, when I had to bring five dollars to Mrs. Masters that Mama owed her, curiosity kept poking at me until it finally forced me to peek through the windows. A single room with a blackboard and a few rows of desks was all I saw. Right then, I’d wondered why my school has so many classrooms plus a library and a playground and a cafeteria too, when all the colored kids have is this one room. And that night after supper, I’d asked Mama and Daddy about it.
“Things are not always fair to colored folks,” Daddy had told me.
“Why?”
Daddy had let out a loud sigh. “Well, Gabriel. You’ll learn some people just feel the need to think they are better than other folks strictly because of the color of their skin. But I say this: treat all folks, regardless of color, with courtesy and respect. And be as good a person as you can be. Simple as that.” Then, he’d buried his face in the newspaper.
I had taken this to mean that the conversation was supposed to be over, but my mind was still working. “Tink told me they don’t have segregation and whites-only signs in New York City, s
o colored people can go wherever they please, and her friend Helene’s father, who’s a college professor, says one day all those signs will be gone and segregation too.”
Daddy had put down the newspaper, glanced at Mama, twisted his mouth a little—the way he sometimes does when he’s trying to decide exactly what to say—then set me straight. “Truth be told, Gabriel, there may not be signs, but there are still lots of places up North where colored people aren’t welcome at all and others where, even if they get their foot through the door, they’re treated in a distasteful manner. I hope to God the professor is right, though, about the signs being gone someday. Be a good thing for colored people not to have constant reminders of being unwelcome. Just imagine if those signs, instead of saying No Colored Allowed, said No Whites Allowed. How’d that make you feel?”
I’d pictured a sign like that in my mind, and the feeling it had given me was different from any feeling I’d ever had before. I didn’t know what to call it, but if feelings carried smells with them, the one I was having would stink about as bad as the time I’d been sprayed by a skunk.
After a while, my gaze had returned to Daddy, but his eyes had already traveled away from me and back to the newspaper, so nothing else was said.
But ever since then, when I see one of those signs here and there in Birdsong, I think of that smell and imagine the signs gone.
CHAPTER 10
“Holly Street,” Patrick said, reading the street sign. “Which way?”
Following Mr. Summerlin’s directions, I replied, “This way.”
“Better not get us lost,” Patrick said, “and don’t say nuthin’ ’bout us bein’ over here to my daddy or mama.”
“How come?”
“You know why, Gabriel . . . It’s The Other Side. Don’t your mama and daddy teach you?”
“Mama says white, colored, or whatever . . . on the inside we’re all human beings.”
“But cain’t nobody see our insides, Gabriel, only the outsides.” He paused, then asked, “Wonder what insides look like, anyhow.”
“You sure have an interesting way of thinking,” I told him.