The Unsung Hero of Birdsong, USA

by Brenda Woods

  Many heads nodded in agreement, and Auntie Rita shouted, “Amen!”

  And that was when the screen door swung open for probably the hundredth time. This time Helene stepped inside.

  Helene quickly zeroed in on Tink and the newspaper photographer and squirmed her way through the crowd to reach them. Before I knew it, Helene was posed beside Uncle Earl, several pictures had been taken, and in no time flat, Helene and Tink were standing beside me near the door. To draw attention to myself, I cleared my throat loudly.

  Tink got the idea right away and introduced us. “Helene, this is my cousin Gabriel. Gabriel, this is Helene.”

  “Hi” was all I could manage to say.

  “Nice to meet you, Gabriel,” Helene said. “But I have to go. Toodle-oo.”

  “Toodle-oo,” Tink replied.

  Understanding it meant goodbye but wishing it didn’t, I told her, “Toodle-oo.”

  In no time at all, Tink had scurried back to the photographer’s side.

  But I stayed nestled in the doorway, watching Helene as she strode confidently toward her house, hoping all the while she’d turn around just once and glance my way, but she didn’t. “Toodle-oo,” I whispered.

  CHAPTER 22

  If Sunday had been mostly normal and dull without any extra shine to it, Monday sure wasn’t. Meriwether arrived at work on foot, frowning, and Abigail was with him.

  “Where’s the bicycle?” I inquired.

  Abigail answered, “Someone stole it.”

  “Right from here,” Meriwether added. “I came in on Saturday like your daddy asked me to ’cause cars needin’ to be fixed were backed up. And when I went to leave that evenin’, it was nowhere to be found. Strange I didn’t hear anything, but then again, I had the radio goin’. Matthew didn’t see nuthin’ either.”

  Before I could stop myself, I’d said it. “Lucas.”

  “That’s exactly what my daddy thought,” Abigail confided.

  “Likely it’s true but I got no proof. Now I gotta pay to replace my buddy’s bicycle.” He sighed loudly. “And my wife had some family business to tend to in Savannah, so Abigail has to be here with me a few days. Hope that’s all right with your daddy. He in his office?”

  “Was last time I saw him.”

  Meriwether pointed to a chair and said to his daughter, “Sit there and don’t say anything that’s certain to rob me of any pride I might have in you, understand?”

  “Is that the same as tellin’ me to be good?” she asked.

  “The exact same. Read your book like you promised. Can you do that?”

  As instructed, Abigail plopped down, opened a book in her lap, and responded, “Yessir, I can.”

  I was on Meriwether’s heels. “You gonna tell my daddy ’bout Lucas?”

  “Gonna give him the facts. Only thing I got proof of is the bicycle’s missin’. Can’t say who.”

  “No clues or witnesses,” I asked.

  “Not a one.”

  “But a definite suspicion as to who might have committed the crime?” I added.

  Meriwether chuckled. “Your friend Patrick’s right: you have been listenin’ to too many late-night detective shows.”

  Before Meriwether had a chance to open his mouth, I blurted, “I know it was Lucas, Daddy.”

  Daddy put down his pencil and looked up from his ledger. “Lucas?”

  “Who stole Mr. Hunter’s bicycle.”

  “Is that true?” he asked Meriwether.

  “It’s true that the bicycle disappeared Saturday evenin’ from the side of the garage where I generally leave it. As far as who dunnit, that I can’t say. Didn’t see anyone or hear anything.”

  “Can’t accuse a man without proof,” Daddy said.

  “Nossir, can’t, but I got favors to ask. My wife is away for a few days and I’m wonderin’ if it’d be all right if my girl, Abigail, stays in the garage with me while I work. She won’t be any trouble. Just gonna sit and read.”

  “All right by me . . . And?” Daddy asked. “You said favors—that’s plural.”

  “That black ’36 Chevy ’round back. If it’s for sale, I’m hopin’ I might buy it on one of those installment plans I hear you offerin’ folks. You could hold the money outta my pay if need be.”

  “That heapa junk? Can’t no one even get it to start, and some of the best have tried. I tell you what, Meriwether, you get that thing runnin’, it’s yours paid in full. Was ’bout to sell it for scrap.”

  “You jokin’ with me, Jake?”

  Daddy cracked a grin. “The joke might be on you with that car.”

  Meriwether, now smiling, stretched out his hand. “It’s a deal, then?”

  They shook and Daddy replied, “Deal.”

  But before we could leave, Daddy put on a grim face. “Be best if y’all keep your suspicions ’bout Lucas and the bicycle to yourselves . . . seein’ as we got no proof.”

  “Learned a long time ago when to keep my mouth shut,” Meriwether told him.

  “That includes you, Gabriel. Not even a word to Patrick . . . clear?”

  “Yessir, clear.”

  Instantly, my daddy’s face switched back to pleasant.

  “About that car, what if you can’t fix it? . . . No one else has been able to,” I remarked as Meriwether and I headed toward the garage.

  “You’re forgettin’ two things, young man.”

  “What?”

  “Number one, I’m not no one else. And number two, I am Meriwether Hunter. And I’m mighty good at fixin’ things.”

  Abigail was right where we’d left her, reading. She glanced up. “Did he say I could stay?”

  Meriwether nodded. “But you gotta do like you promised, Abigail.”

  “I am,” she said, holding up the book. “B’sides, no one has to make me read. I’m already on page fifteen.”

  “Whatcha readin’?” I asked.

  “The Magical Land of Noom. It’s from the library at church.”

  “Churches don’t have libraries,” I informed her.

  “Ours does. Pastor and my mama started one ’cause there’re hardly any books like this . . . you know . . . for children”—she waved the book at me—“in the colored section in the Birdsong library . . . maybe only five, and I’ve read ’em all.”

  Meriwether chimed in, “They were gonna have the library at the school, but havin’ it at the church lets almost anyone check out a book if they like.” He popped the hood of a car and got to work.

  “But only one book at a time,” Abigail said. Then she asked, “Have you read The Boxcar Children?”

  “No.”

  “What about The Cat Who Went to Heaven?”

  I shook my head.

  “Whatsamatter with you . . . Can’t you even read?”

  “What kinda question is that? ’Course I can.”

  Meriwether looked up from the car engine. “Abigail?”

  “Sir?”

  “Watch yourself. And Gabriel . . . don’t mind her. She likes to brag on herself about all her readin’.”

  “Right before school ended, I read The Yearling,” I boasted.

  “Parts of it were too sad . . . made me cry,” Abigail declared.

  Because it was the only book that had ever brought me to tears, I was about to agree, but before I could say anything, embarrassment got all up inside me, so I didn’t.

  “Soon as I finish this book, I’ve got my heart set on one called Twig, unless somebody already checked it out. Once, I tried reading more than one book at a time, but the stories started to get mixed up inside my head, so Mama told me just to read one at a time. That way, I won’t get mixed up. You ever get mixed up?” she asked.

  “Spoze everyone does sometimes.”

  “Yeah, I spoze.”

  “I’ma be a writer somed
ay . . . did you know that?” Abigail asked.

  “No.”

  “Well, I am . . . You just wait and see,” she said.

  “That’s ’bout enough talkin’, ain’t it?” Meriwether asked. “Might be work out there for you, Gabriel, that needs doin’.”

  “Likely,” I replied, and off I went, but the station was quiet and still.

  One good thing about having nothing to do is that it gives you time to ponder, and as I waited idly at the gas pumps, that’s exactly what I did. I thought about Abigail, though only ten, already seeming to know she was going to be a writer. Then I imagined Tink traveling the world, toting her camera, having her photographs printed on the pages of National Geographic and Life magazine. Suddenly, my thoughts flipped to Patrick, who seemed certain he had a future as a navy frogman. And Rosie Riley’s path toward becoming a doctor seemed crystal clear too. How did they all seem so absolutely sure, when the thought of me becoming a pilot or even a detective somehow felt like questions instead of answers?

  If Auntie Rita’s claim about me having a special destiny was true, I asked myself exactly when and how I’d know what it was. Would it come straight at me like a fastball from a major-league baseball pitcher, leaving little doubt? Or maybe it would inch toward me slowly like a hairy caterpillar. Or perhaps it might come from out of the blue, like buckets of hail on a day it wasn’t even supposed to rain, startling me unexpectedly.

  CHAPTER 23

  An hour later, half the folks in town who owned a car must have decided at the same time to show up at Jake’s for gas and oil, with tires that were low on air and radiators that had decided to go haywire and all kinds of other automobile malfunctions. For the next two hours, Daddy, Matthew, Meriwether, and I didn’t seem to get a minute of rest. Finally, things settled down.

  Meriwether, with Abigail nestled beside him, was resting in the spot where he usually eats his lunch. “Now, that’s what’s called earnin’ your pay,” he told me. “’Bouta have our lunch now, nuthin’ but fruit and turkey sandwiches. You welcome to share. Abigail will pro’bly only eat half of hers.”

  “No, thank you. It’d ruin my appetite for supper, and Mama ain’t fond of that.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “I’ll sit here a spell, though. Daddy’s workin’ on his ledger. Doesn’t like to be bothered when it comes to numbers.”

  Meriwether patted the ground beside him and I took a seat. “How was that parade you were so excited about?”

  “There were lots of people, and a marching band, and the mayor of Charleston gave a speech, and afterward there was a party at my cousin’s house for my uncle Earl and some of the other war heroes. Never seen so many medals. And a photographer from the Charleston newspaper was there.”

  “Sounds like you had a very good time,” he said.

  “Boy, did I. Uncle Earl and the others told us all about the Battle of the Bulge. Said they’d never seen so much snow. Didn’t know places on Earth could get that cold.”

  “They’re right about that. It wasn’t just cold—we were close to bein’ frozen . . .” Suddenly, he stopped.

  “What’d you say?” I asked him.

  Abigail, whose nose had been buried in the book, glanced over at her father. “You promised Mama not to talk about it ’round white folks . . . ever,” she warned.

  “Talk about what?”

  Meriwether gazed off into space. “You good at keepin’ secrets, Gabriel?”

  “Usually.”

  Abigail stood up. “Don’t tell him, Daddy. Mama made you swear on the Bible.”

  “I won’t tell no one, I promise . . . What?”

  “I hope you’re a person of your word, Gabriel Haberlin.”

  “I am . . . Why’d you say that stuff about the Battle of the Bulge? You made it sound like you were there too.”

  “I was. And so were other colored men. And I’m tired of keepin’ it bottled up inside me when y’all’s soldiers get to brag and have fancy parades and all I have is a uniform, a Good Conduct Medal, an honorable discharge, and my memories. Always considered myself to be a brave man, but lately I’ve been so fulla fear, I’ve even stopped relivin’ it with colored folks.” He stared off again into the distance before continuing. “I already have the answer to this question, but lemme ask it anyway. Any colored soldiers honored in that parade?”

  “No.”

  Meriwether drew his knees up to his chest and dropped his head into his hands. Abigail patted his shoulder tenderly. “Don’t be sad about it again, Daddy.”

  “Startin’ to feel like a dream,” he whispered.

  “What’d you do over there?”

  He raised his head and looked straight at me. “I drove a tank.”

  “Wow!”

  “Yessiree. I was a member of the United States Army’s 761st Tank Battalion . . . all colored. Called ourselves the Black Panthers. Motto was Come Out Fighting, and that’s exactly what we did. Proud to say we finished off a lotta Nazis and did our part to win the war.”

  “Wow!” I repeated. “That where you learned ’bout engines and all that?”

  “Had some trainin’ in high school but mastered it in the army. Spent more than a year learnin’ everything ’bout those tanks, includin’ how to take ’em apart and put ’em back together again. Most of us thought we’d never see any action. Idling in neutral same as a car, that’s what it felt like. But we were prepared, ready, and rarin’ to go . . . All we needed was someone to slip us into gear and step on the gas. Finally, General Patton did and we were deployed.”

  “So, you’re a war hero just like my uncle,” I told him.

  “Sure thought I was ’til I was shipped home, got my discharge papers, and came face-to-face with the truth.”

  Right then, Matthew called out and waved me up front to the pumps to help him. I really didn’t want the conversation to end because I had a lot of questions for Meriwether, but I had no choice. “Dang it! I gotta go.”

  “Remember the promise you made me.”

  The seriousness in his voice let me know how important it was to him, and I replied, “I will. I promise.”

  The next time I caught sight of him, he’d finished for the day. All I saw were their backs, his and Abigail’s, as they walked away, Meriwether holding her hand. I wondered why he didn’t want white folks to know about him being a tanker and what he meant by “the truth.”

  “G’night!” I hollered out.

  They both turned and waved.

  CHAPTER 24

  As soon as I got to work the next day, I saw Abigail. And to my surprise, she was talking to Lucas, who, for some reason, was still hanging around. By the time I’d finished pumping gas and washing a car’s windows, Lucas was driving off and Abigail was heading to the bathroom.

  I was anxious to know what they’d been talking about, so I waited for her outside. Before long, she opened the door. I didn’t even say hello, just began with a question. “What were you talkin’ to Lucas about?”

  “We weren’t exactly talkin’. He was askin’, I was answerin’.”

  “Askin’ what?”

  “What my name is. So I told him. Said he never knew anyone named Abigail b’fore. Then I told him it means ‘a father’s delight.’ And I dunno why, but that made him laugh.”

  “Did you say anything to him about the bicycle?”

  “No . . . not my place.”

  “Don’t talk to him again,” I commanded. “He ain’t nice about colored people.”

  “Wasn’t talkin’ . . . like I told you,” she said.

  The questions I’d stored up from the previous day were begging to be answered, so I asked one. “Why doesn’t your daddy want white folks to know ’bout him bein’ in the army?”

  She glanced toward the garage, where Meriwether was busy at work, before replying in a low voice, “Colored pastors all o
ver been warnin’ colored men who were in the service not to talk about it or show off in their uniforms.”

  “Why?”

  “’Less they wanna wind up lynched from a tree or like that colored soldier over in Batesburg who got his eyes poked out and now he’s forever blind. Would you want your daddy to be killed or forever blind?”

  The thought made me shiver. “No.”

  “Neither do I. That’s why you can’t tell anyone. My daddy and mama claim some white men don’t take to the idea of a colored man bein’ a war soldier equal to them.”

  When I’d gotten to work that day, I’d been determined to find out more about Mr. Hunter being a tanker. But Abigail had quickly turned my curiosity away from that and aimed it at the man she’d said had had his eyes poked out. Was she exaggerating the way kids sometimes do? Batesburg wasn’t far off, and I hadn’t heard anything about that. Then again, Mama and Daddy do their best to keep particularly gruesome news away from my ears. But I was twelve now, and like Meriwether said, practically a man in some places. I suppose I’d known for a while that the world, including Birdsong, USA, isn’t always pretty, but recently my understanding of that was growing.

  A car horn honking let me know a customer was waiting at the gas pumps, and since Matt was home sick with tonsillitis, I needed to skedaddle.

  Daddy was there waiting, and he made it crystal clear that I had to stay up front so that when customers drove up, they didn’t have to wait. “Not good for business,” he instructed.

  And that’s exactly what I was doing the rest of the afternoon until a ruckus near the garage caught my attention. Meriwether was whooping and hollering.

  “Lucas!” I proclaimed loudly, and ran like heck. But when I got to the garage, no one was there. Then I heard Meriwether shouting out back. I was awfully scared—until I laid eyes on them. Meriwether and Abigail were happy as could be, laughing out loud, jumping up and down. And soon I knew why. The hood of the ’36 Chevy—the car that nobody could fix—was popped and the engine was purring like a kitten. Meriwether climbed inside the car and revved the motor. “Abigail, we own us an automobile!”