by Brenda Woods
“I can’t believe it,” I told him. “No one else—”
Before I could finish, he cut me off. “What’d I tell you ’bout me, son?”
“That you’re mighty good at fixin’ things.”
Abigail cracked a smile at me and ran her hand along the car from the front fender to the back. “My daddy is truly amazin’, isn’t he?”
“He sure is,” I agreed. “Truly amazin’.”
CHAPTER 25
If Meriwether getting that Chevy to run had surprised me, Daddy was practically in a state of disbelief.
“I’m plum flabbergasted, Meriwether. I swear you’re some kinda magician.” He turned to Abigail and asked, “Did you actually see your daddy fix it or did he wave a magic wand and say ‘presto chango’?”
“Yessir, I saw him with my very own eyes. And all he was usin’ were his tools. Plus, he doesn’t even have a magic wand.”
Daddy, Meriwether, and I cracked up.
Abigail squinted her eyes at my daddy. “You’re just funnin’ with me, huh?”
“I’ll get the certificate of title transferred to your name soon as I can.” Daddy motioned to the pile of papers on his desk. “It might take a little time, though, because as you can see, I’m swamped,” he explained. “For now, I’ll write a note in case of anything unforeseen.” Daddy scribbled something on paper and handed it to Meriwether. “That should do for now.”
“No hurry . . . and sir, all the backed-up cars are fixed, so seein’ as Matthew’s off sick, I’ll spend the rest of my time helpin’ Gabriel out front at the pump. Unless you got somethin’ else that needs doin’.”
“That’d be helpful to me, Meriwether”—Daddy glanced at his papers again—“and allow me to finish up here.”
And so, Abigail, book in hand, happily skipped off to the garage to read while Meriwether and I worked.
Cheerfully, he greeted each customer, humming now and then. “Havin’ a hard time believin’ it. That I actually own me an automobile.” He let out a joyful hoot.
“Told ya you would,” I reminded him.
A smile parted his lips as he recalled the conversation we’d had. “That you did, didn’t you? That you did.”
After a spell, probably because the clouds had decided to give us a sprinkling of rain, the flow of customers came to a halt, so we found shelter and sat.
“I’ve been meanin’ to ask you some questions,” I told him.
He chuckled. “You mean start one of your interrogations?”
Most other times, a funny accusation like that would have made me grin, but because my thoughts were serious, I didn’t. “It’s just I was wonderin’ about somethin’ Abigail told me today—”
Meriwether interrupted me. “Abigail already confessed she told you why we try to keep quiet ’bout me havin’ been in the army.”
“Yessir . . . and also ’bout the man over in Batesburg who had his eyes poked out.”
“That’s a horrendous tale . . . Not sure it should be told to someone your age.”
“But Abigail knows, and she’s only ten.”
His eyes lost their light. “Abigail’s a southern colored girl . . . Some things havta be known by colored children for their safety. Mosta our young ones lose their innocence long before mosta y’all do.”
“Still, if you don’t mind, sir, I’d like to know.”
“Got a thirst for knowledge . . . that it?”
“Yessir, spoze. I’m twelve now. Plus, I wanna know the truth.”
“Sometimes the truth ain’t pretty, Gabriel . . . Sometimes it’s ugly.”
“I’d like to know it just the same.”
Meriwether stared off into the beyond and started talking. “Ever since we got back from overseas, me and my army buddies have been hearin’ tales about colored soldiers who’d survived the war only to come home to the South and be murdered because of it. Wearin’ a uniform made ’em sittin’ ducks, and displayin’ medals was much the same as wearin’ a bull’s-eye. Seems some white folks had trouble acceptin’ that we colored soldiers not only had done our part but are as American as they are.”
“And the man over in Batesburg?” I asked.
“Sergeant Isaac Woodard is his name. Happened back in February . . . Was still wearin’ his uniform when he was pulled off the bus by the police. He was beaten and thrown in jail, had his eyes gouged out, and was denied appropriate medical attention.”
“But why?”
“From what Pastor told us, the only crimes he committed were askin’ to use the restroom, bein’ a colored man, and bein’ in a military uniform.”
“But those aren’t crimes,” I said.
“Got one set of laws for us and another set for y’all,” Meriwether said. “I can give you more truth if you’re ready to swallow it. Most white folks in the South ain’t, but you seem like you might be ready . . . You ready?”
“Think so.”
“Half free ain’t free. Bein’ overseas gave us a taste of real freedom. And once we returned, havin’ experienced that liberty made it hard to stomach not havin’ it here . . . in the country we’d fought for, the country a lot of colored men gave their lives for. I realize that where we made our mistake was thinkin’ it’d be better when we got home to places here in the South. Instead, in some ways it felt worse. It was as if the cruelty of Jim Crow had been multiplied. Can’t do this . . . not allowed here. Bein’ called a boy when what I am is a man. And look at the school my Abigail has to attend. How different is it from yours?”
Having already noticed this when I’d peered through the window into the colored school that day, I hung my head and said, “I know.”
“Don’t you be ashamed, son . . . Not like it’s your doin’.”
“Ain’t right.”
“Sorry, Mr. Gabriel . . . Be nice if the truth always tasted good, wouldn’t it?”
“Yessir, it’d be mighty nice.”
Right then, two cars pulled up at the same time.
“Suppose we have to end this serious conversation and earn our wage,” he commented.
I half smiled at him. “Spoze so.”
At closing time that evening, Daddy and I watched as Meriwether and Abigail climbed into their car. It was still raining off and on, but a full moon had appeared from behind the clouds, lighting up the night.
“Y’all will never know what this means to me. Thanks again,” Meriwether told us.
Daddy gave a slight nod of his head. “You’re welcome.”
“See ya tomorrow,” I said.
“But not me,” Abigail informed us. “My mama’ll be home tonight. Just wait ’til she sees our car. Bye-bye, Gabriel and Mr. Jake.”
As they drove off, I watched as the Chevy’s headlights made the wet street glisten and the red taillights got smaller and smaller until they finally turned the corner and were gone. But the truth I’d learned that day was whirling around like a spinning top inside my head.
CHAPTER 26
There are things you shouldn’t be worried about when your punishment is at long last over and you finally get to ride your bicycle again—things like whether your bicycle will get stolen too or whether Betty Babcock might come barreling at you again in her yellow Roadmaster. But those were exactly the things that were on my mind as I rode my bicycle to work. As I’d promised Mama and Daddy, I obeyed every safety law, looked both ways before I pedaled across intersections, and, most importantly, stopped at red lights. Sheriff Hector Monk sailed by me in his patrol car and waved.
Thankfully, Matt was back at work when I arrived. Before helping him, I took my bicycle inside.
“Hi, Mr. Hunter,” I said. “I’ma park this inside the garage, if that’s all right with you,” I told him.
He rose up from the hood of the car where his head had been buried. “In case the bicycle thief makes a return visit?”<
br />
“Yessir, considerin’ what happened to yours.”
“Be glad to keep my eyes on it and my ears alert. You’re bein’ mighty safe on it now, ain’t you?”
“Awfully safe.”
He smiled. “Glad to know that. I would hate to have anything bad happen to a friend.”
“Friend? Thank you, sir.”
“I bet I know what you’re thinkin’ . . . but age has little to do with genuine friendship. Recipe for friendship is liking and trust. Respect gets mixed up in there too.”
I thought for a minute about Tink being one of my best friends and replied, “That sounds right,” parked the Schwinn in the corner, and headed off to do my work.
Matthew looked practically good as new, eyes clear and blue, and together we manned the station. He was finally letting me check the oil without him watching over me, and I was getting the hang of the tire pressure gauge too.
The sun was shining, and for an August day in Birdsong, it wasn’t too hot since the wind was blowing just enough.
Daddy was on the car lot, and it looked like he was about to make a sale. I was glad, because the night before, he’d promised Mama and me a weekend trip to Hilton Head if he did.
* * *
WHAT HAPPENED THAT evening began to convince me that Meriwether had really meant it when he’d called me his friend.
I was returning tools to the garage when I saw him. As usual, he was taking his lunch break, sitting propped against the wall.
“You in a hurry?” he asked.
“No. Kinda slow today. Plus, Matthew’s back.”
“Good. I have something to show you,” Meriwether said as he pulled out his wallet.
Wondering what it could be, I quickly settled in beside him.
“Picture of me and my tank crew in the 761st right before we got deployed,” he explained, and presented a black-and-white snapshot.
Five smiling colored soldiers in uniform stood beside a tank.
Meriwether’s face beamed. “That’s an M4 Sherman tank.”
I examined each face until I picked him out and pointed. “This is you, huh?”
“Yes indeed. You have a good eye.”
“Who are the others?”
One by one he identified them. “This man here was our commander. We called him Mozart, because whenever he had a break, his lips were on his harmonica, composin’, he said . . . Real name was Emmanuel Bowman, outta Denver, Colorado. The one salutin’ was a college boy named Vernon Morse from New Orleans, our ammunition loader. We called him Doc ’cause that’s what he aimed to be someday. Was all set to enter Meharry Medical College in Nashville but got drafted.” Meriwether’s eyes filled with water, but he didn’t cry. “He lost an arm and leg . . . and all his dreams. Of course, that there is me. I was the driver.”
“What’d they call you?”
“They called me Meri. Used to tease me with that kids’ nursery rhyme . . . ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb.’ And this here is Fred Ratner, the gunner . . . We called him Rat for short. He was from Los Angeles. Died instantly right in front of me out there in the Ardennes Forest. We lost him and Mozart during the same battle on the same day.” He hesitated before continuing. “And that smilin’ fella is Charlie Denton, my co-driver. He was born in Alabama . . . Nicknamed him Custard on account of him havin’ yella skin.
“Charlie’s settled up in Michigan now, workin’ at the Ford automobile plant. Always after me to join him. Says he’ll have a job waitin’ for me. My wife, though, she’s not fond of the cold, and besides that, she has her church work here,” he remarked.
Meriwether Hunter studied the picture again and sighed. “Had some good times with those men, and, of course, very hard ones too. One thing I can honestly say about all of us: we were proud to serve our country.”
Right then, Patrick startled us. “Hey, y’all. Whatcha lookin’ at?”
We’d been so focused on the photograph, neither of us had heard him approach.
Hurriedly, Meriwether slipped the photo into the pocket of his coveralls. “Nuthin’ you’d be interested in,” he said as he stood and headed back to the garage. In his haste, he’d left a ripe peach sitting on top of his lunch bag.
Patrick, noticing the peach, called out, “Hey, uncle!” Then, remembering how I felt about him calling all colored men uncle, he glanced my way and asked, “What’s his name again?”
“Mr. Meriwether Hunter.”
“Hey, Mr. Meriwether Hunter . . . if you’re not gonna eat this peach, can I have it?”
Meriwether poked his head out of the garage. “Yes, Patrick.”
“Thank you.”
“Welcome.”
Patrick walked alongside me to the front of the station. “If you’re wonderin’ what I’m doin’ here . . . truth is I didn’t have nuthin’ else to do,” he said between taking bites from the peach. “Plus, my daddy said a grease monkey—that’s the same thing as a mechanic—is a good thing to be and I oughtta be over here learnin’ as much as I can even if I’m not gettin’ paid for it. And he also claims that just ’cuz your heart’s set on somethin’, like mine is on becomin’ a navy frogman, doesn’t mean it’s gonna really come true, so it’d be smart to learn somethin’ else if I can . . . and bein’ a mechanic is that somethin’ else. Whatcha think ’bout that?”
“I think it’s time for you to talk to my daddy.”
“Mornings okay with you?” Daddy asked him, when Patrick blurted out his proposal.
Patrick tugged on his swim goggles. “Sure. I spoze swimmin’ could wait ’til the afternoon.”
“Good—you can hitch a ride with me.”
And that was how Patrick Kelly became the unpaid apprentice mechanic at Jake’s and how he came to be with us that morning when the mostly right-side-up world of mostly quiet Birdsong, USA, for a while turned upside down.
CHAPTER 27
It was after ten p.m. on Sunday, but someone was leaning on the doorbell and banging on our front door. I leaped out of bed.
“What in kingdom come!” Daddy fussed. Mama and Daddy were already in their nightclothes.
It was Meriwether, breathing fast, his eyes red and looking wild. In my daddy’s language, he was all fueled up. “It was him! I know it! Tried to kill my girl,” he hollered. “Tried to kill my girl!”
“Who?” Daddy asked.
“Lucas!”
“Is Abigail hurt?” Daddy asked.
“No, she’s fine . . . over at the church with my wife, Pastor, and some of our men, keepin’ watch, just in case.”
“Come inside and have a seat, Mr. Hunter,” Mama softly beckoned.
Somewhat reluctantly, he stepped over the threshold into the house, but instead of sitting, he paced.
“Tell me,” Daddy said.
“A few hours ago, just this evenin’, we got home from a special church service in Charleston. I parked our car out back and we came in through the rear door. After a while, Abigail notices what looks like a gift on the front porch. ‘Daddy, look. There’s a box,’ she says. And I figured ’cause last week was her birthday, someone from the church musta left it for her as a surprise, you know. So I tell her to go on and get it. And she goes out to the porch. ‘It’s for me,’ she says. ‘Got my name on it. Abigail, A Father’s Delight,’ and me and Phoebe are smilin’ and I tell her go ahead and open it . . . not thinkin’ ’til she calls out, ‘Somethin’ inside the box is movin’ around,’ and just as I get outside, she gets the box open . . . and it strikes at her, missin’ her by no more than a few inches.”
“What?” I asked.
“A diamondback rattlesnake.”
Mama let out a gasp. “Lord, no!”
“Lucky for me there was a shovel close by, which I grabbed and jammed into its neck.”
“You kill it?” Daddy asked.
“With one blow.”
<
br /> “And what has you convinced it was Lucas? How would he know your girl’s name and what it meant?” Daddy questioned.
I answered, “’Cuz he asked her and she told him. I saw him talkin’ to her.”
“Abigail claimed the same thing, but there’s something else. This was in the box too. Knew I’d lost it somewhere the other day after I’d shown it to Gabriel. Now I figure it fell outta my coveralls in the garage and Lucas musta found it.” It was the picture of Meriwether and his tank crew. “Had to be him, I tell you. Had to be.”
“You talk to the sheriff?”
Meriwether locked eyes with Daddy. “For what? Got no proof. B’sides, even if there’d been a witness, colored folk accusin’ a white man would only likely bring me and mine more trouble.”
“But Hector Monk’s reasonable and a good sheriff,” Mama claimed.
Meriwether turned his gaze to her. “Not aimin’ to disrespect you, ma’am, especially in your own house, but the way my people see it, like most sheriffs in these parts, he appears to belong to y’all. Colored people ’round here, we got nuthin’ to protect us but our wits, and sometimes even those fail us. Now and then, the good Lord takes over.”
“But a child’s involved. It hasta be reported to the authorities. What if she’d been killed?” Mama argued.
“If she’d been killed, it’s likely I wouldn’t be here talkin’ to y’all . . . I’d be—” Abruptly he stopped and took a deep breath. “Gotta be careful what I say in case y’all wind up under oath in a court of law, don’t I?”
Daddy pleaded with him, “Promise me, Meriwether, that you won’t take the law into your own hands.”
Meriwether opened his hands and stared at his palms. “Been keepin’ promises all my life—promised to be loyal to my country and bravely serve, which I did. And for the most part, I’ve even kept the Ten Commandments ’cept for the one that forbids us to covet . . . Hard for a colored man to see some of y’all havin’ what looks like heaven on earth and not long for it myself.” His tears began flowing. “I’ve been a good man, mostly kind. As honest as this life would let me be.” He hunched his shoulders. “Would think this would be a sweet place, named the way it is. But even a good colored man can’t be a real man in this town called Birdsong.”