by Leah Weiss
What she tells us about him before we meet is flimsy: he’s a captain transferred from Camp Butner to Riverton and is coming to Sunday dinner. As the arrival hour nears, we gravitate to the parlor like mites to honey. Lydia watches from the front window and shouts, “He’s here, he’s here—and he’s riding a motorcycle.”
Irene rushes into the parlor, still primping with her hair, glancing in the mirror by the door, checking her teeth for lipstick. “Y’all back away,” she orders. “Shoo. He’s gonna get scared by the sheer volume of you.”
We step out of the parlor and into the kitchen and try to act natural but look plain silly trying. Grady leans against the wall, chewing on a toothpick, and stares at the ceiling. Lydia, Cora, and Bert sit primly with their hands in their laps at the table that’s already set for dinner. I pick up a plate of biscuits from the table and stand there like a nincompoop—a word from the Latin phrase non compos mentis. I am definitely not of right mind. We’re holding our breath on this red-letter day.
Irene is pretty enough and smart enough but she’s persnickety. Of course, all the young men who have a lick of sense have gone to war to have their courage tried, and those left behind and out of uniform aren’t worth salt on a potato. But we’re intrigued by what kind of man in uniform could get Irene’s attention and finagle a dinner invitation. She blushes at the mention of his name: Byron Toots. Captain Byron Toots. Captain Toots.
From his name, he belongs in a Walt Disney cartoon with Mickey Mouse in Steamboat Willie. Toot-toot. No matter how you say it, it comes out funny. Mama warns us not to tease this man who is special to Irene. We figure he must be movie-star handsome and smart without being pretentious. Bert and I think he must look like Cary Grant or be as kind as Jimmy Stewart or as steady as John Wayne. I have butterflies in my belly, waiting to know what charm will walk into our lives and bowl us over.
He knocks, and Irene opens the door right away and says, “You made it,” sounding surprised even though we already know he made it. That’s the kind of ludicrous way she’s been acting. “So glad you could come to dinner. Let me take your hat and coat. You look positively frozen.” Her words are sweet. Her usual hard edge is soft. Then Byron Toots walks into the kitchen.
We are stunned.
For starters, he isn’t nearly as tall as Irene, who isn’t tall to begin with. And despite his army training and his rank of captain, he has a softness about him that’s almost girly. It’s a lot of things making this so: his stumpy legs and round face and chubby cheeks blazing red from the frigid ride. His bushy eyebrows look like black caterpillars hanging above gray eyes. Sadly, everything about him goes with his name. Byron Toots. So far, nobody has giggled because we’re in shock. Irene smiles down on Byron like she found the pot of gold.
Then he starts with Mama. He takes her hand in both of his and says in a rich voice sounding better than a radio announcer, “Miz Brown, I’m honored to join you today.” Then Daddy. “Mr. Brown, it’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.” He greets Grady, Bert, and Helen, as Baby Girl gums a silver rattle. He calls us all by name without being introduced, and he looks us in the eye, and we feel honored to be caught in his gaze, like he knows us better than we know ourselves.
I feel important in the presence of Byron Toots.
He grows tall before my eyes.
Irene met Captain Toots at her day job working beside editor Drake Cunningham, whose fingers are permanently stained with printing ink. A sharpened pencil lives above his right ear and a lit cigarette between his lips. Drake Cunningham is always on the job, paying attention, asking questions. I have an affinity with Drake Cunningham’s investigative mind. He’s as close to a detective as Riverton has, and he decides what is newsworthy. Irene works in advertising and longs to write real journalism instead of working with local businesses like the Majestic, Dixie Motors, Hollingston Pharmacy and Soda Fountain, and Yetta’s clothing store, but they pay the newspaper’s bills. Out of the six pages of newsprint, four are allocated to advertising. Some days, Irene brings home more than news about sales.
Last week at supper, she said, “I found out about those airplanes we saw at midnight on New Year’s Eve.”
That got our attention. We all looked up and waited. She took her sweet time buttering her cornbread, taking a bite, chewing slow, and swallowing, then went on to say, “I found out a while back but wasn’t sure how much I should say, since it’s sort of a secret.”
Grady said, “It can’t be that much of a secret if they told you.”
Irene ignores his barb. “It wasn’t told to me directly, but it came out at our newspaper meeting.”
Mama said, “If it’s confidential—if you aren’t supposed to tell anybody—we understand. We never want to put you in an uncomfortable position.”
I cut a look at Bert and Grady. We think differently.
“What can you tell us?” I asked to nudge her telling along.
Irene next ate her butter beans. She likes to eat one food at a time. “Drake said I could tell you it involves Russian pilots and test planes.” She shocked the bejesus out of us.
“Russian pilots and test planes?” Mama put down her fork and plopped back in her chair. “What are you talking about? Russia is our ally, but what are Russian pilots doing here?”
“They’re in Elizabeth City.”
“How far is that, David? Fifty miles? Sixty?”
“It’s close. Real close. Especially by airplane.”
Mama’s voice grew tight. “But what are they doing in Elizabeth City? Why can’t they stay in their own country? Keep the war over there, far away from here?”
Irene went on. “They’re learning to fly a new kind of airplane that takes off and lands on water. When they’re good enough, they can bomb German submarines,” she whispered, “the Axis subs off our coast of Carolina.”
Mama sucked in a bigger breath. “The Nazis are that close?”
“There are things the government isn’t saying out loud. They don’t want to hurt morale or endanger the war effort, but that doesn’t change frightening facts,” she said softly that suppertime last week. “I have friends in Elizabeth City. The Russian pilots are right out in the open. They shop in town and go to the picture show. They speak English, so there’s no confusing why they’re there. International waters are only twenty-four miles off our coast, but I don’t think German subs are respectful of that dividing line.”
And now Irene’s man, Captain Byron Toots, has been brought to our table as a vital resource. He will be our inside man with inside information. He knows our names and smiles special at Irene. He can tell us what’s true. We know how to keep a secret—or at least not tell too many people.
After dinner with polite conversation, Daddy and Byron and Irene stay at the kitchen table over extra coffee while dishes get done. They smoke Lucky Strikes, and to my way of thinking, the smoke floats above their heads like gathering storm clouds, foretelling.
“So, Byron,” Daddy begins, and Irene fidgets. “What’s your take on this war? Is it going to end any time soon?”
“Wish I had a crystal ball, Mr. Brown, but I don’t. Don’t believe in guessing either.”
“Irene said you’re from Lynchburg, Virginia, and got your English degree from the university in Charlottesville. But why are you in Riverton? Don’t we already have recruiters signing up our boys?” Daddy blows smoke rings. I love smoke rings.
“I’m not a recruiter, sir. I’m the first officer in charge of the soldiers that’ll guard the POWs. The Germans will be for hire at thirty cents an hour. I’m here to get the camp ready for their arrival in two weeks.”
The rest of us know the Nazis’ arrival is imminent. We’ve heard talk since last summer about POW camps springing up as far west as Asheville and east to Wilmington. It’s only Mama denying it’s real. She quietly leaves the room.
Irene stands in the yard waving while Byron Toot
s rides away on his motorcycle, and Bert and I head to the hayloft. We wedge between bales of hay we’ve shifted to fit our bottoms and backs.
I whisper, “Something big is coming and we only have to be patient a little longer before the tinder box explodes and lights up our world and life won’t be boring anymore.”
Chapter 26
Bert: Hero
Me and Lu help Mama at Saturday market, and we ride by the prison camp coming and going, but Mama won’t look. She keeps her eyes on the road. Lu says, “It’s like a temporary town within a town with those neat lines of tents, isn’t it?” She adds, “And I don’t think anybody could break through that powerful gate, do you?” But nothing distracts Mama from her worry till she goes to planning a party for a bona fide hero.
Whiz Mayhew is the real deal. Even before he got a medal for being brave, everybody’s got a tale bout him. Mama tells about him reading thick books from our library. Daddy tells of him lifting feed sacks like they was clouds. Grady remembers frog gigging in the Dismal Swamp when a six-foot water moccasin fell in the boat; Whiz grabbed it with his bare hands and throwed it twenty feet. He’s smart enough to go to college, and he wants to be a teacher. That’s what I hear bout Whiz Mayhew before I even set eyes on him.
Mama’s thin face lights up with happiness. “I want it to be the biggest party—with everybody and anybody the Mayhews want to invite. It’ll be our way of thanking them for their help during the sickness. We’ll clean out the barn and string up lanterns, and folks will put together a feast to rival homecoming at church.” She grabs her coat and heads to the Mayhew place. Me and Lu tag along.
There’s a chill in the February day, but Gertie’s got the windows and door open, chasing out crumbs and cobwebs and whatnots. Sugar is at the clothesline, beating to death two thin rugs. Divine smells come from the woodstove. When Gertie sees us, her face is bright with joy. She shouts, “Glory be to God. Can’t hardly rest a minute before I think of something else that needs doing. I’m cooking his favorite foods, done scrubbed the floor, and gonna wash windows next.”
Mama laughs. “It’s his family he wants to see. No need to wear yourself out. But I have an idea and want your thoughts.”
Next thing we know, Saturday, February twenty-sixth gets circled on the calendar, and we got a party to plan. Everybody wants to help, but Mama puts Aunt Fanniebelle in charge cause she’s good at telling people what to do. We stay away from the Mayhew’s private homecoming on Thursday, but on Friday, we make potato salad, two pans of brownies, two pecan pies, and a platter of ham biscuits. The barn is swept, and long planks are laid on sawhorses to hold the bounty that will arrive. Oil lanterns hang from ropes to light the shadows. Lu helps Cora and Lydia make an OUR HERO sign with stars and flowers, and Grady nails it to the rafter. On Saturday morning, armloads of cut pine greenery fill the corners and Mama’s yellow daffodils she forced on the windowsill line the center of the table. It’s as special a party place as I ever seen.
It will start at one o’clock in the kindest part of the day, and the sun shines like we hoped. Aunt Fanniebelle and Uncle Nigel arrive early, and he runs round to open the door. He spies Daddy coming outta the barn and says, “David, did you know I used to be a banker?” Daddy’s already chuckling when Uncle Nigel says, “But then I lost interest.”
“That’s a good one,” Daddy says, but I don’t get it. How Lu’s uncle makes his money is a mystery cause he’s got a lotta free time for a working man. I heard tell it was the railroad and the river, but neither of them things ever give me a nickel.
I hug Aunt Fanniebelle cause we’re friends after my birthday visit a month back when I took a pink bubble bath and got tea poured from a silver pot and met Weegee. Me and Lu don’t say Weegee’s name out loud when folks are around. We don’t want to jinx her powers.
Aunt Fanniebelle tells us what’s gonna happen. “We’ll have the blessing and let Whiz talk first before we eat since he’s the reason for the party. Then after dinner, folks can play baseball before the music starts.”
Sounds like heaven.
They start coming, colored and whites alike cause the Brown farm don’t have a faded white line people can’t cross. Nobody’s turned away from story time or this hero’s party cause here is a blending place. In cars, dusty trucks, and farm wagons, on bicycles, mules, and by foot they come to celebrate. They come on time because that’s what folks do, and I know a lot of em. Helen’s got Baby Girl and talks to Cornell and his wife, Rosalee, with their baby girl, Amee. Gertie’s sister Clara wears her go-to-church hat and stands with Preacher Perlie and Trula Freed. The children play tag and jump rope and hopscotch. When the cuckoo clock strikes one, the yard is full and everybody’s here—cept the Mayhews.
Mama shoots Daddy a look when we catch sight of Yancy coming round the house. They walk over to him so they can talk in private. Yancy points back to his house and shakes his head. The three grown-ups head toward the Mayhew place.
Lu stares at em walking and says, “Yancy Mayhew and Nancy Drew sound a lot alike, don’t they? I didn’t know that till I was sick and heard Gertie calling her husband’s full name. Yancy, Nancy. May-Hew, Drew…”
The grown-ups stand there lost as to what to do when Aunt Fanniebelle asks Preacher Perlie to say the blessing and people to start eating so they’re doing something besides waiting. A line forms on each side of the table in the barn. Everybody brought their best dishes. Our plates are way too small.
At dessert time, when gingerbread, pecan pies, and twelve-layer chocolate cakes are cut and make you forget about ration stamps, we see all four Mayhews coming alongside Mama and Daddy. Whiz is on crutches, and he’s got a black patch on his eye. Sugar wears her lazy eye-patch, too, the one she forgets most days. Maybe now she wants to look like her brother. He’s as thin as a rail and everybody wants to rush up on him and pat him on the back or give him a hug, but his coming late makes em hold back. They part like the Red Sea when he walks through the crowd. He don’t say a word and settles in a seat Daddy points to. He sets his crutches on the ground and his bad leg up on a milk stool. Nobody knows what to do, and they turn shy and say, “Glad you’re home, Whiz.” “You gave em heck, son.” “Thank you for your service.”
Sugar gets her brother some food, but he don’t eat. I see a jagged pink scar on his brown cheek. He’s twenty years old, but he’s got gray hair on his head.
Lu drags me over to meet Whiz and pushes me right in front of him. “This here’s my best friend, Bert Tucker. She came last summer, and she’s family now.”
Whiz nods, but his good eye don’t settle on me.
Grady says, “Hey, buddy, what kind of guns did you shoot? How many Nazis did you kill? Did you bring home any souvenirs?” but Whiz don’t say. He’s looking somewhere else.
I whisper to Grady, “Leave him be. The man’s got enough on his mind,” and with that, Whiz’s one eye latches on me like a frog on a fly.
“What kind a girl name is Bert?” are his first words.
“Bout as good as Whiz for a boy.”
My sass turns our group quiet till Whiz says, “Fair enough. Take a seat.” Me and Lu sit on the cold ground beside Sugar, who don’t leave her brother’s side till he asks for a piece a pecan pie. When she’s gone, he says, “This here’s a load of horse crap. A lot of hoopla for nothing.”
“That’s not true,” Lu says. “It’s not for nothing. You’re our hero.”
That starts Whiz to laughing, and his laughing turns crazy. Tears roll out his good eye and from under the black patch. He can’t hardly catch his breath. He snorts and slaps his skinny leg, throws his head back, and opens his mouth wide. Spittle strings like spiderwebs. Everybody’s looking at him but not in a good way. His mama hurries over to his side, her shoulders and arms twitching. Whiz’s head snaps toward her like a rattler, and his voice turns cold. “Stop. Don’t touch me, woman.” The crowd steps back from the heat of his words. Ther
e’s pain on Gertie’s face and pain on Whiz Mayhew’s face. He is a broke man.
Folks start collecting their dishes and head home. They’ll give kind words to Whiz another day. Yancy puts his arm round Gertie’s shoulders and leads her into our house. Lu, Grady, and me stay out in the yard with Whiz and Sugar. A cold wind runs over the ground and shakes leaves. Like a bad omen, a gray cloud blots out the sun.
Whiz reaches in his back pocket and pulls out a brown bottle. He takes a long swallow and makes a sour face. For the first time, he sees us. He talks low, letting us inside his pain. “Never touched liquor before the war. Wanted to keep myself healthy and strong… Then this war took me from a farm boy with a future to a shithole.” He takes another swig of moonshine, and his good eye settles on dirt at his foot. “That’s another thing I never touched before—cuss words. Now they run outta my damn mouth all rotten and putrid. I’m messed up, man. From Casablanca through the Strait of Gibraltar over to France then Italy. Places on a map I didn’t know could hold such ugliness. Hellholes. Every one of em.”
All I know about the war is what Daddy and Byron and the radio says, and they say we’re winning. Nobody talks bout the bad stuff. It ain’t nice to shine a light on the ugly, but the ugly came home with Whiz and sits in our front yard.
He rattles on. “I come up on the first and third ranger battalion—the whole lot of em dead on the ground, covered in maggots, and the putrid smell made me puke. I can still smell that rot. They been lying there so long their rifles rusted. Nobody gave a shit about em.”
We are still as stones.
“One time, we got bombed by our own planes. Can you believe that? Them stupid American pilots dropped bombs on Americans. I hid in a farmhouse where an old couple sat at their kitchen table holding hands while the bombs dropped all around and the windows rattled. I crawled under that kitchen table and stared at their dusty shoes. The old lady had holes in her black stockings.”
Whiz takes another swallow of hooch, then takes in a big breath and says, “One time, I was ordered to check a town to see if any Krauts were there. I went house to house. I busted through a door, holding my rifle at the ready, and found four Nazis playing cards like they were on holiday. I told em to git outside. Told em they were prisoners of the U.S. of A. But when they walked in front of me out the door, the Germans shot their own people so they wouldn’t be POWs, but they didn’t shoot me. Like I wasn’t worth shooting. It’s craziness in this war you can’t make up. Insanity that don’t make a lick of sense.”