Aim (22 page)

I bolted up the steps and opened the screen door. Once we were inside, it was like Momma turned into an army sergeant, the way she told Miss Pauline where to sit and me and Dudley to stand right there by the door and wait. Then she went into the kitchen. I could see the women in there—more than just the ones who'd been on the porch. Some were working at the kitchen table, turning bed sheets into bandages.

Momma brought every last one of them into the living room. They filed in, looking confused and a little nervous. Some of them carried bandages. As if they'd need them to treat the wounded.

They filled the sofa and chairs and Momma stood in
the kitchen doorway. Leroy was pacing in front of the fireplace. I couldn't help but notice his hands were curled into fists. “Junior. You have some explaining to do.”

“Yes, sir.” I didn't look at Momma. Or the rest of those women. I just couldn't. I stuttered around until finally I pushed the words past the knot in my throat. “Leroy let me use his truck, and I promised to put oil in it. But after I left Garland's place we went to the river for a quick swim. I reckon I forgot about the oil.”

“Heaven help us,” said Momma. I could tell she hoped it wasn't what she thought it was. But she couldn't live with Pop for all those years and not know things about cars—whether she wanted to or not.

“The engine went out.”

Momma gasped. “Have mercy, Junior!” The words came out of her like a shot from a 12-gauge. She grabbed ahold of the doorjamb.

Lottie Scronce got up from her chair and took Momma by the arm. “You sit down, Bessie.” Momma kind of sagged into the armchair just a few feet away from me.

My mind was scrambling for some way to make this all better. “I'll pay for it, Momma. Don't you worry. Mr. Hefner said I can work at the mill if I want to. I'll be a doffer. I learned how to do that.”

Momma sat there with both hands over her mouth. “Have mercy,” she said again. Only this time the words were muffled.

I wanted to tell everybody, including Dudley, to go away and leave me there with just Momma so I could convince her that everything would be okay. But the truth was, she hadn't heard the half of it, and the next part was going to be even harder than the first.

Miss Pauline spoke up then. “I'm sorry, Bessie. But I'm afraid there's more. Junior, tell her what else you did.”

The living room turned so quiet that all I could hear was the ticking of the clock on the mantel. I snuck a peek at Momma. Her hands were still over her mouth like they were stuck there. And her eyes—I saw the fear in them. Because she knew, as bad as things were, they were about to be worse.

“We … I mean, I. I wanted to know about Pop and what happened that night. I meant it for good, Momma. Honest, I did. I don't know why we borrowed the Hinkle sisters' car without asking. I don't know what got into me.”

I started going on and on, talking too much, trying to explain that I didn't mean to be bad. I wanted to be a man and take care of her, but somehow it was like ever since Pop died, everything was so mixed up inside.

Momma was sitting in that same chair where she sat the night the deputy came. Only thing was, when she learned about Pop dying, she held herself together. When I told her about me stealing Miss Pauline's car, she fell all to pieces.

While she sat there crying, I kept saying, “I'm sorry, Momma. I'm sorry. I'll make it right with Leroy and Miss Pauline. I'll make it up to you. I didn't mean to shame you, Momma.”

“Shame
me?”
said Momma. She sat up stiff as Miss Pauline and looked at me. “The person you have just shamed in front of the whole community, Axel Bledsoe, Junior, is your own self. And if you want to make it up to anybody,
that
is who you need to make it up to. Look at these women.” She waved her arm in a big circle that took in the whole room.

Momma waited while I worked up my courage to glance around the room. Her friends sat—every one of them on the edge of their seat—staring at me.

“These are your witnesses, Junior. They will be watching while you earn yourself some respect.”

“Yes, ma'am,” I said. Standing there, full of shame, I realized something for the first time. Respect wasn't something another person could take away from me or Momma. Those women knew that Pop was a drunk. But that didn't change who Momma was. They'd respected her all along.

They could respect
me
again, too, even though right that minute it didn't seem likely. But
I
was the only one who could earn it.

May 1942

“Rise and shine, Junior!” That was Momma calling from the kitchen. I pulled myself up out of sleep, but I didn't want to face Monday morning. All night I'd dreamed about that truck sitting by the side of the road. And spools of white thread spinning and clacking in my head.

I wasn't sure I could make it through even a week of being a doffer. Just the thought of chasing those spools around and breathing in all that lint made me want to lock myself in my room with Granddaddy.

But Momma had told Leroy and Miss Pauline they could punish me as they saw fit. Leroy had said he sure hated to do this, but he thought it only right that I should pay for it. Jerm Foster could do the repairs.

You would think a schoolteacher would have plenty of punishment tricks up her sleeve, but Miss Pauline wanted time to think of a fitting consequence. I was supposed to talk to her and Miss Dinah about that today, as soon as Miss Pauline came home from school.

“Junior!” Momma called again.

For some reason Granddaddy's radio was off and he was still in bed. I pulled on my britches and then my shirt, and while I was buttoning it up I noticed something. Granddaddy sure was quiet. He wasn't snoring, not even a little bit. And I didn't hear him breathing.

I stopped buttoning my shirt and stared. His mouth hung open like he'd been caught in the middle of a snore. His eyes were shut, and he wasn't moving. His left arm hung off the side of the bed, so I picked it up, and sure enough, it was cold. I placed it across his stomach.

The feel of his body with no life—it hit me like a Judgment Day sermon from Reverend Price. Granddaddy had been in my room for close on a year now, and I'd spent most of that time wishing he was someplace else. Wishing he'd be quiet.

And now he was.

“Momma!” I yelled. “It's Granddaddy. I think he's dead.”

She came running. She wiped her hands on her apron and put them on his forehead like she was checking for a fever, then shook her head real slow. She turned to me. “Run up to the Hinkle sisters' and call Dr. Johnson.”

I finished buttoning my shirt while I went out the door, and I combed my hair with my fingers on the way up the road. Then I thought,
What in the world is the big hurry? He's gone, and rushing won't bring him back
. So I slowed down and caught my breath and tried not to think about whether I was sorry or relieved.

That silly song went through my head.
He went to bed and he bumped his head and didn't wake up in the morning
.

Miss Dinah was outside in the vegetable garden. “Could I use your telephone?” I asked.

“Well, good morning, Junior.”

“Good morning, Miss Dinah. I didn't mean to be rude.”

“Is everything all right?”

I shook my head. “It's Granddaddy. He's dead. I need to call Dr. Johnson.”

Miss Dinah gasped. “Dear me,” she said. She started peeling off her garden gloves. “You go ahead and use the phone, Junior. I'll be right in.”

I went through the back porch and there was Miss Pauline cleaning up the breakfast dishes. “Why, Junior!” she said. “What brings you here?”

“Miss Dinah said I could come in. Granddaddy's dead and I need to use the telephone. If you don't mind.”

“Of course.” Miss Pauline motioned toward the living room, but I knew right where the telephone was since I'd used it plenty of times. I'd memorized Dr. Johnson's number, too. I called and he promised to arrange for a coroner to pick up the body.

Before I was off the phone, I heard Miss Dinah come inside and wash her hands.

“Sit,” she said, pointing to the kitchen table. She pulled three small glasses down from the cupboard. Then
she reached into her Frigidaire for a bottle of Cheerwine. She divided it between the glasses and handed one to me.

Miss Pauline fussed. “Cheerwine at this time of day! What are you thinking, Dinah?”

“I am thinking Junior needs a little cheer. There's no law saying a body can't enjoy a soda at six-thirty in the morning.”

Miss Pauline pushed her glass to me and poured herself a cup of tea. It was real quiet while we had our drinks. I reckon none of us knew what to say. But I owed them an apology. Finally I worked up my courage.

“Miss Dinah. Miss Pauline. I'm real sorry about stealing your car. I'll make it up to you. I promise. I'll work your garden or fix things around here. Or whatever you say.”

Miss Pauline set her teacup in its saucer. “Whatever I say?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Well then, Junior. I have given this much consideration, and what I want is for you to go back to school.”

Back to school? I'd have to do ninth grade all over again. And Miss Hinkle would be my teacher.

It was like she could read my mind. “I'm retiring for certain,” she said. “However, before I do, I believe I can persuade Mr. Hollar to let you move forward with your class. After you catch up, of course.”

“But school is almost over.”

“You aren't done with me yet, Junior. I'll expect you
to sit at this table every weekday for two hours all summer long. Maybe if I don't have any other students and you don't have any distractions you can keep your mind on your work. Do we have an agreement?”

I thought about her offer. I imagined holding my pencil in my right hand and struggling to make my letters lean in the right direction. I could hear Miss Hinkle's voice now, droning away.
Do not fail to see and correct all errors
.

I didn't know when I could find two hours a day for schooling. I would have to work at the mill to pay Jerm for fixing the truck. And of course I had the garden and other chores.

But my mistakes were staring me in the face, and I had to fix them. At least I wouldn't have time for getting into trouble with Dudley Walker.

Before I left there, I promised to go back to school. The Hinkle sisters told me I was forgiven, and I should tell Dudley to come by and make things right with them too.

May 1942

Miss Pauline went into school late that day just so she could drive Momma and me to Brookford to break the news to Pop's sisters.

Aunt Lillian was wearing a housecoat when she opened the door. And her brown hair was smashed into funny shapes, as if she'd just climbed out of bed.

“Dear me,” she said, flapping her hands and talking real fast. “I'm not exactly ready for company.”

“I'm sorry to barge in,” said Momma, “but—Hammer died this morning.”

“Hammer? Dead?” Aunt Lillian threw both hands over her mouth and just stood there and wailed. “Oh, dear. Daddy's actually gone? I was planning on visiting him this summer.” She flapped her hands some more. “Did you tell Lucy?”

Momma shook her head. “Not yet.”

“We have to tell her.” Lillian pushed right past us and marched across the yard with her blue housecoat flowing
out behind her. “Lucy, oh, poor Lucy. What will we ever do?”

Momma stood there for a minute, shaking her head. “Reckon how Lucille will take the news? Pull the door shut, Junior.”

Lillian had left the door standing wide open and what I saw inside was a regular junkyard. The living room was overloaded with furniture and all sorts of things. Tools. Boxes of dishes. Even a spinning wheel. A body could hardly walk through it.

“Lord, have mercy,” said Momma. “That right there explains why Hammer's house was empty when we picked him up. Lillian has stuffed all his and Granny's things in here. Let's go, Junior.”

When we got to Lucille's, she had just opened the door for Lillian. “Sakes alive, Lillian! Why are
you
here?” I bet the two of them hadn't spoken to each other since the last time I was there. And this time Lillian hadn't brought fudge to bribe her sister.

When Aunt Lucille caught sight of
us
on her porch, she grabbed onto Lillian. “Oh, dear. Is Daddy all right?”

“Noooooo!” wailed Lillian. She threw herself into her sister's arms. “Oh, Lucy, what will we ever do without him?”

Lucille pulled Lillian into the house and we followed. The two of them sank onto the sofa and cried onto each other's shoulders.

If they cared so cotton-pickin' much, why couldn't they have realized it sooner?

Momma pulled a side chair up close to them. Every so often she'd say, “I'm sorry, Lillian. I'm sorry, Lucille.” As if it was all her fault. “We didn't have any idea he was about to go. Dr. Johnson said most likely his heart just gave out.”

“He always did have a bad heart,” said Aunt Lucille.

“Oh, poor Daddy. We'll miss him so.”

“But we thought you didn't care,” said Momma. “Why didn't you visit?”

Aunt Lillian dabbed at her eyes. “He was always yelling, wasn't he, Lucy?” She sounded frightened. “Why was he always yelling?”

Aunt Lucille patted Lillian's shoulder. She looked at Momma and explained. “Our poor dear mother—God rest her soul—she said life had dealt Daddy a bad hand and people should be kind to him.”

“We tried,” said Lillian. “When Mother passed, we tried to take care of him. But we could never be good enough. My fudge was too soft.” Lillian started bawling all over again.

“I didn't get the grease stain out of his shirt,” said Lucille. “Land's sake, it had been there two years! Mother couldn't wash it out either, so why did he throw a cup at me?” Her lip trembled and she rubbed at a scar on her chin.