Kira-Kira (12 page)
We walked forever, and when we had walked forever, we did not seem to have gotten anywhere. Lynn needed to stop to adjust her grip more and more frequently, and finally, the blanket slipped out of her hands. My brother grunted as he fell. I turned to look, first at him with his shocked expression, and then at her with her expression of exhaustion.
“Can you keep going?” I said.
“Yes.” Lynn picked up the blanket and we continued. But in a few steps the blanket slipped again. Sam no longer cried tears, and he no longer wailed loudly. His face was still red, but it looked almost frozen, as if he were paralyzed.
Lynn and I stared at him. His ankle had swollen like a balloon. We dripped sweat.
“I’m cold,” said Sam.
Lynn looked at me. “Go get help. I’ll wait with him,” she said.
I hesitated. I hated being alone. I loved having a brother and sister. I did not even like walking alone half a block from the house to the mailbox. When my parents asked me to
mail something, I always took Sam with me.
“You have to,” said Lynn. She sat down next to Sam and stroked his face. Her own face was starting to get that green look, and she was panting, but not just from fatigue. It was also as if she couldn’t breathe.
“Keep him warm, then.”
Lynn nodded. Sam stared at me. “Help me,” he said again.
I ran off through the field, hoping I wouldn’t get lost. But after awhile I couldn’t figure out which way I was supposed to go. It seemed to my memory that at first we’d walked north to get to the picnic site, and then we’d turned west. That meant that I should walk east and then south. But when I walked east, it seemed to me that I was going in the wrong direction. So then I looked around and tried to remember where the sun had been when we’d first entered the field earlier. I decided the sun had been before us: east. So we’d walked east first and then south? I checked to see where the sun was starting its midday descent. Then I realized it didn’t matter which way I went. I just
ran.
I ended up not where we’d come from, but
in an unfamiliar neighborhood that nevertheless seemed familiar because it looked so much like a neighborhood I knew my mother would want to live in. The houses were “better,” though not by a lot.
All the houses were almost the same. The same old frame houses, mostly white, but a few in blue, pink, or yellow; the same gravel driveways; and even the same rich man’s mansion in the distance. I was on the back side of the mansion, though. Before, we had seen it from the front. I guess that meant we’d been going west earlier. Or . . . I wasn’t sure. Directions were not my specialty.
I ran down the block, to the house that looked most like one my mother would have wanted, if we could have afforded it. I knocked so firmly on the door that I was surprised at the loud noise I made. Sunflowers decorated the curtains, and a plastic sunflower was stuck into the front lawn. A young white woman answered the door and was unabashedly surprised to see me.
“My goodness,” she said.
“My brother! An accident! He got his foot
caught in a trap.” I burst into tears.
“My goodness,” she said again. She thought a moment. “I think Hank Garvin is home.” She turned toward the inside of her house. “Casey, stay put, do you
hear
me!”
I followed her to a nearby house, where she didn’t knock, but rather stuck her head in an open window and called out. “Hank Garvin, are you home?”
In a moment a couple of men walked into the living room as the woman and I peeked in. One of the men leered at the woman while the other man came forward. She spoke to the one who came forward, but not until she had cast a disdainful glance toward the other.
“This little girl’s brother has got caught in a trap.” She turned to me. “Was it on Mr. Lyndon’s property?” I pointed, and she nodded. “Uh-huh, Mr. Lyndon. That idiotic son of a bitch. I hate him
and
his wife.”
“Show me where,” said Hank. He opened the door and strode to his truck. He stopped once to see if I was following. “Come
on.
”
As we got in the other man was walking onto the front porch. I heard him saying,
“Ginger, honey, you sure are looking good,” but we were out of range then, and I couldn’t hear her reply.
I turned to Hank and momentarily forgot why I was there. He did not look like Joe-John Abondondalarama, but he was just as handsome. He smiled at me.
“Don’t worry. I got caught in a trap once when I was a kid. How old is your brother?”
“Five.” Then I remembered that he was four. I blushed.
“That’s how old I was. And later I ran track in high school.” He smiled again. “I wasn’t any good, but I made the team.”
I glanced out the window, then said shyly, “Really?”
“You caught me in a lie,” he said. He grinned. “It was junior varsity. Hang on!”
The truck screeched through the street and made a sharp turn. We reached the field I had just come from and jumped over the curb and onto the grass. I bounced up and hit the ceiling of the car. My teeth clattered together when I landed. For a moment I feared I’d made a big mistake by finding this crazy-driving Hank
Garvin. But he was so calm, it made me calmer.
I said, “I think you go left here!”
“Here?” he said.
“Yes!”
“Hang on!”
He turned hard left while I hung on. I had never been alone like this with a grown-up white person. But I wasn’t scared exactly. I felt breathless and excited. He bumped along as if he drove over fields like this every day.
“Your daddy work in the hatchery?”
“Yes. My mother works in the big plant.”
“Really? My wife is helping to unionize that plant.”
Lately, my mother and father sometimes talked in low voices about the attempts to unionize the plant. I’d overheard my mother say you couldn’t trust anyone anymore. And Silly had told me that one of the pro-union workers had got beaten up one night. Now I felt scared. What if Hank Garvin was secretly a thug? I wasn’t even sure what a thug was exactly, which was all the more reason to be scared. A thug could be anyone, anywhere.
Hank seemed to sense my fear. He drove
with his knees maneuvering the steering wheel while he searched his pockets and came up with a piece of striped gum that he threw to me. He took the wheel with his hands again. I was holding on for my very life. He smiled. He was so awfully handsome. “I’ve never been in an accident in thirty years.”
Thirty years! He was way too old for me! I put some gum into my mouth. “You go right here!” I said. “At least, I think so.”
“What’s your name?”
“Katie!”
“Hang on, Katie!” He veered right.
I hung on tight, and then I saw my sister and brother.
L
YNNIE AND EVEN
Sam were both a little surprised to see Hank: He was that handsome. It was as if he had stepped out of a comic book. I felt rather important, since I had sort of discovered him. He picked up Sam and strode quickly to the truck.
“You girls sit in back!”
I thought I heard dogs baying in the distance, and I remembered I’d heard rumors about Mr. Lyndon owning vicious dogs. Lynn and I climbed in. Right before Hank started the truck, he leaned out the window
and looked at us. He said, “Hang on!”
We grabbed some straps attached to the inside of the truck bed. I could see inside the cab. Sam lay wide-eyed across the seat. His eyes locked on mine. I smiled slightly and laid my hand on the glass. He smiled very slightly at me and reached his hand up toward mine. We bumped across the field again.
This time we sped in a different direction. We reached the street in a short time. Hank drove expertly but very fast. I looked behind us and saw our bicycles lying in the grass.
It felt strange to be speeding through the streets of this neighborhood where I didn’t belong, in a truck where I didn’t belong, with my brother hurt and my sister sick. I thought of all those stories I had to read for school and the questions the teachers always asked. What is the theme? What does the story mean? Why did the characters act in a certain way? We whizzed by the pretty houses. It seemed that at this moment I was inside a story. This was the story of my life, and I did not know what any of it meant. Despite all that was terrible about that day, I found myself exhilarated
by our speed, by the sheer adventure of the moment, and most of all by the fact that, by myself, I had found this man Hank Garvin, who was going to save my brother. It seemed amazing.
We pulled up to the hospital where my brother had been born. Hank ignored my sister and me and picked up my brother and was already running through the hospital doors as Lynn and I stepped down from the truck. We hurried after Hank.
By the time we got inside, Sam lay on a gurney and was being rushed away. Hank watched. We stood beside him. He smiled at us. “He’s going to be fine,” he said. Lynn hugged me.
The hospital called our parents. Hank sat in the waiting room with us. Once, he looked at his watch and left the room to make a phone call. When he returned, he had a coloring book and a few broken crayons for me. I was a little old for that, but I said thank you and pretended to be absorbed in coloring. Every so often I peeked at Hank Garvin. White people were not really mean to me, but they were
rarely nice, either. And here was Hank, acting like we were the most important people in the world. I decided that besides being a handsome millionaire and a karate expert, my future husband Joe-John Abondondalarama would help out people in need, just like Hank. Maybe he wouldn’t even
be
a millionaire.
Even after my parents arrived, Hank still didn’t leave. He waited until Sam was released. We all went up to Sam’s room to get him. The doctor had said we were lucky the trap hadn’t broken any bones. My father’s face contorted when he saw Sam’s bandaged leg. My mother kept asking the doctor what she could do, and the doctor kept saying, “It’s all under control now.”
We took Sam into the lobby, where my parents thanked Hank profusely. I found myself embarrassed at the smells emanating from my mother. Back in Sam’s room the doctor had sniffed once at the air and looked around for the source of the smell. What the doctor smelled was my mother’s pad that she hadn’t had time to change. But if Hank noticed, he didn’t let on. He didn’t sniff the air or anything.
He showed Sam a disappearing coin trick, and then he left.
Sam and Lynn rode with my father, and I rode with my mother. I knew I would be in trouble for the way the picnic had gone. I was afraid to mention our bicycles, still lying in the grass. Lynn wouldn’t be in trouble because she was sick, and Sam wouldn’t be in trouble because he was hurt. I waited to hear how I would be punished. Instead, my mother did not speak a word. She looked terrible. The whole car smelled from her pad, but I didn’t open the window because she might be insulted.
At home later my mother gave my father and me sardines and rice. Even though Lynn was sick tonight, Sam was allowed in the bedroom. He and Lynn went to sleep. I was tired of sardines and rice and just picked at my food. My father was silent, not the normal type of quietness that I expected from him, but a dark, smoky, angry silence that I had never seen before.
“You’ve got a long day tomorrow,” said my mother.
All my father’s days were long. He worked seven days a week, every week. He hadn’t taken a vacation the whole time we’d lived in Georgia. My father seemed to remember about his hard day tomorrow, and his smoky anger faded. My mother looked at me. “Clean up and get to bed. Tomorrow I want you girls to see how much money you’ve saved. We have to get something for that Ginger and especially that Hank Garvin.”
“We hardly have any money saved.”
My mother’s face darkened, and my father stepped forward. “We’ll get ’em something good.”
“Dad?” I said. “Our bicycles are still out there. I’m sorry.”
There was a long pause. I saw how exhausted my father was. “I’ll go get them,” he finally said.
I lay awake on my cot for a long time. I wanted to hear when my father got home. When he returned, my mother met him at the door. “They’re gone,” he said tiredly.
“Well, we can’t afford new ones.”
Their voices moved farther away. Late into
the night I could hear my parents sitting in the kitchen talking, on and on, and I knew they were talking about us kids, in the way they could talk about us endlessly and never get bored. Sometimes it seemed that one way or another, no matter what my father was saying, he was talking about us. He was talking about all the things he could do for us—and, more often, all the things he could not.
