The Adventures of Jack and Billy Joe (6 page)

Jack did as he was told.

Red fought the fish with all his strength. It jumped once so that Red could see it was a largemouth bass, and a big one.

When he had the bass right up next to the boat, he reeled in the line so that he could hold the fish at the top of the water using his right hand and reach it with his left. Then he reached into its gills with his index and middle fingers and into its mouth with his thumb and pulled the bass over the side and into the boat.

Jack was still holding on to his belt.

“You can turn loose now, Jack.”

In the excitement, Jack had forgotten he was holding on to Red’s belt. He quickly released the belt and felt a little embarrassed.

“Thanks for hanging on to me,” Red said to Jack. “I’d have gone in for sure if it wasn’t for you hangin’ on. That thing will go between seven and eight pounds,” Red said. “I might have it mounted to go in my office.”

“How about it, boys,” Red asked, “have we had enough fishing?”

“Yes, sir,” Jack said, “I have. I counted the shellcrackers and we have thirty-nine. Your bass makes forty fish. That’s a good day’s fishin’ in my book.”

“Mine too,” agreed Billy Joe, “and I’ve got that ‘fisherman’s luck.’”

They all laughed as Red untied the boat from the stump and started the motor. Red opened up the little motor all the way going back across the glass-smooth lake.

At the dock, they were met by the concessionaire.

“Y’all do any good?” he asked.

“Some,” Red said, holding up the bass. “You got anybody who cleans fish?” Red asked.

“We sure do but you’re not gonna clean that beautiful thing, are ya?”

“Naw, but we’ve got a bunch of shellcrackers we wanna get cleaned.”

“Okay, you got ’em on a stringer or in the live well?”

“They’re in the live well,” Red said. “If you’ve got a pan or a croaker sack or somethin’, I’ll get ’em out.”

“Naw. You leave them in there. My man will get ’em out and clean ’em for you and even filet them if you want. Just leave everything like it is and he will unload your boat. Unlock your car and he’ll load it for you. What you gonna do with that pretty bass?”

“I was gonna have it mounted to hang in my office,” Red said.

“I’ve got a taxidermist who works here three days a week. If you’ll leave it here, I’ll keep it in my refrigerator and he’ll take care of it when he comes in. If y’all wanna go on up to the café and have a cup of coffee while we take care of your boat, you can see some of the taxidermist’s work on the walls there.”

“You boys want a hamburger?” Red asked. “I’m starvin’.”

“Me too,” Jack said.

“Okay then. Let’s all go into the restroom and wash our fishy hands real good,” Red directed.

With hands washed, they sat at a table and ordered hamburgers. Red asked for a cup of coffee and both boys ordered an RC Cola.

By the time they were finished with their hamburgers, the concessionaire came in with Red’s bass and showed it to everybody in the café. He said he had weighed it and it was eight pounds and three ounces. Not quite a record for Bogue Homa but close. “In case you didn’t know,” he told Red, “you had thirty-nine shellcrackers. Louie will have them cleaned and wrapped by the time you finish your second cup of coffee. Let me go into the back and put this bass in the refrigerator. Don’t run off. I need to get your name and address.”

Red took care of all the business, including arranging to pick up the mounted bass in two weeks. They happily drove home for a little bragging and to get Millie to cook the fish.

Red suggested that they invite Billy Joe’s mother and father over for the fish fry.

Millie deep-fried the fish rolled in cornmeal. She grated cabbage for coleslaw and peeled and boiled a bunch of potatoes for potato salad.

Everybody had plenty to eat and enjoyed themselves and were regaled by the fish tales of all three.

Jack and Billy Joe could not have been prouder than when Red declared them to be some of the best fishing partners he had ever had. He especially praised Billy Joe’s fish bed–smelling nose.

“If I could buy Billy Joe’s nose, I’d keep it in my tackle box and catch more bream and shellcrackers than anybody.”

“It’s not for sale.” Billy Joe grinned. “But any time you wanna take it fishin’, I’ll be glad to bring it along.”

Everybody laughed.

The boys were proud to be recognized as good fishermen, especially by Red.

Chapter Four

The Paper Route

The boys enjoyed the fishing trip, the praise from Red about being good fishermen and eating the fish. Now they were faced with a return to the real world, school and their paper routes.

By the time the school day ended on Monday and they had ridden their bikes to where the bus dropped the papers off, Billy Joe was in a very bad mood, even worse than usual.

“This is gettin’ old,” Billy Joe complained.

“What’s gettin’ old?” Jack asked.

“This goin’ from school to our paper routes,” Billy Joe clarified. “Sometimes I’d just like to go home, eat a sandwich and do whatever I want to.”

“After a week of that you would be looking for somethin’ to do and want your paper route back,” Jack said. “You would sure miss the pay.”

“Huh—not much pay to it,” Billy Joe added to his complaint.

“For two hours of bike riding, you don’t do too bad,” Jack pointed out.

They arrived at the bus stop where the papers were off-loaded each afternoon. They normally had fifteen or twenty minutes to wait for the 4:30 PM bus to come.

Mrs. Whitehead, who had the newspaper delivery contract, lived across the highway from the drop-off point. If she had any information for the paperboys, like new subscribers, complaints, changes to routes or other such basic items, she would walk across the highway and tell everyone.

She actually had it pretty easy. Other than keeping the paperboys informed, she only had to make sure the newspaper was informed of all adds and deletes to the subscriber list, take complaints on the phone and mail out the monthly bills using address stickers provided by the newspaper. The only expenses she had were the phone bill, the one-cent postage for each bill and the paperboys’ pay.

Today, Mrs. Whitehead didn’t come out.

“I’ve got a bigger route than you and you don’t hear me complainin’,” Jack said. “You get home an hour earlier than me.”

“I’ll trade routes with you,” Billy Joe volunteered.

“Huh uh. I’m not the one complainin’, it’s you,” Jack argued. “Your route would be as big as mine if you would call on some of those people who don’t take a paper and get them to subscribe. You got lots of those.”

“Yeah, but they’re way out in the edge of town and all far apart. I’d have to pedal a long ways to deliver to them.”

“Now see,” Jack accused. “You’re just lazy. They’re building more and more houses out past the AME church. Sooner or later you gonna have to subscribe them or Mrs. Whitehead will. Then you won’t get the new subscriber bonus.”

“That sure makes a big route,” Billy Joe said.

“Nah,” Jack corrected. “Mine goes from Old Town to the junior college and picks up downtown. If you subscribed everybody on the west side of town, you wouldn’t have as many as me.”

“Here comes the bus,” Billy Joe said, glad to get out of this losing argument.

The bus pulled into the gravel area where it normally stopped and the door opened. “Sorry, boys,” the driver said. “I guess they missed the bus. We left on time but there were no papers there. They’ll be on the next bus in thirty minutes, I’m sure.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you,” Jack said.

The bus pulled out to continue its route.

“I guess I had better go over and tell Mrs. Whitehead in case she starts getting complaints from people because their paper’s late,” Jack said.

Jack and Billy Joe walked over to her house. Jack knocked on her door.

“What’s the matter, boys?” Mrs. Whitehead asked, sticking her head out the door.

Jack explained the problem.

“Well, y’all just sit out on the porch and I’ll bring you both a glass of Penny Drink,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you,” Jack said.

They went into the front porch and seated themselves in the porch furniture. Billy Joe sprawled in the swing that was suspended from the ceiling by chains.

Presently, Mrs. Whitehead came out with tall glasses of grape Penny Drink with ice cubes tinkling in them.

“Now you boys just make yourself comfortable ’til the next bus comes,” she directed. “I’ll come out and tell you when it’s about five minutes to five.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” both boys said.

She went back in but, true to her word, she came out and said, “Time for the bus, boys.”

Jack thanked her again and they went across the highway to meet the bus.

Right on time, the bus came. The driver off-loaded a big bundle and a smaller bundle of papers.

Billy Joe had his pocketknife out and ready to cut the binding strings.

“You count out yours and I’ll take what’s left,” Jack said.

Billy Joe counted the little bundle and a few more from the big bundle and set his stack aside.

Both boys sat down beside their stack and started folding them into little, compact missiles that could be sailed up on a porch. Each boy knew how many he needed to fold for throwing and how many he could ride close enough to drop the paper on the porch.

Billy Joe finished folding first, put his papers in his canvas carrying bag, put that in his bicycle basket and pedaled off on his route to the west.

Jack finished a short time later and started on his route. He began his route going north to catch the four or five houses along the highway. He then turned east on a gravel road toward Old Town.

Old Town had been “The Town” until Southern Railway laid its track from New York to New Orleans and it ran a few miles southwest of town. The town moved to the railroad, about five miles away, and the railroad built a station.

Many people enjoyed living in the old town so they stayed.

Jack finished delivering his papers in Old Town and started working his way south toward the county jail and the Baptist church. It was beginning to get dark.

As he approached the house of Mrs. Willie Garner, an older black lady who lived alone, he heard moaning, crying and an occasional scream, as if the Devil was after somebody.

He stopped. “What could be happening at Mrs. Garner’s house?” he wondered, not knowing whether or not to continue up the winding driveway to her house in the woods.

“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.” A louder scream penetrated the evening air. He almost bolted but told himself, “I’ve gotta deliver her paper. How would I explain it to Mrs. Whitehead if I didn’t?”

He eased on up the tree-lined driveway slowly, trying to determine what was going on at the house. As he rounded the last curve in the driveway, he saw several cars parked in the yard of the house. That was unusual because Mrs. Garner didn’t even drive a car, much less own one.

There were people sitting on the porch and others walking in the yard.

There was another scream and one woman walking in the yard yelled, “Oh my lord, what are we gonna do?”

Two men on the porch answered, “Amen!”

Jack eased his bike on into the yard. He saw someone he knew. Willie Mae Moats was standing next to the porch steps with her arms folded, looking up at the sky.

Pulling his bike up next to her, he asked softly, “Willie Mae, what’s goin’ on?”

“Mrs. Garner died, Jack,” she answered. “We’re havin’ her wake.”

“Oh, I sure am sorry,” Jack said. “Here’s her paper.”

He handed her the paper and rode off down the driveway to the road.

For the next thirty minutes, it seemed that the hair on the back of his neck was standing up.

After delivering the papers to the jail, Jack had the easy part—delivering to those houses on the nice paved streets around the downtown area. The only one that was tough was the Bynum house. It was out at the edge of town where the pavement ended and on top of a hill on a curve. It was a little work getting up the hill but coming back down was easy. You just hung on and coasted.

In the downtown area, Jack left his bicycle at the post office, which was on the end of the “T” streets of the small downtown area. He carried the canvas paper bag by its strap over his shoulder and walked from store to store leaving a paper in each. They all subscribed. At Mr. Batch’s newsstand, he left ten papers. Mr. Batch would resell them to people on the street. Mrs. Whitehead gave him a special price so he could make a little on each paper. His newsstand was built into the large entranceway of the old hotel, long since closed. He was in a wheelchair from, Jack had heard, an old war wound.

By the time Jack had finished delivering in the downtown area, it had begun to sprinkle rain. He got out the yellow slicker that was tied to the back of his bicycle seat and put it on, leaving the hood down. He would put that up, he decided, if it really started to rain.

He put the canvas newspaper bag back into the bicycle basket and mounted the bike to continue his route. He made sure the front skirt of the slicker covered the newspaper bag to keep the papers dry. The worse complaints you get are when the papers get wet.

The rain slowed him down. On those houses that didn’t have a porch, he had to walk up to the house and put the paper behind the screen door.

He moved as fast as he could up and down the streets east and west, moving slowly south toward the junior college.

By the time he got to the hosiery mills, he could smell the wonderful odors from the junior college dining hall.
That’s pork sausage,
he thought,
and they gotta have biscuits.

When he pulled into the junior college gate he also pulled his hood down so the rain could soak his head good.

His first deliveries were in the dining hall and he wanted to go in there looking like a drowned rat. He had found that if he looked pitiful enough, they would give him something good to eat. Tonight, it just had to be a biscuit with sausage.

He parked his bike under the little entrance roof and entered the kitchen’s back door. There were six women working in the kitchen to feed the junior college boarding students. They all looked up as Jack came in the door.