Unto These Hills (6 page)

“Where did you live before you moved here?” Emaline asked him just before she bit into a cookie.

“Gastonia.”

Doretha and Daniel spoke simultaneously, then Doretha gave her little tittering laugh. “Daniel come to live with us four years ago.”

“Oh.” Emaline blinked twice, waiting for more information, and when none came forth, she shrugged and took a sip of iced tea. She was and is the most down-to-earth, unassuming person I know.

“I’m what’s called a foster child,” Daniel drawled as though amused, pinching off a chunk of cookie and mashing it between his fingers. Then he looked directly at me, his eyes aglitter. “What that really means is I’m nobody’s kid. I just hang my hat where I land.”

It took my breath, his quiet vehemence that, in some odd way, challenged me. Only later, after Mama’s abandonment, did I even begin to understand.

“Why Daniel,” Doretha scolded good-naturedly, “you’re my brother now. I ain’t never had a brother before.”

He looked at her then. “There’s Walter,” he said matter-of-factly. Daniel’s logic was bald at that time, completely unadorned.

Doretha nibbled her wafer for long moments, gazing at her tea glass as though analyzing the outside moisture trickle. Then, without looking up, she shook her head. “Walter don’t count.”

It would be years before I compared brunette Doretha to Audrey Hepburn, with her near-emaciation and vulnerability propped up by an elusive dignity. Her breathy little voice was a cross between Jackie Kennedy’s and Marilyn Monroe’s. More like Jackie’s, I think, because there wasn’t a Monroe-sexy inclination in her entire framework.

“Who’s Walter?” asked Emaline. I was too busy studying Daniel to add to the conversation, which was unusual since I usually had opinions on any and every topic under the sun.

Without forethought, Doretha said, “He’s Tom’s boy,” then, by way of explanation, added, “Tom’s married to my mama.”

Doretha’s refusal to label Tom ‘stepfather’ later spawned curious nuances to entertain Emaline’s and my imaginations. On the lighter side, her Walter-rebuffs provided much comical relief through those years.

“Daniel!” roared a man’s voice from outside. “Git out here. You ain’t through.”

“That’s Tom,” Doretha whispered solemnly then slid Daniel a contrite look. “I’m sorry, Daniel. I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”

“S’okay.” Daniel stood so abruptly I jumped. “Nice meetin’ y’all,” he said tersely and quickly disappeared through the kitchen door.

Doretha smiled, a sad old-woman smile. “Daniel’s a good boy. He don’t want nobody to know he — that he’s treated like he is.” She dabbed at her mouth with the white linen napkin, her eyes downcast. “He tries hard to keep bad things from happening; don’t want to hurt nobody.”

“What things?” asked Emaline before I had a chance.

Doretha looked at us for long moments, her gaze faraway and infinitely sad. “You’ll find out.”

~~~~~

I did in those following days. Tom Stone had lots of bones to pick, using Daniel’s carcass. His was a near silent rage that I observed while visiting the Stone’s residence, one that roiled and pulsated beneath empty eyes and hamlike hands whose thick fingers — I vividly envisioned — could roll into a fist in an eye’s blink. I shuddered to think what that fist could do to Daniel’s thin flesh and bone frame.

Doretha intimated the beatings, her bottomless eyes welling as she told, in her whispery, breathy little voice, of Tom’s cruelties to the helpless boy.

“Daniel just stands there a’starin’ straight ahead. He won’t cry. Just grinds his teeth and clenches his fists. Mama hates it. She tries to do what she can but she’s afraid to make Tom mad enough to turn on her.” She slowly shook her head. “Daniel tries hard not to get nobody else involved. Acts like Tom’s fists and words don’t hurt. He’s that way — good-hearted.”

“What about Walter?” I’d referred to her stepbrother, who set many a girls’ hearts aflutter with his golden-blonde good looks. He’d graduated high school the year before they moved to the mill hill, giving him the distinction of being ‘older,’ a thing that enraptured many females. Not me. Once having glimpsed Daniel, my heart filled up with him.

Doretha took her own good time to answer. “Walter’s not here much. But — to give credit where credit’s due, I have to say that when he is, he takes up for Daniel.”

This she seemed to admit grudgingly, again puzzling me with her gentle complexities. And nuances. She shrugged. “Trouble is, Tom’s smart enough to pick on Daniel when nobody ain’t around to take up for ‘im.” She shook her head sadly. “Least ways, nobody who’s
big
enough to stand up to ‘im.”

“Mama didn’t know about that side of Tom till after they’d been married awhile. Shoot, when they was dating, he treated me like a princess. That lasted till they got home from the notary’s house.” She snickered delicately then whispered, “A preacher had better sense than to marry ‘em.”

More and more, I sought out Daniel, whose chin always lifted eloquently from whatever task engaged him to warmly greet me, whose voice conveyed no terror, who gave no indication of inhumane afflictions.

Now, four years later, he’d courageously emancipated himself.

Chapter Three

During the fifties, mill hill life hit its zenith. That Saturday, Main Street bustled when kids from three to twenty-three spilled on to her from every avenue. The weekly pilgrimage to the afternoon movie matinee took our parade down Main Street, past folks sitting on porches, some calling out greetings to us.

With Daniel beside me, and my siblings hooked up with buddies, it was a carefree, ebullient time, when being villagers was our magical, shimmering common bond. For an afternoon, at least, the enchanted silver screen melted us into sterling camaraderie where toleration for even stinkos like Buck Edmonds abounded.

Today, Tack Turner, an older twenty-something, accompanied Francine, who now mysteriously had money for whatever appetite flared, whether cigarettes, movies, lipstick, or candy bars. It shamed me to know that Tack furnished her funds. Francine, however, had no such qualms; did, in fact, feel entitled.

Tack, tall and crane-thin, sprouted a shock of walnut-hued hair, abundant except on top. His regular features were too cynical and brooding to be called handsome but his attitude took up the slack. Tack, whose ego knew no bounds, felt that we, the Acklins, were infinitely beneath him in station — with the exception of Francine, of course, whom he regarded as a cross between Sadie Thompson and Cleopatra.

“Get lost, kid,” I heard him grouse at Timmy, who’d made the mistake of teasingly asking Tack for popcorn money.

My hackles rose. “Timmy,
don’t
.” I scowled my disapproval at him. He knew not to beg that jerk for anything. Timmy suppressed a grin and I realized he was simply aggravating Tack for amusement. Daniel fell in beside me, flanked by Walter, his foster-brother.

“Hey!” Walter playfully cuffed Daniel’s shoulder. “How does something as ugly as you rate such a
cute lil’ thang
?” Walter flashed his quick, white grin at me and I thought
he’s a blonde James Dean.
I smiled back. I liked the eternal-kid Walter, especially the fact that he’d stood up for Daniel through the years.

“Lucky,” replied Daniel, sliding his arm possessively around my waist. “Just plain lucky.” He winked at me.

Walter sidled up to Doretha, who walked ahead with Emaline and pointedly ignored her stepbrother, her usual reaction to him. Walter swooped and kissed Doretha’s cheek, did a Daffy-Duck
whoop
as she disgustedly swiped it away, then scuttled ahead to flirt outrageously with other bobby-soxers. Timmy and Sheila strolled ahead of me, chattering away with Emaline’s sister, Polly, and the Kale kids.

Pure contentment surged through me when the big brick movie house loomed into view. Like a long, happy Chinese-parade paper-dragon, we wound up wide cement, brick-trimmed steps to the ticket window, where we filed past to pay fifteen-cents apiece to enjoy a long afternoon of silver screen magic. That warm April day, sultry, pouty-lipped Jane Russell and sensuous Marilyn Monroe filled an entire poster beside the window. Bold block letters spelled
GENTLEMEN PREFER BLONDES.

During the lull, while Daniel and I waited in line to pay, he took my hand and lifted it to his lips, unconcerned about onlookers. I grinned at him and was rewarded with that slow, warm smile that revealed perfect white teeth, snowy against his olive complexion. I had to look up to him. At seventeen, he already towered over six-feet and what with hacking tall weeds and grass with that old swing blade so much, he was quite muscular.

He turned my hand in his, admiring my tapered fingers, a thing that fascinated him. Then, on his thumb, I saw a bleeding blister.

“Does it hurt?” I asked, alarmed, instinctively cupping the finger.

He gazed down at the watery sore that looked ready to ooze blood. “Naw.” Up came the chin and the turquoise gaze blazed into mine. “Not a bit.”

I swallowed back a lump and forced a smile, knowing when to shut up. I quickly air-kissed the finger, then slowly released his hand. “Yeh, well, it’s our turn to pay.”

“I’ll pay yours,” Daniel offered as he always did.

“No, thank you.” I refused as I always did, eaten alive with proving I didn’t take handouts like Francine.

Daniel sat with me in the darkened theater, whose enchanted screen-images painted us like moonlight. We held hands in those innocent days, an occasional innocuous kiss being our limit. Maybe because we were rarely alone or that we found endless fascination with life’s everyday little things to share, we didn’t wade into sexual temptation.

That was mere months away.

Tom Stone, despite his meanness, had begun paying Daniel a fair wage for his work. Maybe it was his warped view of trade-out. Or perhaps it was Daniel’s emancipation that drew an ounce of respect . Whatever, it spared Daniel the indignity of destitution.

And so Daniel always bought a large popcorn to share with me. When Sheila and Timmy, settled into folding seats behind us, hooked their chins over his shoulder and whined for some, Daniel magnanimously passed the bag to them.

And when, within minutes, the bag returned empty, Daniel merely threw back his head, laughed, and went to buy more. I’d learned long ago that Daniel enjoyed sharing his meager resources, a fact that made something inside me soar like a sun-washed butterfly.

Forevermore, the smell and flavor of buttery popcorn would remind me of Daniel’s generous sweetness.

~~~~~

Another year passed. Daddy’s letters waned to perhaps one every other month., sometimes less. He took odd jobs until he could land a pipe-fitters position. The money eventually stopped.

Food grew scarce. One good thing did evolve during that difficult period: I began to relax, hoping that I wouldn’t be forced to move away from the mill hill after all.

Another thing I noticed: since I’d put thoughts of Mama aside, I’d begun to feel tiny bursts of joy again. Not as acutely as I once had, but they did, to some degree, return.

~~~~~

In those twilight years of village life, poverty was not a word clearly defined. It was only when our food supply ran short, after our parents left, that it began to emerge at all. The mill hill was, in material senses, an equalizer.

Nana’s monthly welfare check amounted to forty-five dollars and didn’t go far with four extra mouths to feed.

So, to help feed and clothe the family, I began to take in sewing. Nana had an old peddle-type machine in the back bedroom and, in my high school home ec classes, I quickly learned to convert cloth and thread into fashionable outfits. Most of my clients bought extra cloth for me to make outfits for the girls in the family.

“I’m gonna take the maid’s job at the hotel,” Francine announced one day as we sat at the kitchen table eating navy beans and cornbread. “I’m tired of not havin’ decent food. Too, Aunt Tina might have to move in with us to qualify us for this housing. The grace period’s about over. And I know neither of us wants that.”

I saw Nana’s shoulders droop as she stood at the stove, back to us. I knew our complaining about a sparse diet hurt her. She was doing the best she could.

“Francine,” I pleaded with my headstrong sister, “please don’t drop out of school. After this year, you only have one more year and you’ll be done. You need your education.”

“For what?” drawled Francine, who, I realized, had already made up her mind. Her idea of planning for the future consisted of deciding what to wear to the Cotton Club dance that night. She refused Tack’s constant marriage proposals.

So she took the hotel maid position.

Seeing her in a uniform like Mama’s was like a sad
déjà vu.
The job fit my sister as snugly as the outfit. So many circling male admirers exhilarated Francine. Tack Turner sulked and pouted. Francine ignored him.

Francine and I joined forces to raise up our little family a notch above destitution. Now, she and I independently clad ourselves. And while I salvaged leftover material scraps to fashion garments for Sheila, Francine fitted Timmy with jeans, shirts, and shoes for both kids at the Company Store. With teamwork, we at least didn’t go hungry and looked decent. Being a member of the prestigious Beta Club in school gave my morale a boost. It also insured my college scholarship. Daniel managed to get on the honor roll as well. We studied together whenever possible.

Mrs. Odom, my Home Economics teacher at the new James F. Byrnes High School, was a lovely, elegant lady whose posture suggested aristocracy. She became another of my role models. I practiced before a mirror until I had it perfected.

I didn’t realize it then, but I’d begun to reinvent myself.

~~~~~

Every mill hill resident at least had a chance at a decent dwelling since village houses consisted of three architectural designs, varying only in roof line pitches and story levels. The head — or other occupants — of each dwelling worked in the cotton mill or an auxiliary such as the hotel, ice house, or numerous other positions. Rental fees were nominal.

The Company Store erased most notions of a caste system by providing villagers with a perpetual credit-line for groceries, clothing, and other essentials. Nobody went hungry. Or ragged.

Would you believe, we
still
had our
haves
and
have-nots?

That soap was available didn’t mean everybody utilized it. Dirty houses and unkempt kids still mottled the hilly avenues. Deprivation was not the source. Slothfulness was. Some folks could move into a meticulously clean dwelling and, within days, reduce it to skid row rubble. Others, inclined to cleanliness, could take that same skid row house and, within days, restore its sparkling demeanor.

Likewise, sleazy Buck Edmonds could don a snow-white, Palm Beach suit and, within an hour, look as though he’d slept a week in it while Daniel could wear the simplest of jeans and shirts and look as fresh and crisp as the dawn.

Privation didn’t bother Gladys Kale at all. She didn’t see Harly’s paycheck anyway. But she did have access to the Company Store. She was Emaline’s and my religious connection, my spiritual role model. We continued to traipse to Gladys’ little Pentecostal church every chance we got and, if we had a problem, we’d pray. But I was convinced it was Gladys’ fervent prayers that eradicated life’s glitches in no time flat.

~~~~~

Daniel’s emancipation rose another notch when he landed a job. He now spent afternoons driving the Company ice truck, helping Bill Melton, Emaline’s grandpa, with ice deliveries.

“If we save every penny,” he spoke quietly as we lolled on my back porch steps, “we’ll have enough for the first year’s tuition at Clemson College. Maybe more.”

“I’ve just
gotta
get a job.” I bit my lip before revealing my cards, ones dealt by Francine. “And, y’know — Francine says a maid’s position is opening at the hotel. Leona’s due date is only four weeks away. They’ll be hurting for help.” I held my breath.

I’ll swear I felt antennas sprout in all directions from Daniel. He froze for long moments before speaking. Then, “I don’t know. So many men are in and out of there, Sunny. I’d hate —”

I was ready. “Don’t you trust me? I mean — you’re tromping through women’s houses most every afternoon, delivering ice. I have to trust
you,
don’t I?”

He mulled it over for a long moment. I knew I had his number. The furrow between his brows smoothed. “Yeh. You do.” He took my hand, looked at it, squeezing gently. “I s’pose that to turn our lives in another direction, we gotta do some things different. Things we don’t exactly
want
to do.”

I flexed like a contented cat. “Ahh, Daniel. I can hardly wait to become a teacher. Next to the clergy, it’s the most noble profession on earth. What an opportunity to make a difference in lives.”

That made him chuckle. “That’s so true, darlin’. You already make a big difference in mine.” He gave me a peck on the lips and then grew serious. “Between now and when I graduate this June, I should be able to save enough for both semesters.”

“It’s almost here — your venturing out. And I’ll be right behind you next June. Then we’ll be married and live happily forever and ever.”

Daniel grinned from ear to ear, the picture of contentment. “Not to dispute your prediction, darlin’ but we’ll be busy tackling college degrees following the wedding, holding down jobs at the same time. Not exactly Utopia.”

“We can do it,” I insisted, not in the least worried.

“No doubt about it.”

“Mama’s scandal now seems almost unreal.
” I didn’t realize I’d spoken aloud until Daniel spoke.

“We’re going to make a new life, Sunny. All that will be gone.”

Daniel’s emotional control and common sense continued to astound me. With him, I felt safe.

~~~~~

“Sheila?” I called tersely, upset by the chaotic scene I’d just witnessed.

I felt her at my elbow and turned. Her face cupped up, with eyes huge and anxious. “Are — are you mad at me?” she whispered tremulously. “I’m sorry I lied about Francine driving Tack’s car on Sundays.”

“Yeh. I am mad, Sheila.” I nodded firmly, all the time my heart turning to mush at the fear I saw in the green depths. “You shouldn’t lie.” I took a deep breath, then let it out slowly, closing my eyes for a long moment.

“I’m
sorry,”
she whispered, more fervently.

I opened my eyes then took her hand and steered her to our lumpy sofa. “Sit down, Sheila. I need to talk to you.”

She seated herself next to me, clasped her small hands in her lap, and gazed expectantly at me, as though I could turn the world right side up again.

“Sheila…what’s wrong? Why are you doing these things? Lying on Francine. And Timmy. You got him a whipping for lying that he’d taken money from Nana’s purse. And me — just now, I could’ve been beaten, too.” Francine had bolted from the house before Nana could wield the switch but that was beside the point.

I kept my voice kind. I couldn’t bear to add to her list of hurts. Tears pooled along her lower lids as she continued to gaze at me. They burgeoned, then slipped over and ran trails down her usually rosy cheeks, now paled from trauma.

“
Why,
Sheila? Why are you so desperate for attention? Is anything wrong? Anything you want to talk to me about?”