Yard War (12 page)

After we had tossed it back and forth a couple of times, I said, “Look, Dee, like I said, I'm sorry. I didn't expect it to be like that.”

“How did you expect it to be?” He threw it back harder than usual.

“I don't know….My papaw said if I brought a Negro to the Golliwog, he would buy him lunch.”

“And you needed a Negro to help you prove it.”

“I wanted you to be able to get something to eat. If you're my guest, you have a right to eat in there as much as anybody else. If I could've found Papaw, I bet—”

“Things are the way they are! When Mr. Shelby tells my mama about this, I'm gonna be in all kinds of trouble—thanks to you!”

He threw the ball so hard, it hurt to catch it. I slung it back just as hard.

“I'll explain it to your mama. You want me to go explain it to her right now?”

“No, I'm gonna explain something to
you.
You can't mess with me like that! I am
not
your pet nigger to show off to the white people!”

He threw the ball at me like you would throw a rock at somebody and started walking up to the house. Then he turned around and yelled, “I'm not even your friend!” and kept walking.

When I asked Willie Jane where Dee had gone, she said he was sitting in the car. I asked her if he was okay, and she said she didn't know. She looked like she wanted to ask why he was sitting in the car, but then she looked like she knew that something bad was bound to happen and went back to ironing, like she was angry at the shirt. I had let her down. She had trusted me to take care of her boy.

I looked out the front window and saw Dee sitting there. I was sorry about everything, and almost went out there to apologize, but I was mad, too. I had been trying to do something nice for him—he didn't have any right to act like that. I went back to my room and lay down on my bed and stared at the ceiling, still feeling shaky. My “pet nigger”? I had never thought of Dee that way. That wasn't why I took him to the club. I didn't do it for me. It wasn't like I was trying to show off.

Was I?

Well, it was done now, and maybe I was the stupidest kid in the world. Maybe that was the problem. How many people had gotten mad at me today? It had to be some kind of record.

M
ama tromped back to my room in those high-heeled shoes that make such a racket, and stood there with her hands on her hips and her eyes flashing black. The dread came up in my throat. I had been trying to figure out how to tell her, but the ladies at the bridge tournament beat me to it.

Daddy wouldn't have been so mad, and I could have thought straight and explained it better. Mama says Daddy is such a smart man, and that he's taught her to have a more “open-minded” way of looking at things. Well, I didn't see how she could be all open-minded and still get so mad.

“Is it true?” she asked.

“Is what true?”

“Don't you play games with me, young man. Did you take Dee to the Golliwog? Did you push Mr. Lonnie against a wall?”

“That was an accident. Listen, Mama, Papaw said if I brought an upstanding Negro to the Golliwog, he would buy him lunch, and I just wanted to show everybody that—that—”

“That what? That you enjoy disgracing your family?”

Her being so mad made me mad, and I just came out with the whole thing.

“I did not disgrace my family! Do you know what the word ‘golliwog' means? Why'd they name it that? It's ugly. I'm never going back. I'm never goin' to that country club again!” I said it louder than I meant to.

Mama held out her hands and took a deep breath to show how we both needed to calm down. Then she smiled the “you know so well that I am right” smile and talked extra quiet to show me how I, especially, needed to calm down.

“Black people don't eat lunch or play golf or go swimming at the club because that's the way it has been since before you or I were born, and you need to honor the wisdom of your elders. There's such a thing as tradition, Trip. I just pray your grandparents don't hear about this.”

“What if it's a bad tradition?”

“You can decide about what's a bad tradition when you're grown. Things are a lot more complicated than
you are able to realize at your age. Until then, you will follow the rules of civilized society.”

She started to walk out and turned around.

“Really, Trip! I can't imagine what you were thinking, riding your bike all that way in Old Canton Road traffic—”

“Actually, Dee rode my bike, and I rode—”

“I don't care which bike you rode!”

“Willie Jane said it was okay.”

“Willie Jane should have known better. You've gotten her in trouble, too. We'll decide on your punishment when your father gets home.”

When Daddy came home, they went back and talked about me in their bedroom, but she was the only one who came into my room later and told me my punishment: Grounded for three weeks with no TV—and Dee could not come over anymore. I didn't tell her the real punishment was that Dee didn't
want
to come over anymore.

—

Mama was still mad the next morning, all through the cheese grits. I showed her how shiny my shoes were for church, and she didn't care one bit. Farish saw something was wrong and wouldn't leave me alone about it, so I finally told her what happened.

“You rode my bike without my permission?” She loves a reason to fuss.

“You weren't here for me to ask permission. I didn't have a choice anyway. We only have two bikes. You better not tell anybody about this either.”

“I won't.”

“Cross your heart and hope to die?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Tim and Tom and their friends were sitting across the aisle and down a row at church, looking back at me and whispering—probably about all the ways they were going to beat me up. I just paid real good attention to Dr. Mercer's sermon on the poor widow and her mite and acted like I didn't even know they were there. After the service, I didn't look around for them on the way down the long front steps. I just looked straight ahead and walked slow and calm, like I wasn't worried about anything. Then I heard Mr. Bethune's voice and turned around.

“I wish I knew what y'all are thinking, letting your son invite colored boys to play football. You start lettin' 'em act like they belong in white society, and where's it gonna end? I didn't fight the Nazis and watch men die so we could have—”

Daddy went off like a bomb.

“That boy is not hurting anybody! The problem is that so many people around here are so ignorant and mean!”

I had never seen him get mad that fast. Not at another grown-up. His cheeks were bright red.

“And I'm saying
you're
the problem,” said Mr. Bethune with his teeth together. He stood there while we kept going down the steps.

It was good to get to the bottom of those long steps and be on the way to dinner at Meemaw and Papaw's. Pretty soon, our plates were piled up with country-fried steak and gravy; biscuits; green beans and field peas cooked together with bacon, Meemaw-style; tomato casserole; and blackberry cobbler with homemade vanilla ice cream on top.

The Rebels had tied Vanderbilt 7–7, so there was that to talk about. I didn't care what we talked about, as long as it wasn't about me. Mama smiled and said what a sunshiny day it was, but she was worried under her smile.

Meemaw started in about the terrible things she had heard about Kansas City and how she could not imagine why anybody would want to move to a big Yankee city like that. Papaw said he had heard about Southern children getting fussed at by their teachers there for saying “yes, ma'am.” Meemaw said the people there had funny accents and were not nearly as good-looking as Southerners. Did they want their son to marry some Yankee girl and give them ugly grandchildren?

Mama and Daddy were real quiet and acting like their chairs were too hard. I tried to think of something to say about church or school to change the subject. Nothing came to me, but I jumped in anyway.

“Meemaw? Meemaw?” It came out too loud.

“What, honey?”

“Um…that decorated pumpkin thing in the middle of the table, is that for Halloween?”

“Oh, it's just part of my harvest theme. Haven't you noticed all my harvest décor around the house?”

“Yes, ma'am, looks real good,” I said, which was sort of a lie since I wasn't clear on what “décor” was. “I thought it might be for Halloween. Do y'all get very many trick-or-treaters?”

“Oh yes, we get quite a few.”

“Us too. Will you be making special Halloween cookies like last year, or anything?”

“I 'spect I will.” She made the same tight lips and big eyes Mama does when I'm supposed to get all excited about something.

That was all I could think of to say about Halloween and she was right back on Kansas City again. Mama explained that it was just a possibility that she and Daddy thought they ought to look into, and Daddy said his friend Glen was such a wonderful guy and a great doctor. They were both stiff and talking soft at first, but they got louder.

Then Papaw finally said something about the Rebel game, and by the time Meemaw brought out the blackberry cobbler and ice cream, things had calmed down a little, at least for me. We were all the way to dessert, and it looked like the grandparents didn't
know what happened yesterday at the country club. I knew Mama wasn't going to bring it up. Then Farish said, “By the way, did you hear what happened yesterday when Trip took Willie Jane's little boy to the country club?”

If Mama could have reached that far across the table, she would have stuck her fork in Farish's forehead.

Farish smiled at me and showed me her fingers under the table. Dangit! I forgot to say “No crosses count.” It wasn't that she was still mad about me riding her bike without permission, it was just such an easy way to get me in trouble.

“What?” Meemaw looked at Farish like she had said something in Chinese.

“Trip and his colored friend tried to have cheeseburgers in the Golliwog,” Farish said. “They got kicked out, though.”

“His colored friend!” said Meemaw.

I wasn't trying to exactly blame it on Papaw, but I had to explain it:

“Papaw said if I knew a colored person who was hungry, to bring him to the club and he'd buy him lunch.”

Meemaw looked hard at Papaw. I've only seen her call him by his name, Bill, when we come back too late from fishing at Ratliff's pond.

“Bee-yul?”

“What's that?” Papaw looked real confused.

“I looked for you, Papaw, but I couldn't find you,” I said. “I knew you'd say it was okay.”

Everybody was frozen solid—except for Farish, who smiled at me like she just adored her big brother, and Ginny Lynn, who was digging into her cobbler and never knows what's going on anyway.

Finally, Papaw said, “I think I did say something like that to Trip the other day. We were havin' a conversation about the Negroes.” He looked at me and laughed a little. “I didn't know he would take immediate action on it. Nothing to get woiked up about, though, just a little miscommunication. Right, partnuh?” He winked at me.

“My stars,” Meemaw said. “How in the world—?”

“I'm sure Trip didn't mean to do anything wrong.” Mama gave Farish the black-eyed glare.

“No, ma'am. I sure didn't,” I said.

Nobody said anything.

Then Daddy said, “I think Trip was trying to do a good thing—maybe he didn't do it the right way, but a good thing.”

Nobody talked.

Then Papaw said, “To bring Negroes to lunch is a good thing? I suppose those Negroes trying to eat lunch at Walgreens last year were also doing a
good
thing?”

“Y'all, please…,” Mama said.

“Maybe they were,” Daddy said. “Sitting there for hours with a bunch of idiots yelling at them and pouring salt and sugar and mustard on them…I mean, they clearly believe in what they're doing. Medgar Evers shot dead in his driveway…”

“I see,” Papaw said, but he didn't sound like he wanted to see.

Meemaw said, “Well, I swan,” and nodded and looked hard at Daddy like she always knew he would say something like that.

“Y'all finish up, children,” Mama said.

“Martin Luther King…,” Daddy said.

“Martin Luther King!
Time
magazine's Man of the Year!” Papaw smiled real big. It wasn't a real smile.

Mama begged Daddy with her eyes. Meemaw said something to her plate. Then all you could hear was chewing.

I wanted so bad to explain to Meemaw why I took Dee to the club, but I didn't want to give her a heart attack. Anyway, I've heard Daddy say you can't explain anything to Meemaw, that she lives in her own special world.

“You see what you did?” I pinched Farish's arm on the way to the car. She knew better than to complain to Mama, too. Mama was more outdone with her than me now and would have been glad to pinch her other arm. We got on the backseat with Ginny Lynn between us.

“Well, that was certainly a delightful meal and loads of fun,” Daddy said, like an announcer on TV.

“I didn't think it was that much fun,” Farish whispered to me.

“He's being sarcastic,” I told her.

All the way home it was that thick, terrible quiet when something is all your fault.

“Do you hate Mississippi?” I said to Farish, trying to whisper.

“No.”

“I do.”

Mama heard. “Trip Westbrook, your mother's side of the family has lived in Mississippi for two hundred years.”

“Does that mean
we
have to?”

“I don't want to move to Kansas City, I'll tell you that,” Farish said.

“Y'all have both said enough for one day. Just hush.”

I changed out of my scratchy suit when we got home and made sure the creases were together on the pants when I hung them up. Then I went down to the creek. The water was pretty low and I thought maybe I could spot that snake. Stokes says they've all gone into hibernation by now, but I still had this feeling it was around somewhere. I walked from the pine stump at one end of the yard to the bridge at the other. Nothing out there but a lizard.