SEE BELOW FOR THE FIRST 3 AND PART OF THE 4TH CHAPTER. TWENTY CHAPTERS IN ALL.
Utilizing diary entries, 8mm film, photos, and a keen memory, a Southern born and bred woman revisits her childhood.
It's Christmas Eve 1955, in the West End section of Birmingham, Alabama.
In discussing Santa Claus' impending visit with her baby brother, eleven-year-old Dannie Jean Beechworth causes him to cry, adding to her self-image problem. Her almost-perfect sister, thirteen and wise beyond her years, only serves to exacerbate Jean's troubles. Jean unknowingly, but frequently, demonstrates many of the abilities she thinks she lacks, but flounders often enough to consider herself a lost cause.
Take the ride of a lifetime with the eight member Beechworth family on a journey guaranteed to make the tears flow, some from sorrow, but most from hysterical laughter. A piece of work unto themselves, they are nevertheless surrounded by an unforgettable cast of characters...
Sophie, the Beechworth's king-size maid, with a king-size heart.
Doc Hobbs, the gentle-giant neighborhood druggist.
Tiny Miss Easter, scourge of the corner drugs, and original "Soup Nazi," who makes a mean nickel cherry Coke.
Roy, from the orphanage down the street, model for Maynard G Krebbs and "a firecracker waiting to pop."
Old Lady Lewis, next door neighbor, able to appear like magic, anytime a toy, or a kid, crosses her property line.
Mr. Bandana Head, long-haired shark catcher and beatnik prototype.
From the schoolhouse, where almost anything can happen (other than classwork), to the shores of the Gulf Coast, misadventures derived from high intrigue never felt so good. A canary creates havoc, and a hammerhead induces fear. A cherry bomb introduces a New Year's Bowl game. A trip to an Easter sunrise service is more than an awakening.
"Southern Shade" is a compelling, humorous, five month slice of long ago family life, guaranteed to appeal to the young at heart, both male and female.
Following is the first 20,000 words of the 105,000+ word novel. The typos are due to pasting and are NOT in the book!
Southern
Shade
Ben F. Burton III
INTRODUCTION
In 1956, across the winter/spring semester of sixth grade, I would celebrate
my twelfth birthday. While that fact alone was hardly Grit newspaper fodder,
some of what I encountered during the period might draw interest from those
who have sunk into depression lower than whale poop, risen to greater heights
than Hillary on Everest, or felt more disgraced than the Chicago Tribune’s editors
after the “Dewey Defeats Truman” headline – all while rarely straying more than
five blocks from their own front door. One need not be a world traveler to travel
the world – of emotions.
I was a flighty innocent, on the cusp of puberty, living in what should
have been an ideal age for making that sometimes difficult transition from
preadolescence into pubescence as simple as possible. I was perfectly happy in
the deepest sense of the word, but was often at odds with myself over little things
that seemed important at the time. My weightiest problems stemmed from an
inability to harness my out-of-control tongue. “Think before you speak” was an
axiom I had not yet latched onto.
Scarecrow, a character in my favorite book, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz,
became my inspiration. Being absent a brain seemed preferable to having one
stuck in malfunction mode. At the very least, brainlessness provided a handy
excuse for my frequent oral bloopers. My older sister, Irene, defined perfection
in everything that mattered – beauty, scholarship, and personality, making my
average grades and less than stunning appearance seem all the more lacking.
Nevertheless, and without the flimsiest evidence to substantiate my belief,
I felt certain my time was coming – that I would become like Irene, or, as close
as I could get, given my limited resources. Physical beauty was a stretch. My
becoming an honor student was an even greater stretch. But, a winning personality
was within my reach. I was determined to open my ears, close my mouth, and
develop a brain to make Scarecrow proud. Incorporating those simple acts into
my daily life was a much taller order than I could have imagined.
THE ERA
Village Creek, forty feet wide in spots, coiled its way through our West
End community of Birmingham, Alabama. Beyond the creek were three sets
of railroad tracks. Across the tracks was a black neighborhood. In some ways, I
suppose those tracks might well have been forty miles across.
My two brothers, along with some friends, occasionally made the slippery
voyage across Village Creek, hopping from one wobbly stone to the next, trying
to avoid waterlogged sneakers. Usually, they crossed for one purpose – to engage
in rock battles, and rocks of an ideal size and weight for throwing were plentiful
along the tracks. Had true anger been at work, they probably would not have had
an unspoken understanding that only one rock at a time could be airborne. Even
though no one broke that rule, the day came when a small, black kid was struck
in the head, causing an immediate cease-fi re, for that was not meant to happen.
Following a brief hesitation, everyone rushed to the fallen child, except for a
couple of white boys, including the one who had launched the wayward stone.
Those two lit out across the creek in a full sprint, making no effort to stone-hop.
When the youngster sat up, looking dazed, one of my brothers told him to
count backward from a hundred to “check his thinking cap.” He said he wasn’t
but six and the only way he knew to reach a hundred was by going forward in
tens. Without hesitation, he did so.
“Ten-twenty-thirty-forty-fifty-sixty-seventy-eighty-ninety and one hundred.
Tar baby. Here come Petey!” Everyone agreed; despite the rising knot on his
forehead, Petey seemed none the worse for wear. After tossing around a few
ideas, the boys concocted what they considered the perfect alibi to account for
the child’s misfortune, a tall tale having nothing to do with rock battles.
The boys sent Petey home and quickly rehearsed their plan. Presently, Petey’s
mother emerged from the stand of trees bordering the tracks and demanded an
explanation for her son’s injury. Though the boys scoured the area in earnest,
some resorting to getting on their hands and knees, no one was able to produce
the piece of fallen meteorite that had supposedly done the damage. With sad
faces all around, a permanent truce was declared. For many years thereafter, no
boys – black or white – ventured across the natural border.
Aside from my parents' employees, I had little contact with “colored” folks.
The television show, Amos ‘n Andy, was my gateway to the black community, but
kids were seldom featured on the program. I often wondered what life was like
for the children across Village Creek. Nevertheless, I had more than a gracious
plenty to deal with on my own side of that border.
“Dannie Jean Beechworth, I declare!” From my mother’s tone, I knew she
was about to engage me in another of her one-sided conversations. No way could
she see me at the back door, not from her position behind the kitchen sink. But,
Dad said she had eyes in the back of her head, so it wasn’t much of a stretch to
assume she could also see around corners.
“Be sure to wipe your filthy feet before you come traipsing into my kitchen.
Out running all over creation through dog poop and Lord knows what all else.
I’ll swanee, young’un, I don’t know what to think about you sometimes. Better
yet, now that I am thinking about it, take off your tennie shoes and drop ‘em on
the side of the steps. I’m settin’ up some new rules. We’re gonna start doin’ like
them Chinese people. They take their shoes off ever’ time before they go inside
their houses... uhhh, believe they call ‘em ‘haciendas.’ Wonder how come nobody
else does that. It’s a rilly great idea… don’t ever have to worry about moppin’ up
tracks. I’ve also heard tell they don’t have dog poop in their yards either, because…
well, just never you mind about that right now.
“The point is, I don’t wanna hafta be cleanin’ up ever’ time I turn around.
You’re old enough to pitch in on more of the heavy work, just like your sister, Irene.
What’re you, eleven now, baby?” My mother, known to her brood as “Mama,”
had a curious habit of sprinkling endearments amidst a tirade.
“Yes’m. Eleven years, three months, and two weeks,” I said, while untying
my shoe laces.
“Bless my soul, with six of you kids, it’s nearly ‘bout impossible to keep
track. Anyhow, I was down on my knees scrubbin’ floors and wipin’ walls at
half your age. By the way, sweetie, I need you to go round up your brothers and
sisters. They’re pro’bly scattered out from Village Creek to Hobbses Drugstore,
and I’m not gon’ be able to call ‘em home today. Blistered a whistle finger on
that hot coffee pot this mornin’. Supper’s gon’ be ready in about an hour and I
don’t want y’all comin’ in here lookin’ and smellin’ like little guttersnipes. Your
Daddy’ll be home in a little bit, and he just might tan all y’alls hides.”
Anyone happening through our well-traveled back alley might have taken
Mama’s warnings seriously, but I was used to her periodic rants, which were,
typically, all bark. Even so, it was best to let her speak until the well ran dry, once
she got going. And, listening closely was a must, for she would often follow up
with a pop quiz. Her bark could get a little toothy if she caught us daydreaming
during her lectures. Dad hardly ever raised a hand to any of his children, and
certainly not over trifles. We had to make an intentional step beyond the invisible
line of doom before Dad’s warning turned into a warming – of our breeches. But,
that didn’t prevent Mama from treating Dad’s imminent arrival as a potential
health hazard. More often than not, it worked.
Mama continued, “Now... you been listening to me, Dannie Jean? What’s
a Chinese house called, hmmm?”
“I don’t rightly know, Mama, but it sure ain’t ‘hacienda.’ Them’s houses up
in Mexico. I learned that in jog’raphy class last semester.” I was re-shoed, ready
to begin the roundup, but I knew, as soon as it left my mouth, how my remark
sounded. I held my breath, fingers crossed. If Mama thought I was getting smart
with her, she could return to the warpath. Luckily, I was soon able to exhale.
Measuring her words, Mama said, “Well, I’ll sewanee. Okay, then. But...
uhhh, Mexico’s not up, baby. It’s down... down south. Go on, now. Scoot!”
Born in Anniston, Alabama, in 1919, Mama was as country as Calhoun
County cotton. A blue-eyed brunette, at almost five-foot-nine, she was a hair
taller than Dad, and that “hair” made him uneasy, especially when Mama wore
high heels. But, my, how those heels did wonders for Dad’s posture. For years,
Mama was a typical barefoot and pregnant domestic goddess. Dad liked it that
way – the “barefoot” part, that is.
By 1955, the Korean conflict was behind us. World War II had become a
distant memory, though Dad was badly injured in that war. His bouts with low
back pain were the result of a German bayonet thrust. Another “wound” hadn’t
anything to do with hand-to-hand combat, but was acquired during a furlough in
France, where Dad consented to some very decorative tattoos. The buxom bust
of Mama on the underside of his right forearm and “Hitler’s Nightmare” on his
left, caused Dad considerable uneasiness as we got older. I pitied him when we
attended my brothers’ Little League games in the afternoon. Before the first pitch
was thrown, Dad’s long-sleeve shirts were ringed with sweat. His tattoos became
“exhibit A” when he cautioned us regarding the hazards of youthful indiscretions.
Dad was in the heating business, earning more than most breadwinners in our
area, though any able-bodied person could make a decent living wage, given the
reasonable cost-of-living. Taxes were about as low as the crime rate. Newspapers
in stands were there for the taking. The ten-cent receptacle beside the papers relied
on the honor system. Almost without fail, that system was honored.
The local milkman, spiffy in his white uniform and black-billed white cap,
served us three times weekly. Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday nights, Mama
would set out the returnable bottles with a wish list for the next day. Sometimes,
one of us would modify Mama’s note to include something we rarely got –
chocolate milk. Those glass bottles produced a far milkier flavor than did the
wax-lined cartons sold in supermarkets. We kids reasoned that special cows
produced it that way – fudgy and ready to drink, no Cocoa Marsh needed.
Truck farmers roamed our streets in pickups, except for one old black man
who, still clinging to the vestiges of an even slower-paced past, canvassed the
area in his mule-drawn wagon. The trail of droppings left by his mules was a
common sight. When the wagon finally vanished, it saddened me, for I enjoyed
the singular echo of the mule’s unshod hooves clopping lazily along our tree-lined,
asphalt roads. As to the droppings, well, that was a horse of a different color.
Our zany neighborhood peddler, Tony the Banana Man, was world-famous,
in our tiny world. In his operatic tenor voice, he would belt out a tune announcing
what produce he was carrying on any given day, something like, “Oh, peaches-melon-
i-ooo, fresh turnip greens and potati-oooes, got papaya, green beans,
and mang-ie-ooooes … toooodayyyy.” He claimed to have been trained at the
Cantaloupe Academy of Opera, and we never doubted Mr. Tony. His heavy Italian
accent added credibility to whatever he said. Although produce was his stock-in-trade,
Mr. Tony was never in short supply of goodies for the kids. Easily the most
sought after kid’s treat on Mr. Tony’s truck was Chum Gum – three sticks for a
penny. Even though the flavor only lasted a couple of minutes, for anyone with
a sweet tooth, it was a delightfully tasty two minutes, after which you might just
as well have been chewing on a cud.
From a young age, I grew wistful over changes in the status quo, whether
it was the closing of the local Green Spot Orangeade bottling plant or the last
Howdy Dowdy Show. I was sixteen-years-old when Buffalo Bob signed off and
Clarabelle the Clown spoke for the first time. Clarabelle’s heartrending words,
“Good-bye, kids,” left me in tears.
I do not subscribe to living in the past, but I do find that occasional mind trips
into my distant childhood never fail to buoy my spirit in these – my quieter,
grayer days. So, to paraphrase the narrator of The Lone Ranger television show,
“Return with me to those thrilling days of yesteryear.”
Very clear memories click into focus on a cold December night, in 1955...
CHAPTER 1
On Christmas Eve, my five-year-old brother, Danny, sat up in bed and
pleaded his case while I fluffed up his down pillow. “Dan Jean, how’m I s’posed
to get to sleep when my stomach feels like it’s got a buncha elves jumpin’ around
on pogo sticks? You don’t reckon ol’ Santa Claus’ll be upset about those apples
me and Zack borried outta the Fink’s pear trees last summer, do ya? They don’t
never pick ‘em, so all they do’s fall off and rot, but I guess you might could call
it stealin’ just the same. Zack shoulda asked first. He’s older and oughta know
better. Anyhow, if I was Santa, I bet I’d overlook a little kid like me takin’ wormy
ol’ apples. Wouldn’t you, Dan Jean?”
If “Dan Jean” was being addressed, it was Danny who was talking. By then,
everyone called me “Jean,” which I much preferred and sometimes demanded.
The ones who prevented unanimity on that touchy subject were Danny and Mama,
who called me “Dannie Jean.” My first name was given me to honor my Dad,
in the event no boys found their way into our sizable branch of the Beechworth
family. As I got older, the “Dannie” part of my name drew some teasing from my
male classmates. My parents insisted I was overreacting when I kicked a couple
of the ridiculing boys’ rear-ends over the matter, but I felt it was the easiest way
to make a clear point: My being a tomboy did not give anyone the right to refer
to me as “Tom,” or “Dannie,” either, for that matter.
“I don’t believe y’all grabbed them apples outta pear trees, bud,” I said,
grinning. Danny caught his mistake and giggled, his brilliant, blue eyes glowing
and the dimple in each cheek showing. Danny was a bona fide prodigy who had
begun reading at age three, and scrutinizing everything under the sun even earlier.
Fortunately, he was grounded, and blessed with a terrific sense of humor, though
his extraordinary wit seemed totally inadvertent most of the time.
“Heck, I don’t think Santa Claus is gonna mind about them stupid apples
anyhow, Danny. Don’t forget, you push-mowed the Fink’s side yard free of
charge right after that, and they didn’t even know about them apples. I’m not sure
Mr. Fink believed your answer when he asked why you were cuttin’ his grass.
Remember? Instead of tellin’ him you were in trainin’ just in case the Olympics
had push mowin’ when you grow up, you might ought to have said you were
just bein’ a good Samarian.
“Ain’t it spo’sed to be ‘Samaritan,’ Dan Jean?”
“Oh... sure, that’s what I meant to say. ‘Samaritan.’ Anyhow, that fort you
built outside from Wheaties boxes might’ve convinced him you wanted to be a
sports star.” Danny sat up, smiled, and flexed his little biceps. Instead of ending
the conversation on that happy note, I could not leave well enough alone.
“Still, I think I’d be more worried about the day you ate nearly that whole
bowl of banana puddin’, and when Mama ‘n them got home you said two masked
men broke in and wolfed most of it down before they heard the siren.” No sooner
had I said that than I whacked my head with both palms.
Danny’s bottom lip curled downward, giving advance notice that tears were
about to fall. Already on edge over the crab apple in a pear tree caper, the last thing
he needed to be reminded of on Christmas Eve was another misdeed. Two failed
attempts at calming him led me to suggest that Santa had gotten his big belly
from sneaking “nanner puddin’,” as Danny called it. I made headway with that
one, but he was still sobbing, so I reached out and got his nose with my thumb,
settling him down further. At that point, I decided to pull out all the stops – tugging
on my ears, sticking out my tongue, crossing my eyes, and making silly sounds.
Danny laughed and said, “You ought not do them cross-eyes, Dan Jean.
Mama says your face might freeze that way if the wind blows, or something.”
“Not a whole lotta wind in here, kiddo,” I laughed, grateful for the mood
change. That I might have ruined the magic of his evening, that indescribable
wonder brought on by the anticipation of Santa’s impending visit, was enough
to make me wish I had never learned to speak. The Mickey Mouse hands on
Danny’s clock read ten until eight when he began to nod. Though Mama had
tucked him in earlier, I readjusted his covers, and gave him a peck on his forehead.
“Good night, little buddy. Snuggle in tight and don’t let the bedbugs bite.”
“Night-night, Dan Jean. Boy, I’m excitin’ thinkin’ about how Santa Claus
is gonna be in my own house in a little bit!”
“Yep. Betcha he has an extra large bag marked ‘Danny’ on his sleigh, too.
Night, Danny.” I flicked off the light and followed the delectable scents of Mama’s
Christmas feast preparation down the long hall toward the den next to the kitchen.
Built in the late eighteen hundreds, when sturdy was evidently the only
known means of construction, our home on Freemont Avenue was one of the
largest in an area abundant with huge houses. The enclosed front porch, roomy
enough to accommodate half the kids in the neighborhood on rainy summer days,
was a welcome sanctuary where we played everything from Monopoly to dodge
ball. We dined in the enormous kitchen; Dad turned the adjacent dining room
into a back den, where we played board games and watched television. Raiding
the icebox was convenient from there, too. Televisions were expensive and few
nearby homes had one. Most Saturday mornings, we had a peanut gallery full of
kids watching our black and white Philco in the back den with us.
The concrete driveway beside our house ran from the street to our garage,
and consisted of two tracks with a grass median between them. Mama nurtured
a prize-winning flower garden on either side of it. Though the driveway was a
popular game site, no activity was allowed which might harm Mama’s flowers.
The lanes were ideal for bowling, unless it was gusty out, when we’d often get
strikes without rolling the ball. To counter the effect of the wind, we punched a
hole in the top of each plastic pin and funneled sand inside, but once they were
heavy enough to stand up in the breeze, the plastic ball wouldn’t knock them
over. We borrowed a neighbor’s shot put and that did the trick; the pins toppled.
Unfortunately, they also ruptured, releasing the sand. Outdoor bowling had as
many thorns as the roses on either side of Beechworth Lanes.
“Hurry up and close the door to the igloo, please!” Mama yelled from the
kitchen, as thirteen-year-old Irene rushed into the back den, breathless, her teeth
chattering. Irene was sealed tighter than Mama’s homemade strawberry jam,
her cheeks and nose the same hue as that delicacy. Several kids from our church
had been Christmas caroling at homes in the vicinity. Their plan to sing for three
hours was scrubbed when a chilling wind kicked up in the thirty degree weather,
inducing a hasty, numb-fingered money count, after which they scattered for their
respective homes. Still, in less than ninety minutes, their outing netted thirteen
dollars for the orphanage two doors down from us.
That orphanage, a run-down, gray-shingled duplex, housed up to three kids.
Fifty-something Ma Boone was caregiver. Each Christmas, Dad slipped her
money for presents, more than she could afford on her government stipend. Two
of the three orphans seldom stayed long enough for us to learn their names, never
mind becoming friends. Always young, no more than seven or eight, they were
consistently adopted within weeks, if not days. Twelve-year-old Roy Wilson,
one of those boys who got a close-up look at my bad side after making fun of
my name, was the only long-term child resident. His parents died in a car wreck
when he was seven. Roy survived, but recurring bouts with depression caused
potential adoptive parents to shun him. Roy never was adopted, though I’m not
certain he wanted to be. Around our house he was treated like a family member,
which must have agreed with him, as often as he showed up.
Irene, with her exotic looks, was an easy target for envy. She had olive
skin, perfectly arched brows, and ash gray, feline eyes – unlike the rest of us
lily-white, blue-eyed Beechworths. I nicknamed her “Lefty.” She was the only
portsider in our extended family of over sixty children and adults. I kidded her
about being adopted. Irene did not appear to notice that she was in a league of
her own. I certainly did. But, even though occasions arose when I blamed her
for my problems, I could not stay angry with her, for she was my only reliable
source for advice regarding those very problems.
With the three younger ones, including twenty-month-old Susie and almost
five-year-old Pammy, asleep on that Christmas Eve, we didn’t have to whisper
concerning the secret of Saint Nick. Brother Zack wondered aloud when Dad
was “gonna bring in the loot.”
Zack was not a prodigy, but a mastermind – of mischief, the proverbial
accident waiting to happen. But, like Danny, he was so cute he could charm a
bumble bee out of a bloom. Zack had a multitude of evenly spaced freckles on
his face, which Irene and I sometimes took advantage of to engage in a friendly
game of connect the dots. Zack was not smitten with that particular pastime.
Irene’s eyes lit up like the fireplace she was hovering in front of when Mama
walked in with a serving tray containing three tacky, ceramic cups of piping hot
chocolate, thick with melted marshmallows. We had won the gray and orange two-tone
cups the previous October while pitching pennies at the State Fair. Someone
in our family developed a technique to help us beat the odds at the “unfair,” as
Dad called it, since winning, while obeying the rules, was almost impossible.
Spitting on a penny creates an adhesive. But, as Dad said, “Turnabout is fair play.”
While drinking our cocoa, we tried to guess the contents of gifts under the
tree, something which would remain in doubt until morning. When our cups were
empty, Zack and I used our fingers to scrape off the last flecks of marshmallow
cream. Irene shook her head and said that our “behavior was a sorry sight.” Zack
used her remark as a springboard into an idea for a game.
“Hey, yeah. Good thinking, Irene. It is a great time for a game of Sorry.
Lemme run get it.” Irene crunched her eyebrows and grinned.
The only time I won at Sorry was when I played alone. I tried every color
token, anything I could think of to change my luck, but nothing did. I was baffl ed,
since the game requires almost no skill. But, by then, losing wasn’t really a big
deal to me – not after we got those Elvis records.
If the turntable on the hi-fi was spinning, songs by the future “King of Rock
and Roll” were usually filling the air. Each time our short stack of five discs – the
ones Elvis did for Sun Studios – finished playing, one of us would hop up to
flip them over. It’s a wonder we didn’t wear the records out within a week, even
though we took good care of them. If the discs weren’t revolving, they were in
their sleeves resting safely in our cedar chest.
As Mama was winding down her baking, she told us to change the music to
something more appropriate for Christmas Eve. For once, we agreed with her;
“Good Rockin’ Tonight” didn’t exactly inspire feelings of chestnuts roasting on
an open fire. The fresh aromatic scent of our large, heavily-decorated cedar tree
made the atmosphere especially receptive to seasonal music. Irene got up to put on
a Bing Crosby album and said she wished Elvis would make a Christmas record.
Mama said that the boy was probably a heathen who didn’t know the meaning
of the word. Eventually though, Mama changed her tune about his recordings.
When she got word of his first Christmas album release two years later, Mama
put it on Santa’s list. She enjoyed the album as much as we did, especially the
hymns – “Peace in the Valley” and “I Believe.”
Dad came in from assembling toys in the garage and said it was time to
hit the sack, which was fine with me; I was losing again. “The Man,” Dad’s
pseudonym for Santa, would not come until all Beechworth kids were bedded
down. Irene, Zack, and I were just as thrilled as the younger ones, since “The
Man” remained generous despite our misfortune of outgrowing him. Christmas
was Dad’s favorite time of year. He got the biggest kick out of seeing a child’s
excitement over Santa. That aside, Dad never let us lose sight of the true meaning
of Christmas – a celebration of the birth of our savior, Jesus Christ.
A couple of weeks earlier, Dad had purchased an eight millimeter camera.
His long desire to have a permanent record of Christmas morning would finally
be realized. Dad decided to film a pre-Christmas rehearsal to “get the bugs out.”
I and my siblings proved what a bunch of hams we were, mugging the camera,
mercilessly, in our motion picture debut. Dad picked up the developed film the
weekend before Christmas and Mama prepared several large bowls of popcorn
for the screening. Kids showed up from near and far to watch. Song of the South
could not have generated any greater expectations, primarily because the screening
would be the first time for any of us to view a film outside the theater. Home
movies had a reputation for boredom – family members excluded. Dad avoided
that problem by including our friends in the movie. If only he had left me out....
That December afternoon put another bruise on my already fragile ego. The
camera was unkind to me; my hair was parted on the wrong side and my eyes
were nestled too close to my nose. I looked as peculiar as I sounded when we got
a tape recorder the previous Christmas and, for the first time, I heard my voice
as others did. On that occasion, I took a solemn oath of silence for life, holding
true to my pledge for the better part of the afternoon.
It was Zack’s first year of Santa awareness and he wanted to play on, but
Irene persuaded him to give it up. The sooner we got to sleep, the sooner “The
Man” would show up. Before heading to the bedroom, I gathered and returned
the Elvis records to the safety of the cedar chest, and thought about the odd way
we had come to possess the discs six weeks earlier.
*
Dad’s brother, Zackery, perished at the Battle of the Bulge, leaving behind
a wife and six-year-old daughter – Aunt Vernice and Myrtle Mae. A few years
after Uncle Zack’s death, Vernice suffered a nervous breakdown; she spent her
remaining years at Bryce’s Hospital in Tuscaloosa. Myrtle Mae was taken in by
relatives who moved to Tuscaloosa to be near Vernice. After that we only saw
Myrtle in the summertime down at Tannehill State Park, home to the coldest
water in Alabama and a perfect spot for a summer outing. On arriving, we usually
dropped a couple of watermelons into the icy creek. We spent hours of frigid fun
swinging from a thick rope tied to a tree limb over the deepest part of the Little
Cahaba River. Dad said it was “a scene right out of a Samuel Clements novel.”
Myrtle Mae had a special place in Dad’s heart, despite questionable
judgments on her part as regards ladylike behavior. She dropped out of school at
sixteen and moved to Memphis, finding work as a waitress. Along with another
young waitress, she leased a small house. Within months, Myrtle’s roommate
moved away. With little money, and a broken furnace, Myrtle knew of only
one person to turn to. She dashed off a letter to Dad, who immediately made
preparations for the trip, along with his helper, Will.
Will worked for Dad for twenty years. From the start, Will called Dad “Mr.
Dandy.” We never knew why. Dad was fine with it, a special name used only
by Will and his wife, Sophie. Will was a strapping man, his flawless skin a rich,
creamy mocha color. Dad told of the time his truck was stuck in a mud hole after a
rainstorm. Together, they unloaded the heaviest items from the back of the pickup.
Then, while Dad steered, Will lifted the back end of the truck and pushed them
out. Will had removed his shirt to avoid getting it mussed. Through the rear view
mirror, Dad saw Will’s neck muscles and shoulders straining, the sight reminding
him of the muscle-building ads featured in the back of comic books. Formidable
physique notwithstanding, Will was as kind and gentle a man as I ever met.
When he lost his eye after being struck during a BB gun battle as a teenager,
Will perceived it as a message from the Lord, admitting, “I was headin’ right
on down de road to no good, but I been walkin’ de straight and narrow wif de
Almighty evah since dat day, keepin’ my good eye focused on de things dat
really mattahs.” Something that obviously mattered to Will was a sense of
humor. One fine, spring day Will and I were sitting in the backyard on some
orange crates playing Go Fish, when he popped his eye out and showed it to
me. I ran screaming into the house while he jumped from the crate, doubled
over in convulsive laughter. Inside, Mama stood at her observation post behind
the kitchen sink laughing almost as hard. I never did locate the punch line to that
unseemly encounter.
Will’s wife, Sophie, was our part-time maid. With Mama and Dad’s approval,
Sophie treated us like her own kids, including doling out punishments. The
excessive bulk she packed on her five-and-a-half foot frame would make flight
seem a viable option if we got her dander up. In truth, running from Sophie was
not wise. When she gave chase, her body would jiggle and shift in a hundred
different directions, like bacon looks when it is frying. Even though the visual
was one of ungainliness, Sophie was quick, and the end result meant being caught
with more to answer for than the original offense, as she was not fond of giving
chase. Evenhanded in her use of a switch, Sophie would reach for one of those
dreaded lengths of shrubbery only when we undeniably deserved some unfriendly
persuasion. Debates rage over whether capital punishment is a deterrent to major
crime. I can state with complete certainty that Sophie’s switches were a major
deterrent to minor crime, and we rarely gave her reason to reach.
When Sophie broke out a certain platter – a gaudy thing Zack won with a
trick penny – we knew a treat was in our immediate future. To agitate us, she
would place the empty platter on the coffee table in the den. Soon after, she would
begin the baking process, dispersing an aroma throughout the house like manna
from Heaven. Eventually, Sophie would retrieve the platter and fill it with hot tea
cakes, toasty-crisp on the outside, with a soft, chewy center. When she placed it
back on the table, we converged like a sleuth of starving bear cubs.
Memphis was a much longer drive in those days, as the Southern interstate
system lagged decades behind that of our Northern counterparts; the aftereffects
of the Civil War were still being felt. Sophie fried chicken gizzards and Mama
packed a half-dozen sandwiches for the long trip. Dad, in his “Cat” hat, and Will,
in his fleece-lined aviator’s cap, backed slowly down our drive in Dad’s olive
green, Ford pickup, with Zack and Danny on the running boards. Dad stopped
at the sidewalk to let the boys off and turned up Freemont before stopping again.
Rolling his window halfway down, Dad yelled, “Remember the code!”
Danny responded, “Okay, Daddy, remember the Alamo!”
The “code” was something Dad devised to avoid long distance fees. Before
Southern Bell had competition, telephone usage charges were exorbitant. From
out-of-town jobs, Dad would call, person-to-person, asking for Dan Beechworth.
Whoever answered would tell the operator Mr. Beechworth wasn’t in. Dad would
propose calling again at a specific hour, which, naturally, coincided with the time
he expected to return home.
Danny’s Alamo remark broke some of the tension surrounding the start of
the potentially hazardous trip. A light sleet was falling from the November sky as
Dad headed toward Highway 78. We stood shoulder-to-shoulder, waving, until
the pickup disappeared into the deepening, early morning mist.
That night, Mama tucked in Danny and emerged from his room with a
furrowed brow, saying, “I didn’t expect your Daddy would get back home tonight,
Dannie Jean, but I’d a sworn he would’ve at least called by now.”
“Well, you know it can take all day, sometimes, if everything don’t go
right,” I said.
“I know. Just wanna talk to him’s all. Did y’all get your homework done yet?”
Irene stepped into the den and said, “Mama! That’s the third time you’ve
asked. For Heaven’s sake, we finished our homework over two hours ago.
Besides, it isn’t like you’re going to talk to Daddy when he calls, anyway.”
Pointing to Irene and lightly shaking her index finger, Mama said, “Well,
Irene, you know what I mean.” She quickly pulled her hand back and pressed
her palm to her chest. “I’m sorry, baby. It just isn’t like your Daddy to keep me
waitin’, though I’m positive they’re okay. Remind me to tell him to call when he
gets to an out of town job, instead of piddlin’ around ‘til he finishes up. I’m not
broodin’ about him and Will gettin’ hurt on the job... just the road.”
Uncertain of how to deal with Mama’s concern, I looked to Irene for
guidance. She motioned for me to follow her. Once we were beyond Mama’s
earshot, Irene asked if Mama had used the phone during the evening. After I said,
“You’re kiddin’,” she said, “Good,” and whispered her plan. We returned to the
den where Mama was dusting a perfectly clean lampshade.
“Goodness gracious, Mama. You won’t believe what happened. I was
scuffling around with Zack earlier and one of us must have knocked the extension
phone off the hook. No wonder Daddy hasn’t called; the line’s been tied up!” It
was a blatant lie, but motivated by good intentions, and would easily qualify as
a white lie, using Dad’s standards.
“Irene, I’ll swanee. You’ve got to be more careful. I might expect somethin’
like that from Dannie Jean, but certainly not from you. One thing’s sure, though.
It’s a big relief.” I knew Mama was right, but it still hurt to hear.
“Sorry, Mama. Just one of those things, was all. But, hey, I’m just as big a
klutz as Jean. No, wait... That isn’t what I meant, Jean. I meant... oh, boy.” Irene
looked at me with a hint of desperation. The sight of her squirming brought a
slow smile to my lips.
“I’m just saying we all have our klutzy moments. If you live and breathe,
you’re bound to klutz things up from time to time. Into every life a little klutz
must fall.” The three of us laughed. I had just witnessed Irene being orally klutzy
intentionally, in an endearing effort to make me feel better. It worked. I thought
it noble of my sister to concoct a lie, making herself the villain, in order to calm
Mama, while gently reprimanding her for being too harsh on me. How I longed
to have one ounce of Irene’s common sense and sensibility.
Irene’s fabrication did the trick. The tension vanished from Mama’s face.
She took a seat for the first time since supper. Within five minutes the phone
rang; Irene grabbed it.
*
Dad and Will were hungry when they reached Whitehaven, the Memphis
suburb where Myrtle Mae lived. The gizzards and sandwiches had long since
vanished. A newly-opened Dairy Freeze saved the day. They stopped for
cheeseburgers and hot coffee before proceeding to Myrtle’s home.
A pretty bleached-blond answered Dad’s rap on the flimsy wooden door.
From her aqua-colored eyes and slightly tilted nose, to her glowing, easy smile,
Myrtle Mae had Uncle Zack’s features. After salutations and small talk, Dad and
Will got busy with the installation, which took until well after dark. Myrtle offered
Dad a twenty dollar bill, but he wouldn’t accept it. She insisted on returning his
generosity somehow. She snapped her fingers and said, “Wait, I’ve got it!” Myrtle
retrieved a handful of records, done by a little known artist named Elvis Presley,
and told Dad to “bring them back to Jean and Irene.”
We later learned that the shotgun shanty Myrtle Mae rented was a near replica
of Elvis’ birth home in Tupelo. Additionally, it was located only one mile from
an estate named “Graceland.” Long before Elvis bought the mansion eighteen
months later, Myrtle Mae had left Whitehaven and was back in school.
Dad drove about six miles to a dingy roadside motel he had noticed earlier.
As they approached, a disagreement over sleeping arrangements arose. Will
claimed he would be fine sleeping in the truck’s cab, but Dad would have none
of it. Fearing there would be no room for a black man in the inn, however, Dad
let Will out half a block from the motel entrance. When he rang the bell on the
desk in the tiny lobby and a black man emerged, Dad was taken aback. From his
hiding place behind a large pine, Will took in the sight and broke for the lobby,
giggling and praising God for his kindness.
Dad handed the owner four dollars for the room. As they pulled to the rear,
Dad said, “You know what, Will? I just happened to think. What if that gentleman
had said you were welcome, but I’d have to carry my business somewhere else?
Wouldn’t that have been a lick?”
“Yassuh. You be right dere, Mr. Dandy. Dat woulda been one for da ages.
Talkin’ ‘bout de colored man, he can go ‘head on an’ stay, but dis heah white fella,
he gon’ hafta git’em and git!” Though loud, their laughter was not substantive enough
to erase their knowledge regarding the sad facts of racial inequities in the Deep South.
*
After each of them had a hot shower, Dad said, “Whooo! It’s downright
chilly in this room, Will. And to think you were talking about sleepin’ in the cab.”
“It is a might on de cool side at dat. What say we reports da problem tonight,
den show up in da lobby come mornin’ time all set to go to work?”
Chuckling, Dad said, “I like your capitalistic attitude there, old soul. But if
it’s all the same to you, I’d just as soon put this place in the rearview mirror quick
as we can. Now, how ‘bout we say our prayers and call it a night?”
“Sounds fine by me, but ain’t you forgettin’ ‘bout sompin’, Mr. Dandy? You
know... Da call. De code.”
“Good night, Nellie, Will. How could I forget that? Miss Julia’s gonna shoot
me, for sure!” Dad parted the ragged curtains and saw a pay phone across the
dimly lit parking lot. He slipped back into his work clothes and, after checking his
pockets, said, “Will, can you loan me a nickel? I’m slap outta change.” Will forked
over the token and Dad called home, saying he would try again at lunchtime.
When Dad pulled in at noon the next day, Mama rushed out to greet him,
apologizing for the busy signal. Dad had no idea what she meant, but decided
not to ask. Late that afternoon, he cornered Irene and me while Mama was fixing
supper.
“Okay, girls. What is this deal with the telephone your Mother mentioned?”
Irene smiled at him, winked at me, and said, “Well, Daddy, let’s just say the
phone wasn’t really busy, but I was... covering your rear end! And I’m going to
leave it there.” Dad did an about face and quietly left our room.
*
As we turned down the heavy quilt on Irene’s bed, the screen door slammed
and we heard Dad say, “Be careful, Julia.” I felt a tingle running through my belly.
Santa was in the building.
The unusually cold weather, made warm and cozy by our steam radiators,
was sandman-made for sleeping. The anticipation of rising early to see our
younger siblings, eyes aglow at what Santa had brought them, was a vicariously
lovely feeling in itself, but we had selfish motives, also. Irene was especially
keyed-up over something special she had asked for but didn’t figure to get. I
much preferred surprises, mainly because I didn’t want someone with my lousy
taste picking out presents for me.
We had separate beds, but occasionally slept together in Irene’s, usually out
of fright, the aftershock of a scary movie, television show, or one of Dad’s horror
tales. Sometimes, though, we liked to snuggle into her bed for no other reason
than a desire to share the exhilaration; Christmas Eve was the optimum time for
that emotion. Our pillows felt fluffier than usual that night. The freshly starched
sheets exuded a pleasant fragrance which seemed to contain a mild sedative.
“Come on, Jean. Let’s hurry up and get to sleep. Next time we open our
eyes... it’s Christmas!”
“Oh, okay, Danny,” I teased, enchanted by her display of infectious
enthusiasm.
“Huh... what’s that supposed to mean?” Irene asked.
“Nuthin’. Just playin’s all. Believe me, I can’t wait, either. Nighty-night,
Lefty. Don’t forget to say your prayers. Oh, but it’s a little late to bring up that
king-sized present you want.”
Irene giggled. “Nope. I either got it or I didn’t. We’ll know soon. Night.”
As our radiator spewed steam, I was starting to drift off when I thought I
heard a voice in the hall outside our bedroom door. Though it sounded like Will’s,
I knew it couldn’t be, not that late on Christmas Eve.
2
“Irene, Dan Jean... Is it Christmas?” That untimely question quashed a
potential victory in Sorry. Ordinarily, my dreams were at odds with reality.
Leaning in so close I could feel his breath on my ear, Danny, whose whisper
approximated the volume of most kids’ normal speaking voices, repeated, “Dan
Jean, I think it’s Christmas.”
I rolled over slowly – trying not to disturb Irene – wiped my eyes, and
checked the alarm clock, the hands barely visible from the street light’s reflection.
Five thirty-five – too early to get everybody up, but too late to expect Danny to
return to bed.
“Danny, shush,” I said, while trying to demonstrate quiet whispering. “Can’t
you see Irene’s still asleep?”
“Heck no, I’m not. Who could sleep through all y’all’s racket?” Irene
muttered, as she groped for the switch on the bedside lamp.
“Aw, a marshmallow droppin’ on a pin cushion could wake you up! Anyhow,
that’s three kids down, three to go,” I said, shielding my eyes from the sudden
brightness.
“You mean, three kids up, don’t you?” Irene said.
“Yeah, and two very angry parents if we bother ‘em this early,” I replied.
“I’ll do it,” Danny said, while pulling the zipper up and down on his blue,
jumpsuit pajamas. “How do they ‘spect a high-spirited kid to sleep all night on
Christmas mornin’?”
Irene yawned, shook her head, and grinned. We had a minor dilemma; Irene
never failed to have intelligent ideas to avoid its horns.
“What do ya think Santa brought you, buster?” I shifted my gaze from Irene
to Danny before executing a slow double take, refocusing on Irene. She was
completely off her game with that ridiculous question.
“Why should I play guessin’ games when we can just go on down yonder
to the living room and find out?” Danny said, throwing his arms up in protest.
After seeing no ideas on my blank face, Irene snapped her fingers and told
Danny that Santa Claus was not required to complete his rounds until daybreak;
there was a chance he had not yet come. Irene headed for the living room, but
not before warning Danny that if too many of us had been bad during the year,
Santa might put nothing but coal in all our stockings. Her words caused Danny to
gasp, shudder, and fall back between my legs to the edge of the bed. He grasped
my arms and wrapped them around his shoulders and chest. His thin frame was
trembling.
Danny crossed his fingers and spoke so softly I could barely hear him, “Dear
Santa Claus. I hope you can hear me. I’m sorry for fibbin’, but it’s awful hard to
walk off from a big bowl of nanner puddin’ when it’s just sittin’ in the frigerater
starin’ at ya. I don’t mean to blame the puddin’, though. In a way, it was Mama’s
fault for makin’ it so good, then leavin’ me a chance to get at it. Next time I’ll try
harder. If there ever is a next time, cause Mama said she won’t never let me set
foot in the kitchen alone when it’s nanner puddin’ in the house until she buys a
lock for the frigerater door. Anyhow, you’re a rilly nice elf, even better than the
Tooth Fairy. Only, please don’t tell her, ‘cause I’ll have a whole bunch of baby
teeth to sell before long. I’ve only been bad about fourteen times, which ain’t
really all that much when you got 365 days in a year, not countin’ for leap years.
And, please, don’t give my little sisters coal on account o’ me. They’re too young
to always know what’s the right way o’ actin’. Let them have some real neat stuff,
even if I don’t get none of what I asked you for. The end.” My little brother was
an absolute caution – buttering up “The Man,” while tossing in some self-serving
psychology, to boot.
“Danny, now that’s how to whisper, kiddo.” I said. Then, feigning
disappointment, I asked, “But, gee whiz, how ‘bout the rest of us?”
"Oh, yeah,” he said, looking back at me, his face turned upside down. “And
bring Dan Jean and Irene some real neat presents, too. Oh, and I reckon Zack
oughta get some good junk, even if it was his idea to take them apples. Now,
that’s the end. Hey, Dan Jean... Don’t you think Santa Clau-”
A high-pitched, partially stifled shriek rang out from the hall, leaving no
doubt that Santa had made his appointed round, departed, and left a whole lot
more than coal.
“Oh, my goodness,” Irene said, re-entering the bedroom and hopping in
place, her hands clasped below her chin. “He got it. Oh, sweet world, he got it.
He got it.” Then, to be certain we got it, she repeated, “He GOT it!”
Of course, I knew she knew that I knew what she was referring to, but I
played along, anyway. “Whaddaya mean? Who got what?”
“Daddy got,” Irene paused, peeking at Danny, “that is, Santa got me. I mean...
got us. He brought us what I’ve, we’ve – well, fruit!” I was unaccustomed to seeing
Irene struggle to find the right words, something I held an advanced degree in.
“He brought it,” she finally said in a measured tone. That was when I realized
it was Will’s voice I’d heard before dozing off. Dad would have needed help
with the piano.
“About time,” I said. “Maybe, now you’ll quit moving your fingers along
the push buttons on the radio, pretending you’re playing, every time a good song
comes on.”
Irene wiggled her fingers and cackled, “Ha, you sure got that right.”
“That is just the living end, Reenie! I couldn’t be happier for ya.”
Danny turned to me and said, “It worked, Dan Jean.”
“Yep, that sure was some mighty quick finagling you did there, Pancho,” I
said, giving his earlobe a gentle thump with my middle finger.
Within moments, four-year-old Pammy drifted in, rubbing sleep from her
eyes with her right hand, her left arm wrapped around her Raggedy Ann doll.
Pammy’s always-tangled, dark brown hair was an incredibly gnarled mess that
Christmas morning. I motioned her over to the dresser where I took a seat, brush
in hand. She started whimpering before I made the first stroke. I reminded her
that Dad would be taking moving pictures. Frowning, she sucked on the tip of
her index finger and let me proceed, without further protest.
We heard the distinctive squeak of Mama and Dad’s door, followed by
plodding footsteps along the hardwood floor in the hall, and knew Mama had
risen. Irene’s joy tumbled into gloom. There was a strong possibility that her shriek
would bring about the dreaded one-sided conversation from Mama, something
Irene rarely experienced.
Danny sensed Irene’s distress and in a voice as deep as he could muster,
said, “Fee-fi-fo-fum.” Irene snatched him and Pammy from the floor, sat on
the bed, and struggled mightily to fi t the two of them on her lap. I gawked in
amazement. She planned to use our kid brother and sister as shields. Irene exhaled
when Mama bypassed our room and continued to the kitchen to put coffee on
and place sausage patties in the skillet. Five minutes later, Mama walked in with
little Susie toddling behind. She stood, arms akimbo, surveying the room, before
fl ashing an ear-to-ear grin. Mama looked radiant, remarkably so for that hour of
the morning. She had risen long before any of us in preparation for her film debut.
“Daddy’s gettin’ the camera and everything set up, so we’ll just hold our
horses quietly right here until he gives the call.” When Mama scanned the room
anew, Danny read her eyes.
“Crabby Appleton Zack, he’s the one missin’, Mama!” Danny said. “I tried
to get him up awalla go, but he wouldn’t budge.”
Unlike the rest of our light-sleeping family, Zack could rest peacefully
through a blitzkrieg. Several times during his nine-and-a-half month residency in
her womb, Mama was fearful Zack wouldn’t make it to term because he would
hibernate for so long without kicking. After nine months and ten days her worry
shifted; she began to wonder if he would ever vacate the premises. It was an
indication of things to come. Zack never changed, constantly wanting to “sleep
in,” as most folks say, though we never used the term. What else could one do?
Sleep out? Not with the mercury dipping into the teens that unusually frigid Deep
South morning. When someone was slow to rise, we referred to it as “sleeping
late.” The later the better as far as Zack was concerned.
“Oh, yeah? So, he wouldn’t get up for you, huh, Danny? We’ll just see
about that. I may hafta scob his little noggin.” Mama placed Susie into the first
gift Santa ever delivered to us, Irene’s tiny, polka dot rocker. Then, she headed
for Zack’s room. When she opened his door we could hear that boy snoring like
a pig with a head cold.
We were sitting back quietly – visions of games, toys, and Krispy Kreme
donuts occupying our imaginations – when came a loud, piercing noise
resounding throughout the house. We bolted up in unison. Mama had cut loose
with her world-class, two-fingered whistle, the one used almost exclusively to
summon us home from the outermost reaches of our neighborhood. We had never
heard her unleash that ear-ringer indoors and I doubted we would ever hear it
inside again, considering the reaction it got.
I thrust my head into the hallway in time to see the living room door open
and hear Dad yell, “Great Caesar’s ghost, what was that?”
That was the gist of what he said. He used a word I was not familiar with,
but, judging from her expression, Mama was. She looked to be walking on eggs
while silently whistling past the graveyard, Zack close behind. She might have
stunned even the graveyard with the volume of that gust. Rolling her eyes, Mama
called softly over her shoulder, “Sorry, honey, won’t happen again.”
Mama took a seat on my bed, and we waited impatiently, but silently for
Dad’s trademark call. A few antsy minutes later, we heard the familiar cry of
“BOART,” a word Dad coined. It could mean anything from “Get in the car,
we’re leaving” to “You got your orders for your chores, so get started” to “The
once-broken furnace is steaming away” to “I’m ready for y’all to come on in
now.” On that Christmas morning, it meant the latter.
Mama lined us up, youngest to oldest, single file, to make sure our faces were
visible as we entered. She told Irene and me to swap places, since I was taller,
even though I was nineteen months younger. Either way, I planned to avoid that
tortuous lens at every turn. Before opening the door to Fantasy Land, otherwise
known as our living room, Mama pulled Irene aside and, in a hurried, seething
whisper, let her have it.
“Julia Irene Beechworth, I know what your little scream was earlier. Thank
your lucky stars your Daddy was in the bathroom and didn’t hear it. You had
better show the same amount of enthusiasm now as you did when you sneaked
a look. You understand, young lady?”
Irene was mystified. Her voice went up two octaves as she softly, but
animatedly, pleaded her case, “My stars, Mama. I only barely saw it through the
darkness. I’m sorry, but don’t you sweat over me acting excited. I’m shaking
like a leaf over here right now, and it is definitely no act.” Mama smiled and
opened the door.
The bright light from the camera caused the toys to glisten beautifully. Our
siblings scattered in different directions toward their respective name tags. Irene
grabbed my hand and we scampered across to the piano – a lovely, new Baldwin
wrapped in an elegant, pink bow. Irene must have been dying to tickle the ivories,
but she sat contentedly by my side on the polished, wooden bench, savoring the
fascination on the faces of our younger brothers and sisters.
Dad was in his element holding the movie camera, fl ashing the toothiest
smile, reminding me of Bucky Beaver in the Ipana toothpaste commercials. Over
the din, he made the announcement which had become a greatly anticipated part
of his Christmas morning routine.
“Got some great news, kids. We were Santa’s last stop, so, in addition to
what he already intended to leave us, and since he was anxious to get on back to
the North Pole for a big bowl of Mrs. Claus’ banana pudding, and seeing as how
he and his reindeer were totally exhausted, well, he just decided to go ahead and
shake out all the leftovers in his bag right here on our floor!” Dad had obviously
gotten wind of my conversation with Danny the night before. Irene and I smiled,
knowing the little ones were as captivated as we had been upon hearing those
beguiling words a few years earlier.
Zack shook off the doldrums when he saw his supposedly genuine New
York Yankees cap, excellent for covering up the truly genuine, major league
cowlick in his crew cut brown hair. A Mickey Mantle baseball bat and a Willie
Mays glove rounded out his baseball collection.
Having little empty floor space to work with, Danny was hopping in small
circles while doing his best to imitate some of the between-the-legs and behind-the-
back dribbles of the Harlem Globetrotters, with his new, junior-size basketball.
The long, blue and green stocking cap he had donned as his gay apparel before
entering the living room made him look like an escapee from A Christmas Carol.
He briefly fired the pistol attached to his shooting gallery, before picking up the
sticks to his Gene Autry drum set. As Danny started wailing away, Mama looked at
Dad, teeth gritted. Apparently, that present had not been given her seal of approval.
Fortunately, Danny soon noticed the Tudor Electric Football game amongst
his bounty, and yelled to Zack. They hauled the metal field to the nearest plug.
Danny set up his men with one hand while the other was busy stuffing Krispy
Kremes in his mouth, as Zack chided him about touching anything with his
donut-greased fingers. Christmas and birthdays were the only times eating
restrictions were lifted. On those occasions, we could gorge ourselves to our
stomach’s content. Danny ate half a dozen chocolate cream-filled donuts, with
whipped cream and a cherry on top of each. Rather than warn him once more of
the potential price of overindulgence, Mama bided her time, waiting for Danny
to get sick so he would learn his lesson, but, as usual, he didn’t, unless messy face
is a sickness. Invariably, Mama wound up saying something like, “I’ll swanee,
Danny, you’re a bottomless pit.”
Pammy was in make-believe, grown-up heaven when she saw her large
doll house, with breakaway windows and doors, and a chandelier-adorned living
room. Her Easy-Bake Oven was a step up from her usual fare of mud pies and
imaginary finger foods to the real world of cooking.
“I’m gonna make dessoit tonight, otay, Mommy?” Pammy said, her face
glowing with excitement. Mama smiled and nodded, proudly.
The baby, golden-haired Susie, pale blue eyes in full-blown fascination,
fl uttered about the room like a butterfly with no place to light, yelling, “Can-Caus,”
her gibberish for Santa Claus. Judging from the full look of her pajama bottoms,
and a creeping odor which was starting to wreak havoc on the wonderful scents
of pine, sausage frying, and coffee brewing, one abysmally unpleasant package
needed to be opened promptly.
“Why, I just changed her this mornin’. Musta been all the excitement,” Mama
said, tossing me a diaper. “Take her back yonder and tend to the unpleasantries,
Dannie Jean.”
I was incensed. Before leaving the room I told Mama that such a disgusting
chore was twenty times worse than mopping a measly floor. She acknowledged
my irritation with a sympathetic wave.
Dad, in his white tee shirt, green work breeches, and brown house shoes,
stood erect and alert, his camera constantly changing directions in a futile effort
to capture the widespread merriment in its entirety. He did get a long, clear shot
of my slow retreat with Susie, which never failed to bring major laughs – and
embarrassed protests from Susie – through the ensuing years. I was holding her
hand at arm’s length, striving for maximum separation, while she tottered along,
her diaper bottom dangling dangerously close to the carpet.
The good news was, the camera worked fine and the pictures were clear. The
bad news was, Dad was no Alfred Hitchcock, though his frequent movement of
the camera from one shot to another did create a sense of vertigo in those of us who
viewed his handiwork. We had to remember the places to shutter our eyes when
we watched the film. Thankfully, Dad’s pan and scan skills improved over time.
Santa typically left one special gift for the family at large, usually something
educational. The previous year it was an electric typewriter. This time, we received
a new, twenty-four volume set of World Book Encyclopedias. Opening a book, I
inhaled the distinctive scent and vowed to put them to good use, and not merely
for required school assignments. My early New Year’s resolution was to become
an intelligence force to be reckoned with, maybe even soaring into the rarefied
air occupied by the smartest girl I knew – my older sister.
Once the hubbub had settled into mild chaos, Dad appointed me cameraman.
Irene, who had restrained herself from playing the piano until then, walked over
and gave Dad a hug. She mouthed “thank you” with unbridled joy and affection
radiating from her eyes. Dad looked equally pleased while saying, “You’re
welcome, princess.” Returning to the bench, Irene began serenading us with
Christmas songs, hitting very few sour notes in the process.
The only uncluttered place remaining was the love seat. There, my parents
sat to exchange gifts. Following custom, Mama presented Dad with his gift first.
Given the length and narrowness of the packaging, he had a pretty good idea of
the contents. We had all guessed it to be a fishing pole. Be that as it may, Dad
observed our long-standing family tradition of making the suspense last as long
as possible. The one opening a gift never looked at the item until every scrap of
wrapping paper was removed and the actual container, if there was one, was
discarded. In that instance, observing tradition merely delayed the obvious. It
was a fishing pole. But, considering Dad’s jaw-dropping reaction, it must have
been some pole.
When Dad leaned over, hugged Mama, and said, “Thanks, hon, I really love
it,” he sealed it with a peck on the lips, and the significance hit me immediately.
“Hey, y’all. I just got Mama and Daddy’s first moving picture smooch.” The
laughter following that comment went through the chimney.
I was far more comfortable stationed behind the camera than in front.
Maintaining focus on the subjects while keeping a steady hand came naturally
to me.
With the speed of sorghum fl owing through a colander, Dad placed Mama’s
gift on her lap. Irene was aware of the contents, but knew better than to tell me.
She did say it was very special. A sudden vibration and flapping sound gave me
a start and I almost fumbled the camera.
Dad jumped up and said, “Gosh, be careful, Jean. My fault, though. I should
have warned you about that. Of course, I’ve only experienced it once, myself.”
The film was used up, but Dad had another roll on his desk. He sent Zack to
retrieve it while he readied the camera for another session. I looked slowly around
the room, marveling at the bounty, when I noticed something barely visible near
Danny’s name tag. In all the commotion, we had forgotten it.
Pointing to the corner of a gray box peeking from beneath a pile of rubble, I
said, “What’s that right there, Danny? Looks like you missed one. Better let it be,
though, until Daddy’s ready.” During the delay, I ran to the kitchen for some damp
napkins to wipe the sticky donut residue from Danny’s face. Things could not
have worked out better had they been planned. What was sure to be a memorable
event demanded its own uninterrupted screen play. Danny waited restlessly for
Dad to turn on the camera. When he got the nod, Danny lit into that box like a
bear into a picnic basket, though he did keep his eyes fixed on the ceiling until all
of the wrappings were removed and the box opened. And there it was.
“Davey, Danny Crockett, king of the wild frontier.” Irene sang and I
caterwauled the theme song from the Disney television show. It isn’t often a
five-year-old boy sheds tears of joy, but when Danny saw that complete Davy
Crockett outfit, including the coonskin cap, his eyes capsized. Mama told Zack
to go back and help Danny put it on. When they returned a few minutes later,
Danny appeared to have lost some weight, despite all of those donuts. By design,
the outfit was too large, allowing room for his growth spurts.
Mama said, “I’ll swanee. Would y’all take a look at my little rascal? Come
here, you.” As Danny protested, she picked him up and kissed his cheeks, leaving
lipstick where the donut cream had been.
“You can’t be kissin’ on ol’ Davy Crockett like that, Mama. It ain’t fittin’,
nor proper.” Above the laughter following Danny’s comment, I told Dad we
needed a camera with sound. As I filmed him, Dad reached into his empty pants
pockets, turned them inside out, wiggled his eyebrows, shrugged, and waddled
across the room like Charlie Chaplin.
The moment had arrived for Mama to unwrap her present. She seemed
bashful when it came to opening gifts from Dad. I don’t know if it was because
she was afraid she wouldn’t like what he had gotten, and it would show, or, if she
was concerned that she might not seem enthusiastic enough even if she liked his
gift. Either of those responses was less likely than John Wayne being the villain.
When Mama opened the beautiful, store-wrapped, lavender box to see an item
she had wanted since she was a little girl and her Great Aunt Vashti sported one,
she all but passed out. Before her was a mink stole, and, unlike Zack’s baseball
cap, it was one hundred percent authentic. With hands trembling, she gently
reached in to extract that extravagant fur piece.
“Honey, can we afford this? You shouldn’t have. It’s gorgeous, but I’m sure it
cost too much. Ahhh, I love it, baby. I can’t keep this, though. But it is so beautiful.
How much did you have to pay? No, I don’t want to know. Irene, did you know
about this, sweetie? Oh, my goodness, why’d you put me in this predicament, Dan
Beechworth? Lordy, Lordy, what should I do?” Mama’s head was on a swivel
as she continued to ramble on, sounding like a befuddled attorney representing
both sides of the same case. Dad sat soaking it in, with a grin reminiscent of the
cat who ate the canary. He did so relish watching her carry on that way.
“Why, sugar, that’s from Santa. Didn’t cost me a dime,” Dad teased, as
Mama’s reservations gradually eroded. Eventually, she wrapped up in the stole
and placed her head on Dad’s shoulder, sighing in contentment. And I caught it
all on film.
With the gift-giving complete, we stood together to perform our annual
version of “Hark the Herald Angels Sing.” Amid throat-clearing and a few do-re-mis
in front of the stocking-covered fi replace, we lined up to pay our respects by
singing to the One whose birthday we were celebrating. Looking directly at me,
with the camera relentlessly rolling, Dad told us to face him and sing out loud and
clear. I was suddenly grateful that camera didn’t have sound, but, unbeknownst
to any of us, Dad had secreted our tape recorder behind the couch; it had been
running all morning. He wanted to preserve our genuine comments, uninfluenced
by technology. When we finished the last line, “Glory to the newborn King,” we
casually removed our hand-stitched, red and green stockings from the mantle.
Our Grandmother Yates made one for each of her grandkids when we were born,
emblazoning our names in silver across the top. On Christmas morning, they were
filled with the same things – tangerines, Brazil nuts, and butterscotch candy. The
only time I recall seeing those items around our house was during the Christmas
season. In fact, a half-empty package of Brazil nuts hidden behind some canned
goods in the pantry, shortly after my eighth Yuletide, yielded my first clue to the
tightly-guarded secret of Santa.
My parents and siblings could not have been happier that Christmas morning.
As for me, I got plenty of what I expected – clothes, a charm bracelet, colored
bobbie socks, an Annie Oakley game. A couple of gifts struck me as weird – a
first aid kit and a diary. Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation alone was reason enough
for me to avoid learning first aid. And, why waste precious time recording my
pitiable experiences in a diary; the last thing I needed was a problem-reminder.
Overall, though, I was pleased. One particular gift did stand out beak and breast
above the rest – a shimmering, yellow canary, in an accessory-packed cage. I
named my long-awaited, first pet “Wingsong.” Little did I know, Wingsong
would soon have me hoping that Dad’s catty smile minutes earlier might be a
portent of things to come.
3
Though 1955 was a quiet year, relatively speaking, it ended with a relative’s
bang. Mama and Dad would be attending a formal New Year’s Eve dance thrown
by the Eastern Star. It would be the first time for Irene and me to babysit after dark,
and we felt empowered over being responsible for our siblings. Zack protested,
saying “I don’t need no looking after,” but brother, would his statement go down
in flames before the evening ended.
Mama had recently been elected “Worthy Matron,” the highest ranking
official in the Star’s local chapter. The dance would be her first chance to wear
Dad’s Christmas gift. Mama was ultra weather-conscious in the days leading up
to the big event. When it turned warm about midweek, her spirits flagged. The
thermometer contained far too much red for her to wear fur, without seeming
fl aunty. But, by the week-end, Old Man Winter returned with a vengeance, putting
the twinkle back in Mama’s eyes.
On the evening of the affair, Irene spent over an hour styling Mama’s hair
into what resembled a braided crown. Mama was draped in a blue-green gown
with matching earrings. With the mink added, she looked absolutely majestic.
Dad, who wasn’t given to high fashion, looked extraordinarily handsome
for the occasion. His outfit – a navy blue, double-breasted suit with hat to match
– was the perfect complement to Mama’s elegance. A light-green band encircled
his fedora. A wavy, brown lock of hair peeked from just under the brim.
“Daddy, I love your spit curl,” I said. Dad promptly brushed the curl back
under his hat.
“Daddy, where’s the camera?” Irene had spotted the obvious. The moment
had “everlasting visual” written all over it.
“Awww, it’s too late to get out all that movie equip-”
“No, no, Daddy, I mean the Ansco – the still camera.”
“Oh,” Dad said, looking relieved. “Hang on a sec, honey.”
Dad retrieved the camera and handed it to Irene, who took several snapshots,
one of which turned out to be priceless. In it, Dad is looking up at Mama with
the adoration of a blue-eyed puppy. Dad did not care for the photo. Key words
– “looking up.” Those pesky high heels again.
At seven PM, our parents began making their way to the door. By seven-fifteen,
they were still making their way to the door. Mama kept thinking of things
Irene and I should know, in case problems arose. Eventually, Dad stood between
Mama and the rest of us, gently nudging her beyond the front door, down the
steps, and coaxing her to the curb where our green and white, 1955 Nash Rambler
station wagon was parked. All six of us kids were jammed in the doorway when
Mama hollered one final reminder as they pulled away.
“Y’all remember, Santa’s still watching.” Irene and I looked at each other in
disbelief. New Year’s eve struck us as a wee bit premature to be invoking “The
Man’s” name as a remedy to bad behavior.
Danny, in the frontier outfit he had worn daily since Christmas, yelled, “Okay.
Remember the Alamo, Mom!” Our moment of glory had arrived.
Right away, everyone seemed in high spirits, except for Susie, who cried,
“I-mo-ma-mama” for the next fifteen minutes. None of my usual methods, like
making silly faces, would make her hush. It wasn’t until I handed her a Tupperware
mixing bowl, coated with the remains of chocolate batter from brownies Irene
was making, that she piped down.
“Funny how chocolate can make a toddler forget her issues,” Irene said.
With a rebellious air, Danny said, “We’re stayin’ up ‘til the next year, ‘coz
Daddy said we could.” Pammy nodded emphatically.
Irene closed the oven door, leaned against it, held her open palms upward
at shoulder level and said, “Fine by me, kiddos. Y’all can stay up until morning
and watch your first sunrise while you’re at it.”
Danny and Pammy stared at each other with a puzzled look that seemed to
say, “What’s the fun of staying up late if nobody cares if we stay up late?”
While the brownies baked, we discussed how best to spend the balance of
our evening. We were so excited over being Chief Cook and Bottle Washer that
we hadn’t given much thought to anything beyond that lifetime achievement
award. Watching The Perry Como Show was the extent of our planning. We loved
his voice and laid back attitude, but seldom got to watch the program, since The
Honeymooners came on at the same time. If Dad was home, and he normally
was on Saturday night, Ralph Kramden was king of our castle.
I suggested we take the kids out back to light sparklers. Danny and Pammy
bounced on their toes, smitten with my idea.
“Me pway spockle, too,” Susie enthused.
Irene dressed the little ones and led them out back, while I looked for
matches. I told Zack to join us, but he said he would rather watch television. His
request seemed harmless and I gave my approval, though I wasn’t sure I had that
authority. I ran to the porch and flipped off the floodlights so that the sparklers
would appear brighter. While cradling Susie in her right arm, Irene extended a
sparkler in her left. I had found only four matches; each one had to count. Right
away, I lost one to the wind. On the second try, I lit Irene’s sparkler. She held
it steady while I fired up two more, handing them to Danny and Pammy. After
that, each time a sparkler was about to burn out, we used it to light another. The
exhilaration on the little ones’ faces reminded me of how I had once felt, but
sparklers were dullsville to me by then, a promising introduction with no payoff.
When we were down to the last of the sparklers, the phone rang. I ran in,
yelling for Zack to answer it. No response. And, little wonder, it was Mama. I was
not pleased with Mama’s calling so soon, feeling it gave the impression that she
actually thought we might do something as foolish as leaving Zack inside while
the rest of us went out back to play with fire in the wind and cold.
“Mama, we’ve got the number where y’all are, all of two miles away. I
can’t believe you’d think we flubbed up this quick. If anything was to happen,
don’t you know we’d call? Why can’t you just enjoy y’alls night out instead of
worryin’ about us ever’ two seconds? We’ve been playin’ with the kids, just havin’
fun, and we’re fixin’ to eat some brownies Irene’s making here in a few minutes.
Everything is hunky-dory, Mama. I promise.” Startled by my own bluntness, I
decided some levity was needed to ward off possible backlash.
Using Mama’s playbook, I asked, “Now, Mama, what is it Irene’s makin’?”
It worked. Mama laughed heartily and seemed relieved by my objections to
her call. I knew it was not Irene she was worried about, anyway. She promised
not to call back except to say “Happy New Year.”
That rare burst of self-assertion had me feeling pretty good as I hung up the
phone. Then, I thought of Zack and my zeal vanished before I had a chance to
revel in it. Irene and the kids walked in.
“Mama?” Irene said.
“Yep.”
“Where’s Zack?”
“That’s what I was just wondering. He asked if he could look at TV and I
said ‘OK’.”
“And you fell for it! Jean, sometimes you’re as lame as a rahbul.”
“Takes one to know one,” I shot back.
“Brilliant response, Jean. Well, those brownies oughta be done. Let’s have a
treat before we have to fret over that little scalawag.” Irene took out the brownies
while I retrieved a half gallon of ice cream from the back porch freezer.
“This stuff is as hard as a brick,” I said, placing it on the counter with a thud.
“No wonder. Cold as it is outside, the freezer must be at absolute zero.” Irene
glanced my way, no doubt expecting me to be puzzled over the term.
“Yep, that’s pretty cold, alright,” I said, struggling to keep a straight face.
“Here, let’s stick it in the hot oven for a few minutes.” In no time, we were digging
into the hot and cold euphoria of brownies à la mode.
I took a large bite and noticed Danny staring at me, his hands frozen in space.
“What’s the matter, Danny?” My question was garbled, as the gooey concoction
stuck to the roof of my mouth. He parted his lips and bared his teeth, revealing
a gap where his upper right front tooth had been. “Look, Lefty, Danny’s finally
lost his tooth! What’s wrong, did the wind blow and freeze your face, Danny?”
I said, smiling. I leaned in for a closer inspection and saw no blood.
“Naw, Dan Jean, I just didn’t know how elth to look right now.”
“Where is it, Danny? Stuck in your brownie?” Irene asked.
“I think... I mighta... thwallowed it,” Danny whined. “Geth that meanth no
Toof Fairy for me, huh, ‘rene?” His bottom lip began to protrude.
“No-no, buddy. That isn’t how it works. I haven’t read Tinkerbell’s
Standardized Tooth Fairy Rules in a while, but I know it has a clause to cover
swallowed choppers. Anyhow, let’s be sure you did swallow it, first. Pass me
your bowl.”
Irene poked and prodded until she found his tiny incisor hidden in some
partially melted ice cream. Handing it to him, she said, “Here you go, kiddo. Run
put it under your pillow before you lose it again.”
“Wow, way to go, Reen. Now, we won’t have to look up Tink’s ruleth for
swallowed toofs,” Danny exclaimed while leaping into the air and pumping his
fi st. “Hey, reckon the Toof Fairy’ll leave me thum extra money thince it’s got
dethert on it?” Danny said, while jogging toward his room. When he returned,
Danny drank what was left in his bowl, and I bounced up to get seconds for the
two of us.
With our chocolate cravings satisfied, Irene and I rinsed the dishes and
started a search through Zack’s usual hiding places, hoping he was trying to
aggravate us. But, we knew that if he was anywhere within sniffing distance of
those brownies, he would have surfaced. We could not find him. The kitchen
clock read eight-thirty. Perry Como was half over. Susie was getting fretful, so
I warmed her bottle, put her in the crib, and she was asleep before I completed
the first verse of “Bringing in the Sheaves.” I loved singing to Susie, Pammy,
and Danny, since they seemed oblivious to the fact that I couldn’t carry a tune in
a metal washtub. Walking from the bedroom into the living room, I heard Irene
yelling on the front lawn.
“Zack. Zack Ross BEECHWORTH!”
In my rush to get outside to tell her to knock it off, I stubbed my big toe.
“Oh, shoot and heckfire, Irene,” I cried out, before I was anywhere near the door.
The arctic blast when I opened it made me angrier still. “What in tarnation do
you think you’re DOIN’, Irene?”
“What does it look like? I’m trying to find your vagrant little brother.”
“Yeah, but Reenie,” I lowered my voice, for it was my own clumsiness that
caused me to hurt my toe. “If you use his full name, you might as well go ahead
and tell him he’s already got hisself in a peck of trouble. Only time Mama does
that’s when’s she’s mad as a hornet.”
Irene nodded and said, “Okay, but, what if he’s out past midnight with the
older boys? They’ll be setting off fireworks and running the gamut from mischief
to mayhem. How do we explain that to Mama and Daddy?”
“Maybe we won’t have to,” I said, while trying to figure out what a “gamut”
was. “Danny and Pammy can’t stay awake much longer. Once they’re asleep,
we’ll track his little butt down. Mama promised not to call back ‘til New Year’s,
which means that phone’ll be ringing about two minutes past midnight.”
Smirking, Irene said, “Okay. Let’s get them to bed so we can start searching.”
In the den, Pammy was stretched out on the carpet, playing with her doll
house, looking about half as tired as a muskrat on No-Doz. Danny was behind the
couch, popping up in his coonskin cap every few seconds to fire another round
from his plastic rifle toward Santa Anna’s steadily advancing army.
“This ain’t goin’ too good,” I said, stifling a yawn.
“Jean, don’t you dare even think about gettin’ sleepy on me now!”
“Awww, just a random yawn,” I said, while fighting off another.
“What caused somnolence in us when we were little?” Irene asked, cradling
her chin and humming like Kingfish on Amos and Andy. “Hmmm.”
“Counting backwards from absolute zero?” I said. “Cut out the fifty-cent
words and speak English, egghead.”
Irene pursed her lips and slowly articulated each syllable, “What...made...
us...sleep...y, Jean?”
“Gimme a break. I dunno. How ‘bout ‘Laugh in the Dark’?”
“Laugh” was a game I made up, similar to Hide ‘n Seek. After being
blindfolded, the “It” person was required to grabble through a darkened room
until they touched someone. When the touch was made, “It” had to guess the
person he was holding. If the guess was correct, the identified person became
“It.” Usually, nervous giggles from the one being touched made guessing easy.
Playing without lights encouraged sleepiness.
“Gosh, great idea, Jean. Okay, let’s give that a tussle. Hey, we just had
‘somnolence’ on a spelling test was how I knew that word means ‘sleep.’ Just
messing with you. Okay, y’all ready? Let’s play!” Danny and Pammy were
raring to have at it.
After a quick round of Rock, Paper, Scissors, I won the right to count off
the “One potato, two potato” rhyme, or, as we called it, “One tay, two tay.” Forty-five
minutes and ten different “Its” later, Pammy was first to crash, the sandman
nabbing her while she sprawled beneath Irene’s bed. Soon after, Danny’s constant
yawns indicated he was losing the battle with his “staying awake ‘til the next year”
proclamation. To hurry things along, Irene told him he could lie on the living room
couch to watch television, and, if he happened to fall asleep, we’d awaken him
before midnight. With eyelids reluctantly drooping, Danny accepted her terms.
Danny dozed off as our grandfather clock, Big Tom, tolled the ten o’clock
hour. I never asked where the name “Big Tom” originated, but I had a hunch
Dad made it up to poke fun, indirectly, at Mama’s sisters. At least two of them
pronounced “time” like “tom,” as in, “What tom is it?” But then, few true
Southerners are phonetic fanatics. The soothing, hypnotic ticking of that clock
acted as an aural tranquilizer. Unfortunately, a wayward brother, with a nose
as predisposed for trouble as for snoring, had extended the miles we had to go
before somnolence became an option. Irene scooped Danny off to bed, while I
grabbed our heavy sweaters.
We got as far as the front lawn before noticing how much stiffer the breeze
had become. Wind chill was not yet factored into the temperature, but we didn’t
need a meteorologist to tell us it was downright bitter out. Irene ran back inside to
grab our fur-lined gloves and hooded car coats. I saw Ma Boone’s back porch light
burning, and, thinking I might be on to something, pointed out my observation
when Irene returned. She asked if it was uncommon for Ma Boone’s porch light
to be on at that time of night. I admitted I had never noticed before. She said I
should leave the detective work to Sherlock Holmes. I bristled.
We wandered the area aimlessly, so heavily clothed that we had to turn
our entire torsos, robotic-like, to see in different directions. Periodically, we
heard fireworks. As time passed, the combination of overcast sky and painful
wind, along with the late hour and gradually increasing noises, created a sense
of impending doom within us. Our once-safe neighborhood had turned into
something more ghastly than the Edgar Allan Poe poem Dad had read to us on
Halloween. I half-expected a raven to swoop down from the trees at any moment.
Though we were already holding hands, our grips tightened. Irene attempted
to lighten the mood by reciting, “Lions and tigers and bears, oh my.”
Following her lead, I gave a woeful impersonation of Woody Woodpecker.
Jokes could not hide the helpless look in our eyes. A hospital’s grading system
would have listed us as “serious.” Mama could call at any time, but certainly
would call shortly after midnight, and we didn’t dare lie if Zack was unaccounted
for. But even if we found him, what good would it do if she reneged on her
promise and called back without one of us there to pick up the phone? Should
that happen, Mama would appear in two shakes of a hickory switch. Grim reality
was bearing down with a Roman candle’s red glare. Irene decided to burst some
vocal bombs in midair.
“Zack Beechworth, where are you? You get over here right now.
Zaaaaccccckkk!” Irene screamed for all she was worth, but her words were
swallowed by the wind.
“You’re just spittin’ in the creek there, Reenie. Allow me.”
“It’s ‘ocean,’ Jean.”
“What’s ‘ocean’?”
“It’s supposed to be ‘spitting in the ocean,’ not ‘creek’.”
“What about ‘wind,’ then? It could be ‘spittin’ in the wind,’ couldn’t it?”
“It could. But you were using a body of water, which calls for ‘ocean’.”
“Ocean, smotion. Village Creek is the only ocean we’ve got. Besides, it’s
no time for quibblin’ now. Cover your ears.”
“They already are covered.” Irene pointed to the hood of her car coat.
“I meant your hands... your gloves. Awww, cover ‘em with your gloved
hands.”
“Oh, okay. Got ya covered.”
My shouting voice rivaled Mama’s whistle. “Zaaaaccck.” I screamed, while
slowly rotating. “ZACK ROSS BEECHWORTH, unless you want big troubles,”
I paused to inhale, “you better come on home, NOW, BOY! Aw, hush,” I said,
before Irene could hassle me for using Zack’s full name.
“Well, I’ll guarantee you one thing. If that blast didn’t get Zack’s attention,
we might as well throw in the towel.”
“You mean, ‘Throw in the dynamite’.”
“Huh?”
“You said ‘blast.’ What’s a towel got to do with it? Heh-heh-heh-heh-heh.
Ahem.”
“Jean, anyone ever tell you you’re nuts, certifiable even?” Irene’s attempt
at a smile didn’t take.
Our bubbling enthusiasm from earlier in the evening had lost its fizz.
Surrogate parenthood had major downsides. Our emotions had run Irene’s gamut:
disgust toward Zack for his disappearing act, anger at ourselves for letting him
slip off, fear for our own safety, and, most importantly, concern for Zack’s safety.
Despite the assorted bangs, we were unable to detect movement in anything
but plant life. We might well have been cobbling through a noisy ghost town. More
than likely, the apparent absence of human life was due to the fact that we were
the only ones foolish enough to be out in such terrible weather for any measurable
time. Our only option was to set out for home, praying Zack had returned.
Making our way up the steps to the front porch was difficult. We were a
complete mess – muscles tight, faces chapped, ears stinging, spirits sagging.
Fearing things that go bump in the night, we tiptoed over the porch through
shifting shadows raised by the street light’s illumination of the rustling shrubs, as
the gusting wind moved them to and fro. I reached for the brass doorknob. When
the tips of my fingers touched it, a thunderous noise jolted me into Irene’s arms.
“What the heck...” Beyond those words, Irene was speechless. Tears welled
in my eyes as we hugged cheek-to-cheek. Those gyrating shrubs were starting
to look like ghostly apparitions.
Voice trembling, I said, “That could’na been thunder. It didn’t rumble right.
Plus, it’s way too cold to be thunderin’. S’pose it was a sonic boom, Reenie?”
We knew what a sonic boom was, but neither of us had ever heard one.
We peeled our cheeks apart – the cold and some unwashed brownie à la mode on my face
had caused our skin to stick – and scampered into the house, locking the door.
“Serious” had just been downgraded to “critical.”
Anytime I was looking forward to something, like a good show coming on
television, the call to supper, or a trip to Lowe’s Skating Rink, Big Tom would
move so slowly, I worried that he was about ticked out. But, when we returned
from our fruitless search that evening, that old clock had been running like Jesse
Owens in Berlin. It was nineteen minutes until the witching hour, with no solution
to the Zack Ross Beechworth mystery in sight. Moaning, we fell back into the
deep, charcoal gray sofa cushions. Our world was in chaos. We sat in solemn
silence, staring at the floor, hoping for a miracle – anything that would prevent
our having to do what we knew could not wait another moment. “Critical” was
hanging by a frayed thread.
“Want me to?” I asked, with all the sincerity I could summon under the
circumstances. Irene sent me an appreciative look for offering, but she knew it
was the Chief Cook, not the Bottle Washer, who, ultimately, bore the responsibility
for our misfortune. With a tortured look she slowly removed the glove from her
left hand. I watched it tremble as she reached for the phone on the coffee table.
Her index finger remained inserted in the dial for each painfully slow trip forward
and back until she reached the last of the digits – a seven.
“Please, let it be a lucky seven,” Irene said, while gazing toward the ceiling,
still searching for a miracle. Redirecting her eyes to mine, she took a deep breath
and, with a sigh of resignation, turned the rotary dial loose.
Since that last big boom, a deathly hush had fallen over our world. Only
two sounds were audible – our irregular breathing and the incessant, annoying
ticking of that confounded clock. (It is truly remarkable how greatly mood can alter
perception.) I leaned on Irene and heard the first ring, followed by another loud
report, not nearly as deafening as the previous one, but much closer. Additionally,
the second one sounded destructive, like something out of a war movie, only, the
war was taking place in our backyard. I pressed the hang-up button, ending the call.
“Oh, my word, Jean, what was that?” Irene said. We broke toward the back,
hit the floodlights, and opened the door. There stood Zack – rigid, mouth wide
open, hands clasped atop his head.
“Gracious goodness, Zack!” Irene threw her arms up as she ran toward
him. “Are you okay, baby?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone slipping down the driveway in
a great hurry. I determined instantly that Zack, though visibly shaken, wasn’t in
physical distress, so I lit out after my brother’s accomplice. As the culprit turned
off our driveway, he couldn’t avoid running under the street light in front of Old
Lady Lewis’ house, and, as I suspected, it was Roy.
“Roy Lucifer Wilson! You know I can catch you, so you’d best just stop
right there, Buster Brown. Get back here this instant or I’ll kick your can right
in front of your friends this next time, you pusillanimous rascal.” That marked
the first time I had used the word I picked up from my grandfather, only he said
“pusillanimous skunk.” But, since Zack said Roy made a habit of showering at
least twice a day, skunk was not much of a fit.
Roy stopped, lowered his head, and did a u-turn. I hurried back to Zack.
His expression suggested that he might have had a genuine encounter with Mr.
Poe’s bird, but his body was unscathed, for the time being, anyway. Once our
parents got home, his physical condition was subject to going from “good” to
“grave” very quickly.
Looking as sheepish as Bo Peep likely did when she lost hers, Roy rounded
the corner. His hands were crammed so deeply into the pockets of his green
corduroy pants that I could barely see the crook of his elbows. An orange toboggan
dangled from his right back pocket.
Irene stood erect, neck cocked, eyes blazing, and said, “Smells like a sulfur
factory out here. Okay, let’s have it. What happened? And be quick about it.” Zack
and Roy stared at the ground, hoping to concoct a halfway believable, bald-faced
lie. Irene continued, “ Fess up. Let’s have it! Now!”
“Well, Paulie Snider’s Dad went somewhere in Mississippi a coupla weeks
ago to, you know, to buy some fireworks and junk.” As Roy spoke, I could see a
trace of pink in his ears, not unexpected given the temperature out, but he had a
most unusual characteristic. Anytime he got excited or embarrassed, his earlobes
turned pink. “Anyhow, I think that’s the only reason he went, but, you know, he
might’ve had something else to do over there, cause that’s where Paulie’s, you
know, grandmother lives, since her sister took ill. Seems like it was last Tuesday,
but... no, I think it mighta been Wednesday. I forget that part, but whatever, you
know, he was ju-”
“No, I don’t know, Roy. Sometimes you’re as thick as a tuba, you know it?
We ain’t got all night. Like Joe Friday says, ‘Just the facts’.”
Zack continued studying the ground. Roy took a deep breath and coughed
up the facts. “Paulie traded me two cherry bombs for an Indian head nickel and
said they would go off underwater, so I hid ‘em until tonight, and Zack walked
by my winder and I told him about ‘em. We like never to have found a light,
‘cause I didn’t want to borry matches from nobody who might ask ‘what for,’
‘cause I heard cherry bombs might be against the law. Anyway, we went over
to Village Creek to see if they’d really stay lit under water. But it was so dark,
the one I threw landed on a rock and exploded, which wasted half of my Indian
head, right there. Then Zack said we should drop the other one in the toilet water
in y’alls shed where we couldn’t miss, and we did, but we didn’t think it’d work,
‘cause water puts out fire. Ever’body knows that. So I was gonna make Paulie
give me my nickel back, but it did work and that’s what you smell and that’s all
they is to it, so help me.”
Irene said, “What’s that stickin’ out of your coat pocket, Roy?”
“Oh, that’s a pack of Black Cat firecrackers, but they ain’t nothin’ but great
pertenders. They barely make a noise.”
“Good,” Irene said. “Set ‘em down there beside the shed and light the whole
pack. Right now.”
“But why in the heck should-”
“Just do it. No more questions. Now.”
“What if Old Lady Lewis comes out?”
“Roooy, that’s a question! Anyhow, she’d have already been out by now if
she was home. Lucky for y’all, she’s at the witches and warlocks convention in
Salem. Light the blasted firecrackers, you nincompoop.”
Dropping to a knee, Roy attempted to do as instructed, but was unable to
prevent the wind from extinguishing his match.
“How’d you light the cherry bomb, Roy?” Irene demanded, growing angrier
by the second.
“We was in the sha-yed.” Roy’s voice was quavering and he seemed to be
fighting mightily to avoid crying. He stared angrily at the firecrackers, like they
were his enemy. I couldn’t take anymore, and was about to speak out on Roy’s
behalf, but hesitated just long enough for the Chief Cook to change her tone.
Speaking more slowly, Irene said, “It’s okay, bud. Hey, very clever of you
referencing the Platters song like that.” Presto, the harshness in Irene’s voice
disappeared; Roy’s aggrieved face had gotten to her, as well.
“Thanks,” Roy said, almost as a question.
“Alright, tell ya what. Go on back inside the shed to light the fuse. Soon as
you get it going, just flip the pack out on the ground real fast-like. They might not
be loud, but they can still hurt your fingers. Then, you wait inside until they’ve
all gone off. Got me?”
Those firecrackers sounded like a toy Tommy gun. Roy pounced out of the
shed and awaited further orders. “Go on home, Roy. Not out the front, though.
Best take the back way, through the alley. Hurry up, now. Chances are, I’ll see
you tomorrow.” Roy gave a quick wave and crashed through our back gate.
“Okay, you two... inside.”
I was last to clamber up the steps. Before I could close the door, explosions
erupted from Village Creek to Hobbs’ Drugs. Big Tom chimed in, tolling the
midnight hour. Precisely two minutes later, the phone rang. After staring at each
other briefly, Irene and I began laughing uncontrollably. Mama was as predictable
as a toast on the threshold of New Year.
Zack answered the call and we could all hear Mama’s shout of, “Happy
New Year!” We ran to the extension phones. It became obvious that our mama,
a 99.88% teetotaler, had imbibed a bit of bubbly. She must have done some
practice toasting in preparation for the big one at midnight. Mama wanted to talk
to Danny, Pammy and “Slusie,” wondering why they were in bed at the “shank
of the evening.”
Dad got on the phone and greeted us with a second rousing “Happy New
Year.” After hearing us say everything was fine at home, Dad said they would
stick around the celebration another half hour or so.
Irene said, “Super. We’re going to bed. Oh, by the way, Daddy, if you run
into a sulfuric smell in the back yard near the shed, that’s where Roy shot off
some firecrackers. G’night.” And, on that occasion, no white lie was necessary,
since Roy had done as Irene described, the fact he’d set off a cherry bomb in the
shed, notwithstanding.
We did go straight to bed. Any explanation for our baby-sitting shortcomings
would have to be conjured up the next morning, after our brains were rejuvenated.
I slipped on my thickest flannel pajamas and crawled under the covers. I felt bad
when I thought about the name I had called Roy – not “pusillanimous.” I didn’t
even know what that meant, but I knew it could not be vulgar, or Grandaddy
would not have used it in my presence. It was the other thing – Lucifer. That
was not Roy’s middle name. I hadn’t a notion what it was, but surely not that. I
instinctively threw in a middle name to make my anger clear. In my first prayers
of 1956, I asked God’s forgiveness for my name-calling. My last request that
late, winter night involved the following morning. I begged Him to give Mama
and Dad an overpowering urge to sleep in.
4
An invisible sun arose the next morning, as heavy, billowing mountains
of metallic gray clouds crowded the sky. For the fi rst time I could recall, eight
o’clock had slipped by without any sign of activity in the Beechworth household.
In reality, there was one early bird stirring – a very noisy canary. Though I’d had
Wingsong for only a week, that infernal bird was rapidly working his way up
my enemies list with his persistent early morning screeching. I had hoped that
he would either become acclimated to his surroundings and hush, or I would get
used to his chattering. Neither looked particularly promising.
At half past eight, I quietly rolled out of bed and padded off to the bathroom,
oblivious to the frenzy of the previous night. I tried to get my bearings, but was
unable even to recall what day it was. While washing my hands, I saw my
refl ection in the bathroom mirror. “Good grief,” I said. “Trick’er treat. Yuck!” I
lumbered sadly and wearily back to the bedroom, where the fog partially lifted.
It was Sunday. Zack and I had perfect Sunday school attendance records. Should
I wake him? Should I awaken everyone? Presently, a more pressing problem
crossed my mind. Irene and I had not thought to check inside the shed after the
explosion. Though she normally woke up as soon as I began to stir, the late night
had taken its toll. I dreaded doing it, but I had to get Irene up right away. Since she
hated to be shaken awake, I needed to come up with a way to rouse her – one that
wouldn’t cause her to bite my head off. I thought of something that might work.
“Reenie,” I spoke softly, lightly tapping my fi ngers on her shoulder. “Reenie...
cherry bomb... toilet... cherry bomb... toil-”
Irene lurched forward. “Oh, my goodness, Jean! We didn’t inspect the toilet
for damage. Let’s go! Shoot, need to tinkle first.”
“Can’t it wait?”
“Yeah. Guess so. Where’s our wraps?”
“Wraps? Did you say ‘wraps,’ Irene?”
“Yeaa-esss. You know. Those things we wear when it’s cold out, also known
as coats!” She lifted her arms skyward in exasperation.
“Oh, I dunno. Let’s see. Maybe I better check in the… cloakroom! Wraps?
G’night, Nellie. Sounds like something from a Charles Dickinson book.”
“Alright, I concede. Maybe a little dated. But, the name is Dickens... not
Dickinson. Dickinson is Emily... not Charles.”
“Aw, well. I was close, at least.”
We slipped into our coats and made a bee line down the hall, across the back
porch, and onto the steps, making sure the screen door didn’t slam. The smell of
sulphur lingered in the early morning air. The wind had calmed considerably, but
still bit like a polar bear on Seal Island. We opened the door to the shed.
Dad’s little washroom stood no chance of passing a white glove test. Aside
from the toilet, it contained only a sink, an always gunked-up can of Boraxo below
it. Dad used it to partially clean up before entering the house after puttering in the
yard or working on a fl oor furnace. Some of that puttering included feeding his
fish bait. To save money on live bait when he and Mama went to the lake, Dad
built a worm bed in the left corner of the backyard. It was huge, and overflowing
with slimy, red wigglers. He nurtured those vile vermin with Jim Dandy corn
meal. “I feed the bait good meal to give them fish appeal so we can catch free
meals,” he liked to say. The shed was meant to provide a buffer between the
house and worm bed, which, to me, was about like using a sheet of thumb tacks
to buffer a bed of nails.
Once inside, we were stopped dead in our tracks. The filthy toilet had become
a shattered, filthy toilet. It was in shambles.
Enraged, Irene cried, “Cherry bomb, my foot. They musta dropped a deadblamed
hand grenade in here!”
We brainstormed for a couple of minutes, hoping to scratch up an excuse
that didn’t involve heavy artillery. Only one thing seemed plausible. Since it was
so cold out, the water in the toilet could have frozen, its expansion causing the
bowl to break apart. Though that may have been plausible, Dad might declare it
impossible. Neither I, nor Miss Absolute Zero knew for sure, so we tossed that
idea. Given the seriousness of the offense, there could be no stretching of the
truth, then proclaiming it a white lie. Our being involved in a cover-up of such
magnitude was something Dad would not tolerate. Time to awaken Zack. He
would not be pleased when we presented him with his options, particularly since
we hadn’t any.
“Leave me alone. Can’t you see I’m sleepin’?” Zack tugged on the covers,
attempting to roll away from our finger jabs to his chest and belly. There were
no rules for getting Zack up; he was perpetually ornery over being awakened,
no matter the method or reason.
Irene said, “Daddy’s not up yet, Rootie Kazootie, but when he sees that
toilet bowl blown to kingdom come, whooooo-eeeee! Looks like you’ll have to
plunk your magic twanger, Zackie.”
“Awww, slabbles!” Zack barked out his chosen exclamation for registering
anger or disgust. I found it rather catchy, assuring it would not catch on.
“What can I do? Come on, y’all. Help me think of something, quick. Please!”
“You better hustle on down to Roy’s and see if y’all can come up with your
own something,” I said. “If you can’t, all I can say is, ‘tough toenail’.”
Zack said, “Gee, thanks a lot, Dannie Jean,” and jumped into his clothes like
a fireman. He always left his next day’s wardrobe beside his bed in an orderly
mess – jeans on sneakers, shirt on jeans, socks on shirt. That arrangement let
him squeeze out every cherished second of sack time. As he worked a knot out
of one of his shoelaces, he recalled seeing a discarded toilet in one of the alleys
while bike riding. Only the mule wagon would pick up toilets, so there was a
good chance it was still there, wherever “there” might be; Zack wasn’t sure. After
begging us to keep Dad away from the shed, he grabbed his coat and dashed out
the front door for the orphanage.
I removed my shoes and sat back on Zack’s bed. “So, how do we keep
Daddy down on the farm, but out of the shed?” I said.
“Heh-heh. Thought you were gonna say ‘but out of Par-ee.’ Always dreamed
of going to Paris, but not if Daddy’s shed is representative of their restrooms.
Well, he’s not likely to be doing much of anything outside today, cold as it is, and
this being Sunday. Tomorrow, all of the football bowl...” Irene threw her head
back and giggled. “Why, they’re liable to be out looking for a toilet bowl while
Daddy’s lookin’ at the Sugar Bowl.”
Good humor occasionally springs from crises. Eyes squinted, I shook my
head at Irene’s feeble attempt and said, “Oh, brother!”
The reality was, if Zack wasn’t sitting in our back den watching the games
with Dad, a red flag the size of a football field would be raised, since neither hot
flames nor high water could tear that boy away from the television set on New
Year’s Day. From the start of the Cotton Bowl until the final play of the Rose
Bowl, the males were glued to the tube, except to go outside and toss a football
around during halftimes.
Danny awoke and asked why we hadn’t gotten him up to watch fireworks.
Irene immediately adopted a look of disbelief, lifting her chin, arching a nostril,
and leaning away from Danny. A white lie seemed imminent.
“Why, Danny, you don’t remember watching all of those Roman candles
and bottle rockets exploding?”
Rather than appear ignorant, Danny went the white lie route, too. Placing his
hand on his cheek, he looked toward the ceiling light, and said, “Ohhhh, yeah...
I think I ‘member thum of that thuff, now.”
Danny’s newly acquired lisp reminded Irene and me of urgent unfinished
business – the Tooth Fairy. Irene had removed the tooth from beneath Danny’s
pillow after putting him to bed, but, for probably the first time ever, she could not
find any small change. In the pandemonium, we forgot to tell Mama, though it
is unlikely she’d have remembered, anyway. It was only a matter of time before
Danny caught on, also. I excused myself, walked calmly into the hallway, and
broke for Mama’s room.
I reached for the door knob, turning it and gently pushing, until it was near
that squeaky spot. Then, using a technique I had discovered quite by accident,
I shoved the door halfway open in one sharp motion, bypassing the squeak. I
assumed I had the extraordinary ability to maneuver doors faster than the speed
of sound, without the sonic boom. Tiptoeing in, I surveyed the dimly lit room. My
parents were sleeping soundly. I saw nothing helpful on their dresser – a box of
tissues, Dad’s pocket watch, and a small stack of diapers. But, on the far side of
the double bed, I caught sight of the mother lode. Mama’s silk purse was resting
in a chair, four feet from where she slept.
Setting out for the purse, I tried to walk in rhythm to Dad’s heavy breathing.
Rounding the bed, I struck my toe on a clothes hamper, the same toe I had stumped
the night before. I bit my lip to keep from screaming, but quickly realized how
utterly stupid that idea was. I groaned softly and doubled my fists with such force
that I left fingernail prints in my palms. Dad stirred, ever so slightly. I froze on
the spot, holding my breath. When his steady breathing resumed, mine did, too. I
touched my finger to my lip to see if I had drawn blood; it was impossible to tell
in the low light. I was beginning to feel like the villain in a short story I had read in
Irene’s American lit book – “The Telltale Heart.” A tear escaped my watering eyes
and inched its way down my cheek, causing an irritating itch. I refused to scratch
it, though, fearful the noise from that act might alert my parents to my presence.
After what felt like ages, I reached the chair and opened Mama’s purse,
running my hand along the bottom, trolling for coinage. Three pennies and two
nickels later, I felt a larger unit and removed it. A new quarter. Perfect. Slowly,
while keeping an eye on Mama and Dad, I backed out of the room. When I
thought I was home free, my fingers – the ones holding the coin – grazed my
thigh, knocking the quarter loose. I kicked my foot out hoping to prevent its
crashing into the wooden floor. I was successful, catching it on my toe – my big
toe – that same, twice-injured, big toe. I leaned to retrieve the coin and glared
at my other big toe for not doing its fair share. My eyes had become so watery
they were beginning to drip. Phlegm had formed in my nostrils. I sensed a major
sneeze coming on. Hobbling gingerly through the door, I made it to the back den
before the ah-choo explosion, followed by a second. I almost drew blood when
I vigorously scratched my itching, tear-stained cheek. After quickly blowing my
nose, I began to get a whiff of the sweet smell of success.
Rubbing the quarter between the thumb and forefinger of my left hand, I
coated my right thumb and forefinger in spittle and used them to pamper my
abused toe while considering my next move. Within moments, I hit on what
I considered a foolproof idea, though Mama once said that if an idea seems
foolproof, there is an excellent chance somebody will provide proof they are a
fool. But I didn’t see any way for this one to blow up in my face. I dashed to the
living room, planted the quarter beneath a sofa cushion, and rushed back to Danny
and Irene, closing Mama and Dad’s bedroom door along the way. Evidently, the
battering I absorbed during my escapade had taken a toll on my lightening-like
reflexes, for the squeak had returned.
“Well, I might not ‘member ever’thing, Irene, but I know I puth the toof
right under my piller. Now... it’th gone, and there ain’t even a thingle penny.”
Danny’s bottom lip was quivering. Irene strummed three fingers rapidly on her
semi-puckered lips as she searched my face for a flicker of hope.
“Say, didn’t you go to sleep on the couch, Danny?” I asked.
“Yeah, but my toof wath under here,” he said, lifting his pillow and pointing
to the exact spot where he had deposited it.
“Hey,” I said. “I’ll betcha the Tooth Fairy got your tooth, but when she
didn’t see you, she flew around lookin’ for you. When she saw you sleepin’ on
the couch, she pro’bly put it somewhere around there. Doncha think, Lefty?”
“Yeah, that could be what happened, Davey Crockett. Maybe your treasure
is up front on the couch!”
“That make thense to me,” Danny said, running toward the living room.
Irene smiled at me as she wiped make believe sweat from her forehead and
flicked her wrist. “I owe you one, Dan Jean,” she whispered, giving my neck a
quick squeeze as she brushed past.
“Good!” I said. “That reduces my paybacks to you by one, leaving me only
ten million down.” She laughed. Given the number of times she had bailed me
out, I was hopelessly trailing in the favors department.
Danny removed the cushion, revealing the quarter. “Yippee,” he said, the
gap in his teeth prominent behind an endearing smile. “I can get loth of great
junk with thith!”
“Sure can, a lot of great junk to make your teeth rot out,” I said.
“Hey, good thinking, Dan Jean. Then, the Toof Fairy will make me rich.”
His smirk and rolling eyes made it clear he was sniping. I grabbed him and
gave him a shake and a kiss on the nose, receiving a warm giggle for my efforts.
I heard the toilet flush in my parent’s room and wondered if I had pulled
off my caper undetected, though I wasn’t worried. Never could a better case be
made for the ends justifying the means. Still, it had to be the strangest Beechworth
Sunday morning ever. Zack was outside chasing down a commode, Danny
had come within a snaggle of getting quilled by his second favorite fey and my
parents were rolling out of bed just thirty minutes before Sunday school started.
Normally, we would have been finishing an enormous breakfast.
We heard Mama in the hallway and Irene looked at me, anxiety etched in
her eyes. I felt a mite queasy myself. Mama walked in and stood before us – erect
and stone-faced. It was hard to believe she was the same woman who had set
out only fourteen hours earlier for the party. Curlers, stale makeup, baggy eyes
– Cinderella had turned into her ugly stepmother. Even though we maintained
complete silence, our startled expressions gave us away. Mama issued a warning.
“Don’t you dare say it, kids. I know I must look a sight. I’m just not used
to bein’ up so late, is what.”
“Yes ma’am, or used to drankin’,” I said, and promptly squeezed my eyes
shut in disbelief over what I had just heard.
Utilizing diary entries, 8mm film, photos, and a keen memory, a Southern born and bred woman revisits her childhood.
It's Christmas Eve 1955, in the West End section of Birmingham, Alabama.
In discussing Santa Claus' impending visit with her baby brother, eleven-year-old Dannie Jean Beechworth causes him to cry, adding to her self-image problem. Her almost-perfect sister, thirteen and wise beyond her years, only serves to exacerbate Jean's troubles. Jean unknowingly, but frequently, demonstrates many of the abilities she thinks she lacks, but flounders often enough to consider herself a lost cause.
Take the ride of a lifetime with the eight member Beechworth family on a journey guaranteed to make the tears flow, some from sorrow, but most from hysterical laughter. A piece of work unto themselves, they are nevertheless surrounded by an unforgettable cast of characters...
Sophie, the Beechworth's king-size maid, with a king-size heart.
Doc Hobbs, the gentle-giant neighborhood druggist.
Tiny Miss Easter, scourge of the corner drugs, and original "Soup Nazi," who makes a mean nickel cherry Coke.
Roy, from the orphanage down the street, model for Maynard G Krebbs and "a firecracker waiting to pop."
Old Lady Lewis, next door neighbor, able to appear like magic, anytime a toy, or a kid, crosses her property line.
Mr. Bandana Head, long-haired shark catcher and beatnik prototype.
From the schoolhouse, where almost anything can happen (other than classwork), to the shores of the Gulf Coast, misadventures derived from high intrigue never felt so good. A canary creates havoc, and a hammerhead induces fear. A cherry bomb introduces a New Year's Bowl game. A trip to an Easter sunrise service is more than an awakening.
"Southern Shade" is a compelling, humorous, five month slice of long ago family life, guaranteed to appeal to the young at heart, both male and female.
Following is the first 20,000 words of the 105,000+ word novel. The typos are due to pasting and are NOT in the book!
Southern
Shade
Ben F. Burton III
INTRODUCTION
In 1956, across the winter/spring semester of sixth grade, I would celebrate
my twelfth birthday. While that fact alone was hardly Grit newspaper fodder,
some of what I encountered during the period might draw interest from those
who have sunk into depression lower than whale poop, risen to greater heights
than Hillary on Everest, or felt more disgraced than the Chicago Tribune’s editors
after the “Dewey Defeats Truman” headline – all while rarely straying more than
five blocks from their own front door. One need not be a world traveler to travel
the world – of emotions.
I was a flighty innocent, on the cusp of puberty, living in what should
have been an ideal age for making that sometimes difficult transition from
preadolescence into pubescence as simple as possible. I was perfectly happy in
the deepest sense of the word, but was often at odds with myself over little things
that seemed important at the time. My weightiest problems stemmed from an
inability to harness my out-of-control tongue. “Think before you speak” was an
axiom I had not yet latched onto.
Scarecrow, a character in my favorite book, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz,
became my inspiration. Being absent a brain seemed preferable to having one
stuck in malfunction mode. At the very least, brainlessness provided a handy
excuse for my frequent oral bloopers. My older sister, Irene, defined perfection
in everything that mattered – beauty, scholarship, and personality, making my
average grades and less than stunning appearance seem all the more lacking.
Nevertheless, and without the flimsiest evidence to substantiate my belief,
I felt certain my time was coming – that I would become like Irene, or, as close
as I could get, given my limited resources. Physical beauty was a stretch. My
becoming an honor student was an even greater stretch. But, a winning personality
was within my reach. I was determined to open my ears, close my mouth, and
develop a brain to make Scarecrow proud. Incorporating those simple acts into
my daily life was a much taller order than I could have imagined.
THE ERA
Village Creek, forty feet wide in spots, coiled its way through our West
End community of Birmingham, Alabama. Beyond the creek were three sets
of railroad tracks. Across the tracks was a black neighborhood. In some ways, I
suppose those tracks might well have been forty miles across.
My two brothers, along with some friends, occasionally made the slippery
voyage across Village Creek, hopping from one wobbly stone to the next, trying
to avoid waterlogged sneakers. Usually, they crossed for one purpose – to engage
in rock battles, and rocks of an ideal size and weight for throwing were plentiful
along the tracks. Had true anger been at work, they probably would not have had
an unspoken understanding that only one rock at a time could be airborne. Even
though no one broke that rule, the day came when a small, black kid was struck
in the head, causing an immediate cease-fi re, for that was not meant to happen.
Following a brief hesitation, everyone rushed to the fallen child, except for a
couple of white boys, including the one who had launched the wayward stone.
Those two lit out across the creek in a full sprint, making no effort to stone-hop.
When the youngster sat up, looking dazed, one of my brothers told him to
count backward from a hundred to “check his thinking cap.” He said he wasn’t
but six and the only way he knew to reach a hundred was by going forward in
tens. Without hesitation, he did so.
“Ten-twenty-thirty-forty-fifty-sixty-seventy-eighty-ninety and one hundred.
Tar baby. Here come Petey!” Everyone agreed; despite the rising knot on his
forehead, Petey seemed none the worse for wear. After tossing around a few
ideas, the boys concocted what they considered the perfect alibi to account for
the child’s misfortune, a tall tale having nothing to do with rock battles.
The boys sent Petey home and quickly rehearsed their plan. Presently, Petey’s
mother emerged from the stand of trees bordering the tracks and demanded an
explanation for her son’s injury. Though the boys scoured the area in earnest,
some resorting to getting on their hands and knees, no one was able to produce
the piece of fallen meteorite that had supposedly done the damage. With sad
faces all around, a permanent truce was declared. For many years thereafter, no
boys – black or white – ventured across the natural border.
Aside from my parents' employees, I had little contact with “colored” folks.
The television show, Amos ‘n Andy, was my gateway to the black community, but
kids were seldom featured on the program. I often wondered what life was like
for the children across Village Creek. Nevertheless, I had more than a gracious
plenty to deal with on my own side of that border.
“Dannie Jean Beechworth, I declare!” From my mother’s tone, I knew she
was about to engage me in another of her one-sided conversations. No way could
she see me at the back door, not from her position behind the kitchen sink. But,
Dad said she had eyes in the back of her head, so it wasn’t much of a stretch to
assume she could also see around corners.
“Be sure to wipe your filthy feet before you come traipsing into my kitchen.
Out running all over creation through dog poop and Lord knows what all else.
I’ll swanee, young’un, I don’t know what to think about you sometimes. Better
yet, now that I am thinking about it, take off your tennie shoes and drop ‘em on
the side of the steps. I’m settin’ up some new rules. We’re gonna start doin’ like
them Chinese people. They take their shoes off ever’ time before they go inside
their houses... uhhh, believe they call ‘em ‘haciendas.’ Wonder how come nobody
else does that. It’s a rilly great idea… don’t ever have to worry about moppin’ up
tracks. I’ve also heard tell they don’t have dog poop in their yards either, because…
well, just never you mind about that right now.
“The point is, I don’t wanna hafta be cleanin’ up ever’ time I turn around.
You’re old enough to pitch in on more of the heavy work, just like your sister, Irene.
What’re you, eleven now, baby?” My mother, known to her brood as “Mama,”
had a curious habit of sprinkling endearments amidst a tirade.
“Yes’m. Eleven years, three months, and two weeks,” I said, while untying
my shoe laces.
“Bless my soul, with six of you kids, it’s nearly ‘bout impossible to keep
track. Anyhow, I was down on my knees scrubbin’ floors and wipin’ walls at
half your age. By the way, sweetie, I need you to go round up your brothers and
sisters. They’re pro’bly scattered out from Village Creek to Hobbses Drugstore,
and I’m not gon’ be able to call ‘em home today. Blistered a whistle finger on
that hot coffee pot this mornin’. Supper’s gon’ be ready in about an hour and I
don’t want y’all comin’ in here lookin’ and smellin’ like little guttersnipes. Your
Daddy’ll be home in a little bit, and he just might tan all y’alls hides.”
Anyone happening through our well-traveled back alley might have taken
Mama’s warnings seriously, but I was used to her periodic rants, which were,
typically, all bark. Even so, it was best to let her speak until the well ran dry, once
she got going. And, listening closely was a must, for she would often follow up
with a pop quiz. Her bark could get a little toothy if she caught us daydreaming
during her lectures. Dad hardly ever raised a hand to any of his children, and
certainly not over trifles. We had to make an intentional step beyond the invisible
line of doom before Dad’s warning turned into a warming – of our breeches. But,
that didn’t prevent Mama from treating Dad’s imminent arrival as a potential
health hazard. More often than not, it worked.
Mama continued, “Now... you been listening to me, Dannie Jean? What’s
a Chinese house called, hmmm?”
“I don’t rightly know, Mama, but it sure ain’t ‘hacienda.’ Them’s houses up
in Mexico. I learned that in jog’raphy class last semester.” I was re-shoed, ready
to begin the roundup, but I knew, as soon as it left my mouth, how my remark
sounded. I held my breath, fingers crossed. If Mama thought I was getting smart
with her, she could return to the warpath. Luckily, I was soon able to exhale.
Measuring her words, Mama said, “Well, I’ll sewanee. Okay, then. But...
uhhh, Mexico’s not up, baby. It’s down... down south. Go on, now. Scoot!”
Born in Anniston, Alabama, in 1919, Mama was as country as Calhoun
County cotton. A blue-eyed brunette, at almost five-foot-nine, she was a hair
taller than Dad, and that “hair” made him uneasy, especially when Mama wore
high heels. But, my, how those heels did wonders for Dad’s posture. For years,
Mama was a typical barefoot and pregnant domestic goddess. Dad liked it that
way – the “barefoot” part, that is.
By 1955, the Korean conflict was behind us. World War II had become a
distant memory, though Dad was badly injured in that war. His bouts with low
back pain were the result of a German bayonet thrust. Another “wound” hadn’t
anything to do with hand-to-hand combat, but was acquired during a furlough in
France, where Dad consented to some very decorative tattoos. The buxom bust
of Mama on the underside of his right forearm and “Hitler’s Nightmare” on his
left, caused Dad considerable uneasiness as we got older. I pitied him when we
attended my brothers’ Little League games in the afternoon. Before the first pitch
was thrown, Dad’s long-sleeve shirts were ringed with sweat. His tattoos became
“exhibit A” when he cautioned us regarding the hazards of youthful indiscretions.
Dad was in the heating business, earning more than most breadwinners in our
area, though any able-bodied person could make a decent living wage, given the
reasonable cost-of-living. Taxes were about as low as the crime rate. Newspapers
in stands were there for the taking. The ten-cent receptacle beside the papers relied
on the honor system. Almost without fail, that system was honored.
The local milkman, spiffy in his white uniform and black-billed white cap,
served us three times weekly. Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday nights, Mama
would set out the returnable bottles with a wish list for the next day. Sometimes,
one of us would modify Mama’s note to include something we rarely got –
chocolate milk. Those glass bottles produced a far milkier flavor than did the
wax-lined cartons sold in supermarkets. We kids reasoned that special cows
produced it that way – fudgy and ready to drink, no Cocoa Marsh needed.
Truck farmers roamed our streets in pickups, except for one old black man
who, still clinging to the vestiges of an even slower-paced past, canvassed the
area in his mule-drawn wagon. The trail of droppings left by his mules was a
common sight. When the wagon finally vanished, it saddened me, for I enjoyed
the singular echo of the mule’s unshod hooves clopping lazily along our tree-lined,
asphalt roads. As to the droppings, well, that was a horse of a different color.
Our zany neighborhood peddler, Tony the Banana Man, was world-famous,
in our tiny world. In his operatic tenor voice, he would belt out a tune announcing
what produce he was carrying on any given day, something like, “Oh, peaches-melon-
i-ooo, fresh turnip greens and potati-oooes, got papaya, green beans,
and mang-ie-ooooes … toooodayyyy.” He claimed to have been trained at the
Cantaloupe Academy of Opera, and we never doubted Mr. Tony. His heavy Italian
accent added credibility to whatever he said. Although produce was his stock-in-trade,
Mr. Tony was never in short supply of goodies for the kids. Easily the most
sought after kid’s treat on Mr. Tony’s truck was Chum Gum – three sticks for a
penny. Even though the flavor only lasted a couple of minutes, for anyone with
a sweet tooth, it was a delightfully tasty two minutes, after which you might just
as well have been chewing on a cud.
From a young age, I grew wistful over changes in the status quo, whether
it was the closing of the local Green Spot Orangeade bottling plant or the last
Howdy Dowdy Show. I was sixteen-years-old when Buffalo Bob signed off and
Clarabelle the Clown spoke for the first time. Clarabelle’s heartrending words,
“Good-bye, kids,” left me in tears.
I do not subscribe to living in the past, but I do find that occasional mind trips
into my distant childhood never fail to buoy my spirit in these – my quieter,
grayer days. So, to paraphrase the narrator of The Lone Ranger television show,
“Return with me to those thrilling days of yesteryear.”
Very clear memories click into focus on a cold December night, in 1955...
CHAPTER 1
On Christmas Eve, my five-year-old brother, Danny, sat up in bed and
pleaded his case while I fluffed up his down pillow. “Dan Jean, how’m I s’posed
to get to sleep when my stomach feels like it’s got a buncha elves jumpin’ around
on pogo sticks? You don’t reckon ol’ Santa Claus’ll be upset about those apples
me and Zack borried outta the Fink’s pear trees last summer, do ya? They don’t
never pick ‘em, so all they do’s fall off and rot, but I guess you might could call
it stealin’ just the same. Zack shoulda asked first. He’s older and oughta know
better. Anyhow, if I was Santa, I bet I’d overlook a little kid like me takin’ wormy
ol’ apples. Wouldn’t you, Dan Jean?”
If “Dan Jean” was being addressed, it was Danny who was talking. By then,
everyone called me “Jean,” which I much preferred and sometimes demanded.
The ones who prevented unanimity on that touchy subject were Danny and Mama,
who called me “Dannie Jean.” My first name was given me to honor my Dad,
in the event no boys found their way into our sizable branch of the Beechworth
family. As I got older, the “Dannie” part of my name drew some teasing from my
male classmates. My parents insisted I was overreacting when I kicked a couple
of the ridiculing boys’ rear-ends over the matter, but I felt it was the easiest way
to make a clear point: My being a tomboy did not give anyone the right to refer
to me as “Tom,” or “Dannie,” either, for that matter.
“I don’t believe y’all grabbed them apples outta pear trees, bud,” I said,
grinning. Danny caught his mistake and giggled, his brilliant, blue eyes glowing
and the dimple in each cheek showing. Danny was a bona fide prodigy who had
begun reading at age three, and scrutinizing everything under the sun even earlier.
Fortunately, he was grounded, and blessed with a terrific sense of humor, though
his extraordinary wit seemed totally inadvertent most of the time.
“Heck, I don’t think Santa Claus is gonna mind about them stupid apples
anyhow, Danny. Don’t forget, you push-mowed the Fink’s side yard free of
charge right after that, and they didn’t even know about them apples. I’m not sure
Mr. Fink believed your answer when he asked why you were cuttin’ his grass.
Remember? Instead of tellin’ him you were in trainin’ just in case the Olympics
had push mowin’ when you grow up, you might ought to have said you were
just bein’ a good Samarian.
“Ain’t it spo’sed to be ‘Samaritan,’ Dan Jean?”
“Oh... sure, that’s what I meant to say. ‘Samaritan.’ Anyhow, that fort you
built outside from Wheaties boxes might’ve convinced him you wanted to be a
sports star.” Danny sat up, smiled, and flexed his little biceps. Instead of ending
the conversation on that happy note, I could not leave well enough alone.
“Still, I think I’d be more worried about the day you ate nearly that whole
bowl of banana puddin’, and when Mama ‘n them got home you said two masked
men broke in and wolfed most of it down before they heard the siren.” No sooner
had I said that than I whacked my head with both palms.
Danny’s bottom lip curled downward, giving advance notice that tears were
about to fall. Already on edge over the crab apple in a pear tree caper, the last thing
he needed to be reminded of on Christmas Eve was another misdeed. Two failed
attempts at calming him led me to suggest that Santa had gotten his big belly
from sneaking “nanner puddin’,” as Danny called it. I made headway with that
one, but he was still sobbing, so I reached out and got his nose with my thumb,
settling him down further. At that point, I decided to pull out all the stops – tugging
on my ears, sticking out my tongue, crossing my eyes, and making silly sounds.
Danny laughed and said, “You ought not do them cross-eyes, Dan Jean.
Mama says your face might freeze that way if the wind blows, or something.”
“Not a whole lotta wind in here, kiddo,” I laughed, grateful for the mood
change. That I might have ruined the magic of his evening, that indescribable
wonder brought on by the anticipation of Santa’s impending visit, was enough
to make me wish I had never learned to speak. The Mickey Mouse hands on
Danny’s clock read ten until eight when he began to nod. Though Mama had
tucked him in earlier, I readjusted his covers, and gave him a peck on his forehead.
“Good night, little buddy. Snuggle in tight and don’t let the bedbugs bite.”
“Night-night, Dan Jean. Boy, I’m excitin’ thinkin’ about how Santa Claus
is gonna be in my own house in a little bit!”
“Yep. Betcha he has an extra large bag marked ‘Danny’ on his sleigh, too.
Night, Danny.” I flicked off the light and followed the delectable scents of Mama’s
Christmas feast preparation down the long hall toward the den next to the kitchen.
Built in the late eighteen hundreds, when sturdy was evidently the only
known means of construction, our home on Freemont Avenue was one of the
largest in an area abundant with huge houses. The enclosed front porch, roomy
enough to accommodate half the kids in the neighborhood on rainy summer days,
was a welcome sanctuary where we played everything from Monopoly to dodge
ball. We dined in the enormous kitchen; Dad turned the adjacent dining room
into a back den, where we played board games and watched television. Raiding
the icebox was convenient from there, too. Televisions were expensive and few
nearby homes had one. Most Saturday mornings, we had a peanut gallery full of
kids watching our black and white Philco in the back den with us.
The concrete driveway beside our house ran from the street to our garage,
and consisted of two tracks with a grass median between them. Mama nurtured
a prize-winning flower garden on either side of it. Though the driveway was a
popular game site, no activity was allowed which might harm Mama’s flowers.
The lanes were ideal for bowling, unless it was gusty out, when we’d often get
strikes without rolling the ball. To counter the effect of the wind, we punched a
hole in the top of each plastic pin and funneled sand inside, but once they were
heavy enough to stand up in the breeze, the plastic ball wouldn’t knock them
over. We borrowed a neighbor’s shot put and that did the trick; the pins toppled.
Unfortunately, they also ruptured, releasing the sand. Outdoor bowling had as
many thorns as the roses on either side of Beechworth Lanes.
“Hurry up and close the door to the igloo, please!” Mama yelled from the
kitchen, as thirteen-year-old Irene rushed into the back den, breathless, her teeth
chattering. Irene was sealed tighter than Mama’s homemade strawberry jam,
her cheeks and nose the same hue as that delicacy. Several kids from our church
had been Christmas caroling at homes in the vicinity. Their plan to sing for three
hours was scrubbed when a chilling wind kicked up in the thirty degree weather,
inducing a hasty, numb-fingered money count, after which they scattered for their
respective homes. Still, in less than ninety minutes, their outing netted thirteen
dollars for the orphanage two doors down from us.
That orphanage, a run-down, gray-shingled duplex, housed up to three kids.
Fifty-something Ma Boone was caregiver. Each Christmas, Dad slipped her
money for presents, more than she could afford on her government stipend. Two
of the three orphans seldom stayed long enough for us to learn their names, never
mind becoming friends. Always young, no more than seven or eight, they were
consistently adopted within weeks, if not days. Twelve-year-old Roy Wilson,
one of those boys who got a close-up look at my bad side after making fun of
my name, was the only long-term child resident. His parents died in a car wreck
when he was seven. Roy survived, but recurring bouts with depression caused
potential adoptive parents to shun him. Roy never was adopted, though I’m not
certain he wanted to be. Around our house he was treated like a family member,
which must have agreed with him, as often as he showed up.
Irene, with her exotic looks, was an easy target for envy. She had olive
skin, perfectly arched brows, and ash gray, feline eyes – unlike the rest of us
lily-white, blue-eyed Beechworths. I nicknamed her “Lefty.” She was the only
portsider in our extended family of over sixty children and adults. I kidded her
about being adopted. Irene did not appear to notice that she was in a league of
her own. I certainly did. But, even though occasions arose when I blamed her
for my problems, I could not stay angry with her, for she was my only reliable
source for advice regarding those very problems.
With the three younger ones, including twenty-month-old Susie and almost
five-year-old Pammy, asleep on that Christmas Eve, we didn’t have to whisper
concerning the secret of Saint Nick. Brother Zack wondered aloud when Dad
was “gonna bring in the loot.”
Zack was not a prodigy, but a mastermind – of mischief, the proverbial
accident waiting to happen. But, like Danny, he was so cute he could charm a
bumble bee out of a bloom. Zack had a multitude of evenly spaced freckles on
his face, which Irene and I sometimes took advantage of to engage in a friendly
game of connect the dots. Zack was not smitten with that particular pastime.
Irene’s eyes lit up like the fireplace she was hovering in front of when Mama
walked in with a serving tray containing three tacky, ceramic cups of piping hot
chocolate, thick with melted marshmallows. We had won the gray and orange two-tone
cups the previous October while pitching pennies at the State Fair. Someone
in our family developed a technique to help us beat the odds at the “unfair,” as
Dad called it, since winning, while obeying the rules, was almost impossible.
Spitting on a penny creates an adhesive. But, as Dad said, “Turnabout is fair play.”
While drinking our cocoa, we tried to guess the contents of gifts under the
tree, something which would remain in doubt until morning. When our cups were
empty, Zack and I used our fingers to scrape off the last flecks of marshmallow
cream. Irene shook her head and said that our “behavior was a sorry sight.” Zack
used her remark as a springboard into an idea for a game.
“Hey, yeah. Good thinking, Irene. It is a great time for a game of Sorry.
Lemme run get it.” Irene crunched her eyebrows and grinned.
The only time I won at Sorry was when I played alone. I tried every color
token, anything I could think of to change my luck, but nothing did. I was baffl ed,
since the game requires almost no skill. But, by then, losing wasn’t really a big
deal to me – not after we got those Elvis records.
If the turntable on the hi-fi was spinning, songs by the future “King of Rock
and Roll” were usually filling the air. Each time our short stack of five discs – the
ones Elvis did for Sun Studios – finished playing, one of us would hop up to
flip them over. It’s a wonder we didn’t wear the records out within a week, even
though we took good care of them. If the discs weren’t revolving, they were in
their sleeves resting safely in our cedar chest.
As Mama was winding down her baking, she told us to change the music to
something more appropriate for Christmas Eve. For once, we agreed with her;
“Good Rockin’ Tonight” didn’t exactly inspire feelings of chestnuts roasting on
an open fire. The fresh aromatic scent of our large, heavily-decorated cedar tree
made the atmosphere especially receptive to seasonal music. Irene got up to put on
a Bing Crosby album and said she wished Elvis would make a Christmas record.
Mama said that the boy was probably a heathen who didn’t know the meaning
of the word. Eventually though, Mama changed her tune about his recordings.
When she got word of his first Christmas album release two years later, Mama
put it on Santa’s list. She enjoyed the album as much as we did, especially the
hymns – “Peace in the Valley” and “I Believe.”
Dad came in from assembling toys in the garage and said it was time to
hit the sack, which was fine with me; I was losing again. “The Man,” Dad’s
pseudonym for Santa, would not come until all Beechworth kids were bedded
down. Irene, Zack, and I were just as thrilled as the younger ones, since “The
Man” remained generous despite our misfortune of outgrowing him. Christmas
was Dad’s favorite time of year. He got the biggest kick out of seeing a child’s
excitement over Santa. That aside, Dad never let us lose sight of the true meaning
of Christmas – a celebration of the birth of our savior, Jesus Christ.
A couple of weeks earlier, Dad had purchased an eight millimeter camera.
His long desire to have a permanent record of Christmas morning would finally
be realized. Dad decided to film a pre-Christmas rehearsal to “get the bugs out.”
I and my siblings proved what a bunch of hams we were, mugging the camera,
mercilessly, in our motion picture debut. Dad picked up the developed film the
weekend before Christmas and Mama prepared several large bowls of popcorn
for the screening. Kids showed up from near and far to watch. Song of the South
could not have generated any greater expectations, primarily because the screening
would be the first time for any of us to view a film outside the theater. Home
movies had a reputation for boredom – family members excluded. Dad avoided
that problem by including our friends in the movie. If only he had left me out....
That December afternoon put another bruise on my already fragile ego. The
camera was unkind to me; my hair was parted on the wrong side and my eyes
were nestled too close to my nose. I looked as peculiar as I sounded when we got
a tape recorder the previous Christmas and, for the first time, I heard my voice
as others did. On that occasion, I took a solemn oath of silence for life, holding
true to my pledge for the better part of the afternoon.
It was Zack’s first year of Santa awareness and he wanted to play on, but
Irene persuaded him to give it up. The sooner we got to sleep, the sooner “The
Man” would show up. Before heading to the bedroom, I gathered and returned
the Elvis records to the safety of the cedar chest, and thought about the odd way
we had come to possess the discs six weeks earlier.
*
Dad’s brother, Zackery, perished at the Battle of the Bulge, leaving behind
a wife and six-year-old daughter – Aunt Vernice and Myrtle Mae. A few years
after Uncle Zack’s death, Vernice suffered a nervous breakdown; she spent her
remaining years at Bryce’s Hospital in Tuscaloosa. Myrtle Mae was taken in by
relatives who moved to Tuscaloosa to be near Vernice. After that we only saw
Myrtle in the summertime down at Tannehill State Park, home to the coldest
water in Alabama and a perfect spot for a summer outing. On arriving, we usually
dropped a couple of watermelons into the icy creek. We spent hours of frigid fun
swinging from a thick rope tied to a tree limb over the deepest part of the Little
Cahaba River. Dad said it was “a scene right out of a Samuel Clements novel.”
Myrtle Mae had a special place in Dad’s heart, despite questionable
judgments on her part as regards ladylike behavior. She dropped out of school at
sixteen and moved to Memphis, finding work as a waitress. Along with another
young waitress, she leased a small house. Within months, Myrtle’s roommate
moved away. With little money, and a broken furnace, Myrtle knew of only
one person to turn to. She dashed off a letter to Dad, who immediately made
preparations for the trip, along with his helper, Will.
Will worked for Dad for twenty years. From the start, Will called Dad “Mr.
Dandy.” We never knew why. Dad was fine with it, a special name used only
by Will and his wife, Sophie. Will was a strapping man, his flawless skin a rich,
creamy mocha color. Dad told of the time his truck was stuck in a mud hole after a
rainstorm. Together, they unloaded the heaviest items from the back of the pickup.
Then, while Dad steered, Will lifted the back end of the truck and pushed them
out. Will had removed his shirt to avoid getting it mussed. Through the rear view
mirror, Dad saw Will’s neck muscles and shoulders straining, the sight reminding
him of the muscle-building ads featured in the back of comic books. Formidable
physique notwithstanding, Will was as kind and gentle a man as I ever met.
When he lost his eye after being struck during a BB gun battle as a teenager,
Will perceived it as a message from the Lord, admitting, “I was headin’ right
on down de road to no good, but I been walkin’ de straight and narrow wif de
Almighty evah since dat day, keepin’ my good eye focused on de things dat
really mattahs.” Something that obviously mattered to Will was a sense of
humor. One fine, spring day Will and I were sitting in the backyard on some
orange crates playing Go Fish, when he popped his eye out and showed it to
me. I ran screaming into the house while he jumped from the crate, doubled
over in convulsive laughter. Inside, Mama stood at her observation post behind
the kitchen sink laughing almost as hard. I never did locate the punch line to that
unseemly encounter.
Will’s wife, Sophie, was our part-time maid. With Mama and Dad’s approval,
Sophie treated us like her own kids, including doling out punishments. The
excessive bulk she packed on her five-and-a-half foot frame would make flight
seem a viable option if we got her dander up. In truth, running from Sophie was
not wise. When she gave chase, her body would jiggle and shift in a hundred
different directions, like bacon looks when it is frying. Even though the visual
was one of ungainliness, Sophie was quick, and the end result meant being caught
with more to answer for than the original offense, as she was not fond of giving
chase. Evenhanded in her use of a switch, Sophie would reach for one of those
dreaded lengths of shrubbery only when we undeniably deserved some unfriendly
persuasion. Debates rage over whether capital punishment is a deterrent to major
crime. I can state with complete certainty that Sophie’s switches were a major
deterrent to minor crime, and we rarely gave her reason to reach.
When Sophie broke out a certain platter – a gaudy thing Zack won with a
trick penny – we knew a treat was in our immediate future. To agitate us, she
would place the empty platter on the coffee table in the den. Soon after, she would
begin the baking process, dispersing an aroma throughout the house like manna
from Heaven. Eventually, Sophie would retrieve the platter and fill it with hot tea
cakes, toasty-crisp on the outside, with a soft, chewy center. When she placed it
back on the table, we converged like a sleuth of starving bear cubs.
Memphis was a much longer drive in those days, as the Southern interstate
system lagged decades behind that of our Northern counterparts; the aftereffects
of the Civil War were still being felt. Sophie fried chicken gizzards and Mama
packed a half-dozen sandwiches for the long trip. Dad, in his “Cat” hat, and Will,
in his fleece-lined aviator’s cap, backed slowly down our drive in Dad’s olive
green, Ford pickup, with Zack and Danny on the running boards. Dad stopped
at the sidewalk to let the boys off and turned up Freemont before stopping again.
Rolling his window halfway down, Dad yelled, “Remember the code!”
Danny responded, “Okay, Daddy, remember the Alamo!”
The “code” was something Dad devised to avoid long distance fees. Before
Southern Bell had competition, telephone usage charges were exorbitant. From
out-of-town jobs, Dad would call, person-to-person, asking for Dan Beechworth.
Whoever answered would tell the operator Mr. Beechworth wasn’t in. Dad would
propose calling again at a specific hour, which, naturally, coincided with the time
he expected to return home.
Danny’s Alamo remark broke some of the tension surrounding the start of
the potentially hazardous trip. A light sleet was falling from the November sky as
Dad headed toward Highway 78. We stood shoulder-to-shoulder, waving, until
the pickup disappeared into the deepening, early morning mist.
That night, Mama tucked in Danny and emerged from his room with a
furrowed brow, saying, “I didn’t expect your Daddy would get back home tonight,
Dannie Jean, but I’d a sworn he would’ve at least called by now.”
“Well, you know it can take all day, sometimes, if everything don’t go
right,” I said.
“I know. Just wanna talk to him’s all. Did y’all get your homework done yet?”
Irene stepped into the den and said, “Mama! That’s the third time you’ve
asked. For Heaven’s sake, we finished our homework over two hours ago.
Besides, it isn’t like you’re going to talk to Daddy when he calls, anyway.”
Pointing to Irene and lightly shaking her index finger, Mama said, “Well,
Irene, you know what I mean.” She quickly pulled her hand back and pressed
her palm to her chest. “I’m sorry, baby. It just isn’t like your Daddy to keep me
waitin’, though I’m positive they’re okay. Remind me to tell him to call when he
gets to an out of town job, instead of piddlin’ around ‘til he finishes up. I’m not
broodin’ about him and Will gettin’ hurt on the job... just the road.”
Uncertain of how to deal with Mama’s concern, I looked to Irene for
guidance. She motioned for me to follow her. Once we were beyond Mama’s
earshot, Irene asked if Mama had used the phone during the evening. After I said,
“You’re kiddin’,” she said, “Good,” and whispered her plan. We returned to the
den where Mama was dusting a perfectly clean lampshade.
“Goodness gracious, Mama. You won’t believe what happened. I was
scuffling around with Zack earlier and one of us must have knocked the extension
phone off the hook. No wonder Daddy hasn’t called; the line’s been tied up!” It
was a blatant lie, but motivated by good intentions, and would easily qualify as
a white lie, using Dad’s standards.
“Irene, I’ll swanee. You’ve got to be more careful. I might expect somethin’
like that from Dannie Jean, but certainly not from you. One thing’s sure, though.
It’s a big relief.” I knew Mama was right, but it still hurt to hear.
“Sorry, Mama. Just one of those things, was all. But, hey, I’m just as big a
klutz as Jean. No, wait... That isn’t what I meant, Jean. I meant... oh, boy.” Irene
looked at me with a hint of desperation. The sight of her squirming brought a
slow smile to my lips.
“I’m just saying we all have our klutzy moments. If you live and breathe,
you’re bound to klutz things up from time to time. Into every life a little klutz
must fall.” The three of us laughed. I had just witnessed Irene being orally klutzy
intentionally, in an endearing effort to make me feel better. It worked. I thought
it noble of my sister to concoct a lie, making herself the villain, in order to calm
Mama, while gently reprimanding her for being too harsh on me. How I longed
to have one ounce of Irene’s common sense and sensibility.
Irene’s fabrication did the trick. The tension vanished from Mama’s face.
She took a seat for the first time since supper. Within five minutes the phone
rang; Irene grabbed it.
*
Dad and Will were hungry when they reached Whitehaven, the Memphis
suburb where Myrtle Mae lived. The gizzards and sandwiches had long since
vanished. A newly-opened Dairy Freeze saved the day. They stopped for
cheeseburgers and hot coffee before proceeding to Myrtle’s home.
A pretty bleached-blond answered Dad’s rap on the flimsy wooden door.
From her aqua-colored eyes and slightly tilted nose, to her glowing, easy smile,
Myrtle Mae had Uncle Zack’s features. After salutations and small talk, Dad and
Will got busy with the installation, which took until well after dark. Myrtle offered
Dad a twenty dollar bill, but he wouldn’t accept it. She insisted on returning his
generosity somehow. She snapped her fingers and said, “Wait, I’ve got it!” Myrtle
retrieved a handful of records, done by a little known artist named Elvis Presley,
and told Dad to “bring them back to Jean and Irene.”
We later learned that the shotgun shanty Myrtle Mae rented was a near replica
of Elvis’ birth home in Tupelo. Additionally, it was located only one mile from
an estate named “Graceland.” Long before Elvis bought the mansion eighteen
months later, Myrtle Mae had left Whitehaven and was back in school.
Dad drove about six miles to a dingy roadside motel he had noticed earlier.
As they approached, a disagreement over sleeping arrangements arose. Will
claimed he would be fine sleeping in the truck’s cab, but Dad would have none
of it. Fearing there would be no room for a black man in the inn, however, Dad
let Will out half a block from the motel entrance. When he rang the bell on the
desk in the tiny lobby and a black man emerged, Dad was taken aback. From his
hiding place behind a large pine, Will took in the sight and broke for the lobby,
giggling and praising God for his kindness.
Dad handed the owner four dollars for the room. As they pulled to the rear,
Dad said, “You know what, Will? I just happened to think. What if that gentleman
had said you were welcome, but I’d have to carry my business somewhere else?
Wouldn’t that have been a lick?”
“Yassuh. You be right dere, Mr. Dandy. Dat woulda been one for da ages.
Talkin’ ‘bout de colored man, he can go ‘head on an’ stay, but dis heah white fella,
he gon’ hafta git’em and git!” Though loud, their laughter was not substantive enough
to erase their knowledge regarding the sad facts of racial inequities in the Deep South.
*
After each of them had a hot shower, Dad said, “Whooo! It’s downright
chilly in this room, Will. And to think you were talking about sleepin’ in the cab.”
“It is a might on de cool side at dat. What say we reports da problem tonight,
den show up in da lobby come mornin’ time all set to go to work?”
Chuckling, Dad said, “I like your capitalistic attitude there, old soul. But if
it’s all the same to you, I’d just as soon put this place in the rearview mirror quick
as we can. Now, how ‘bout we say our prayers and call it a night?”
“Sounds fine by me, but ain’t you forgettin’ ‘bout sompin’, Mr. Dandy? You
know... Da call. De code.”
“Good night, Nellie, Will. How could I forget that? Miss Julia’s gonna shoot
me, for sure!” Dad parted the ragged curtains and saw a pay phone across the
dimly lit parking lot. He slipped back into his work clothes and, after checking his
pockets, said, “Will, can you loan me a nickel? I’m slap outta change.” Will forked
over the token and Dad called home, saying he would try again at lunchtime.
When Dad pulled in at noon the next day, Mama rushed out to greet him,
apologizing for the busy signal. Dad had no idea what she meant, but decided
not to ask. Late that afternoon, he cornered Irene and me while Mama was fixing
supper.
“Okay, girls. What is this deal with the telephone your Mother mentioned?”
Irene smiled at him, winked at me, and said, “Well, Daddy, let’s just say the
phone wasn’t really busy, but I was... covering your rear end! And I’m going to
leave it there.” Dad did an about face and quietly left our room.
*
As we turned down the heavy quilt on Irene’s bed, the screen door slammed
and we heard Dad say, “Be careful, Julia.” I felt a tingle running through my belly.
Santa was in the building.
The unusually cold weather, made warm and cozy by our steam radiators,
was sandman-made for sleeping. The anticipation of rising early to see our
younger siblings, eyes aglow at what Santa had brought them, was a vicariously
lovely feeling in itself, but we had selfish motives, also. Irene was especially
keyed-up over something special she had asked for but didn’t figure to get. I
much preferred surprises, mainly because I didn’t want someone with my lousy
taste picking out presents for me.
We had separate beds, but occasionally slept together in Irene’s, usually out
of fright, the aftershock of a scary movie, television show, or one of Dad’s horror
tales. Sometimes, though, we liked to snuggle into her bed for no other reason
than a desire to share the exhilaration; Christmas Eve was the optimum time for
that emotion. Our pillows felt fluffier than usual that night. The freshly starched
sheets exuded a pleasant fragrance which seemed to contain a mild sedative.
“Come on, Jean. Let’s hurry up and get to sleep. Next time we open our
eyes... it’s Christmas!”
“Oh, okay, Danny,” I teased, enchanted by her display of infectious
enthusiasm.
“Huh... what’s that supposed to mean?” Irene asked.
“Nuthin’. Just playin’s all. Believe me, I can’t wait, either. Nighty-night,
Lefty. Don’t forget to say your prayers. Oh, but it’s a little late to bring up that
king-sized present you want.”
Irene giggled. “Nope. I either got it or I didn’t. We’ll know soon. Night.”
As our radiator spewed steam, I was starting to drift off when I thought I
heard a voice in the hall outside our bedroom door. Though it sounded like Will’s,
I knew it couldn’t be, not that late on Christmas Eve.
2
“Irene, Dan Jean... Is it Christmas?” That untimely question quashed a
potential victory in Sorry. Ordinarily, my dreams were at odds with reality.
Leaning in so close I could feel his breath on my ear, Danny, whose whisper
approximated the volume of most kids’ normal speaking voices, repeated, “Dan
Jean, I think it’s Christmas.”
I rolled over slowly – trying not to disturb Irene – wiped my eyes, and
checked the alarm clock, the hands barely visible from the street light’s reflection.
Five thirty-five – too early to get everybody up, but too late to expect Danny to
return to bed.
“Danny, shush,” I said, while trying to demonstrate quiet whispering. “Can’t
you see Irene’s still asleep?”
“Heck no, I’m not. Who could sleep through all y’all’s racket?” Irene
muttered, as she groped for the switch on the bedside lamp.
“Aw, a marshmallow droppin’ on a pin cushion could wake you up! Anyhow,
that’s three kids down, three to go,” I said, shielding my eyes from the sudden
brightness.
“You mean, three kids up, don’t you?” Irene said.
“Yeah, and two very angry parents if we bother ‘em this early,” I replied.
“I’ll do it,” Danny said, while pulling the zipper up and down on his blue,
jumpsuit pajamas. “How do they ‘spect a high-spirited kid to sleep all night on
Christmas mornin’?”
Irene yawned, shook her head, and grinned. We had a minor dilemma; Irene
never failed to have intelligent ideas to avoid its horns.
“What do ya think Santa brought you, buster?” I shifted my gaze from Irene
to Danny before executing a slow double take, refocusing on Irene. She was
completely off her game with that ridiculous question.
“Why should I play guessin’ games when we can just go on down yonder
to the living room and find out?” Danny said, throwing his arms up in protest.
After seeing no ideas on my blank face, Irene snapped her fingers and told
Danny that Santa Claus was not required to complete his rounds until daybreak;
there was a chance he had not yet come. Irene headed for the living room, but
not before warning Danny that if too many of us had been bad during the year,
Santa might put nothing but coal in all our stockings. Her words caused Danny to
gasp, shudder, and fall back between my legs to the edge of the bed. He grasped
my arms and wrapped them around his shoulders and chest. His thin frame was
trembling.
Danny crossed his fingers and spoke so softly I could barely hear him, “Dear
Santa Claus. I hope you can hear me. I’m sorry for fibbin’, but it’s awful hard to
walk off from a big bowl of nanner puddin’ when it’s just sittin’ in the frigerater
starin’ at ya. I don’t mean to blame the puddin’, though. In a way, it was Mama’s
fault for makin’ it so good, then leavin’ me a chance to get at it. Next time I’ll try
harder. If there ever is a next time, cause Mama said she won’t never let me set
foot in the kitchen alone when it’s nanner puddin’ in the house until she buys a
lock for the frigerater door. Anyhow, you’re a rilly nice elf, even better than the
Tooth Fairy. Only, please don’t tell her, ‘cause I’ll have a whole bunch of baby
teeth to sell before long. I’ve only been bad about fourteen times, which ain’t
really all that much when you got 365 days in a year, not countin’ for leap years.
And, please, don’t give my little sisters coal on account o’ me. They’re too young
to always know what’s the right way o’ actin’. Let them have some real neat stuff,
even if I don’t get none of what I asked you for. The end.” My little brother was
an absolute caution – buttering up “The Man,” while tossing in some self-serving
psychology, to boot.
“Danny, now that’s how to whisper, kiddo.” I said. Then, feigning
disappointment, I asked, “But, gee whiz, how ‘bout the rest of us?”
"Oh, yeah,” he said, looking back at me, his face turned upside down. “And
bring Dan Jean and Irene some real neat presents, too. Oh, and I reckon Zack
oughta get some good junk, even if it was his idea to take them apples. Now,
that’s the end. Hey, Dan Jean... Don’t you think Santa Clau-”
A high-pitched, partially stifled shriek rang out from the hall, leaving no
doubt that Santa had made his appointed round, departed, and left a whole lot
more than coal.
“Oh, my goodness,” Irene said, re-entering the bedroom and hopping in
place, her hands clasped below her chin. “He got it. Oh, sweet world, he got it.
He got it.” Then, to be certain we got it, she repeated, “He GOT it!”
Of course, I knew she knew that I knew what she was referring to, but I
played along, anyway. “Whaddaya mean? Who got what?”
“Daddy got,” Irene paused, peeking at Danny, “that is, Santa got me. I mean...
got us. He brought us what I’ve, we’ve – well, fruit!” I was unaccustomed to seeing
Irene struggle to find the right words, something I held an advanced degree in.
“He brought it,” she finally said in a measured tone. That was when I realized
it was Will’s voice I’d heard before dozing off. Dad would have needed help
with the piano.
“About time,” I said. “Maybe, now you’ll quit moving your fingers along
the push buttons on the radio, pretending you’re playing, every time a good song
comes on.”
Irene wiggled her fingers and cackled, “Ha, you sure got that right.”
“That is just the living end, Reenie! I couldn’t be happier for ya.”
Danny turned to me and said, “It worked, Dan Jean.”
“Yep, that sure was some mighty quick finagling you did there, Pancho,” I
said, giving his earlobe a gentle thump with my middle finger.
Within moments, four-year-old Pammy drifted in, rubbing sleep from her
eyes with her right hand, her left arm wrapped around her Raggedy Ann doll.
Pammy’s always-tangled, dark brown hair was an incredibly gnarled mess that
Christmas morning. I motioned her over to the dresser where I took a seat, brush
in hand. She started whimpering before I made the first stroke. I reminded her
that Dad would be taking moving pictures. Frowning, she sucked on the tip of
her index finger and let me proceed, without further protest.
We heard the distinctive squeak of Mama and Dad’s door, followed by
plodding footsteps along the hardwood floor in the hall, and knew Mama had
risen. Irene’s joy tumbled into gloom. There was a strong possibility that her shriek
would bring about the dreaded one-sided conversation from Mama, something
Irene rarely experienced.
Danny sensed Irene’s distress and in a voice as deep as he could muster,
said, “Fee-fi-fo-fum.” Irene snatched him and Pammy from the floor, sat on
the bed, and struggled mightily to fi t the two of them on her lap. I gawked in
amazement. She planned to use our kid brother and sister as shields. Irene exhaled
when Mama bypassed our room and continued to the kitchen to put coffee on
and place sausage patties in the skillet. Five minutes later, Mama walked in with
little Susie toddling behind. She stood, arms akimbo, surveying the room, before
fl ashing an ear-to-ear grin. Mama looked radiant, remarkably so for that hour of
the morning. She had risen long before any of us in preparation for her film debut.
“Daddy’s gettin’ the camera and everything set up, so we’ll just hold our
horses quietly right here until he gives the call.” When Mama scanned the room
anew, Danny read her eyes.
“Crabby Appleton Zack, he’s the one missin’, Mama!” Danny said. “I tried
to get him up awalla go, but he wouldn’t budge.”
Unlike the rest of our light-sleeping family, Zack could rest peacefully
through a blitzkrieg. Several times during his nine-and-a-half month residency in
her womb, Mama was fearful Zack wouldn’t make it to term because he would
hibernate for so long without kicking. After nine months and ten days her worry
shifted; she began to wonder if he would ever vacate the premises. It was an
indication of things to come. Zack never changed, constantly wanting to “sleep
in,” as most folks say, though we never used the term. What else could one do?
Sleep out? Not with the mercury dipping into the teens that unusually frigid Deep
South morning. When someone was slow to rise, we referred to it as “sleeping
late.” The later the better as far as Zack was concerned.
“Oh, yeah? So, he wouldn’t get up for you, huh, Danny? We’ll just see
about that. I may hafta scob his little noggin.” Mama placed Susie into the first
gift Santa ever delivered to us, Irene’s tiny, polka dot rocker. Then, she headed
for Zack’s room. When she opened his door we could hear that boy snoring like
a pig with a head cold.
We were sitting back quietly – visions of games, toys, and Krispy Kreme
donuts occupying our imaginations – when came a loud, piercing noise
resounding throughout the house. We bolted up in unison. Mama had cut loose
with her world-class, two-fingered whistle, the one used almost exclusively to
summon us home from the outermost reaches of our neighborhood. We had never
heard her unleash that ear-ringer indoors and I doubted we would ever hear it
inside again, considering the reaction it got.
I thrust my head into the hallway in time to see the living room door open
and hear Dad yell, “Great Caesar’s ghost, what was that?”
That was the gist of what he said. He used a word I was not familiar with,
but, judging from her expression, Mama was. She looked to be walking on eggs
while silently whistling past the graveyard, Zack close behind. She might have
stunned even the graveyard with the volume of that gust. Rolling her eyes, Mama
called softly over her shoulder, “Sorry, honey, won’t happen again.”
Mama took a seat on my bed, and we waited impatiently, but silently for
Dad’s trademark call. A few antsy minutes later, we heard the familiar cry of
“BOART,” a word Dad coined. It could mean anything from “Get in the car,
we’re leaving” to “You got your orders for your chores, so get started” to “The
once-broken furnace is steaming away” to “I’m ready for y’all to come on in
now.” On that Christmas morning, it meant the latter.
Mama lined us up, youngest to oldest, single file, to make sure our faces were
visible as we entered. She told Irene and me to swap places, since I was taller,
even though I was nineteen months younger. Either way, I planned to avoid that
tortuous lens at every turn. Before opening the door to Fantasy Land, otherwise
known as our living room, Mama pulled Irene aside and, in a hurried, seething
whisper, let her have it.
“Julia Irene Beechworth, I know what your little scream was earlier. Thank
your lucky stars your Daddy was in the bathroom and didn’t hear it. You had
better show the same amount of enthusiasm now as you did when you sneaked
a look. You understand, young lady?”
Irene was mystified. Her voice went up two octaves as she softly, but
animatedly, pleaded her case, “My stars, Mama. I only barely saw it through the
darkness. I’m sorry, but don’t you sweat over me acting excited. I’m shaking
like a leaf over here right now, and it is definitely no act.” Mama smiled and
opened the door.
The bright light from the camera caused the toys to glisten beautifully. Our
siblings scattered in different directions toward their respective name tags. Irene
grabbed my hand and we scampered across to the piano – a lovely, new Baldwin
wrapped in an elegant, pink bow. Irene must have been dying to tickle the ivories,
but she sat contentedly by my side on the polished, wooden bench, savoring the
fascination on the faces of our younger brothers and sisters.
Dad was in his element holding the movie camera, fl ashing the toothiest
smile, reminding me of Bucky Beaver in the Ipana toothpaste commercials. Over
the din, he made the announcement which had become a greatly anticipated part
of his Christmas morning routine.
“Got some great news, kids. We were Santa’s last stop, so, in addition to
what he already intended to leave us, and since he was anxious to get on back to
the North Pole for a big bowl of Mrs. Claus’ banana pudding, and seeing as how
he and his reindeer were totally exhausted, well, he just decided to go ahead and
shake out all the leftovers in his bag right here on our floor!” Dad had obviously
gotten wind of my conversation with Danny the night before. Irene and I smiled,
knowing the little ones were as captivated as we had been upon hearing those
beguiling words a few years earlier.
Zack shook off the doldrums when he saw his supposedly genuine New
York Yankees cap, excellent for covering up the truly genuine, major league
cowlick in his crew cut brown hair. A Mickey Mantle baseball bat and a Willie
Mays glove rounded out his baseball collection.
Having little empty floor space to work with, Danny was hopping in small
circles while doing his best to imitate some of the between-the-legs and behind-the-
back dribbles of the Harlem Globetrotters, with his new, junior-size basketball.
The long, blue and green stocking cap he had donned as his gay apparel before
entering the living room made him look like an escapee from A Christmas Carol.
He briefly fired the pistol attached to his shooting gallery, before picking up the
sticks to his Gene Autry drum set. As Danny started wailing away, Mama looked at
Dad, teeth gritted. Apparently, that present had not been given her seal of approval.
Fortunately, Danny soon noticed the Tudor Electric Football game amongst
his bounty, and yelled to Zack. They hauled the metal field to the nearest plug.
Danny set up his men with one hand while the other was busy stuffing Krispy
Kremes in his mouth, as Zack chided him about touching anything with his
donut-greased fingers. Christmas and birthdays were the only times eating
restrictions were lifted. On those occasions, we could gorge ourselves to our
stomach’s content. Danny ate half a dozen chocolate cream-filled donuts, with
whipped cream and a cherry on top of each. Rather than warn him once more of
the potential price of overindulgence, Mama bided her time, waiting for Danny
to get sick so he would learn his lesson, but, as usual, he didn’t, unless messy face
is a sickness. Invariably, Mama wound up saying something like, “I’ll swanee,
Danny, you’re a bottomless pit.”
Pammy was in make-believe, grown-up heaven when she saw her large
doll house, with breakaway windows and doors, and a chandelier-adorned living
room. Her Easy-Bake Oven was a step up from her usual fare of mud pies and
imaginary finger foods to the real world of cooking.
“I’m gonna make dessoit tonight, otay, Mommy?” Pammy said, her face
glowing with excitement. Mama smiled and nodded, proudly.
The baby, golden-haired Susie, pale blue eyes in full-blown fascination,
fl uttered about the room like a butterfly with no place to light, yelling, “Can-Caus,”
her gibberish for Santa Claus. Judging from the full look of her pajama bottoms,
and a creeping odor which was starting to wreak havoc on the wonderful scents
of pine, sausage frying, and coffee brewing, one abysmally unpleasant package
needed to be opened promptly.
“Why, I just changed her this mornin’. Musta been all the excitement,” Mama
said, tossing me a diaper. “Take her back yonder and tend to the unpleasantries,
Dannie Jean.”
I was incensed. Before leaving the room I told Mama that such a disgusting
chore was twenty times worse than mopping a measly floor. She acknowledged
my irritation with a sympathetic wave.
Dad, in his white tee shirt, green work breeches, and brown house shoes,
stood erect and alert, his camera constantly changing directions in a futile effort
to capture the widespread merriment in its entirety. He did get a long, clear shot
of my slow retreat with Susie, which never failed to bring major laughs – and
embarrassed protests from Susie – through the ensuing years. I was holding her
hand at arm’s length, striving for maximum separation, while she tottered along,
her diaper bottom dangling dangerously close to the carpet.
The good news was, the camera worked fine and the pictures were clear. The
bad news was, Dad was no Alfred Hitchcock, though his frequent movement of
the camera from one shot to another did create a sense of vertigo in those of us who
viewed his handiwork. We had to remember the places to shutter our eyes when
we watched the film. Thankfully, Dad’s pan and scan skills improved over time.
Santa typically left one special gift for the family at large, usually something
educational. The previous year it was an electric typewriter. This time, we received
a new, twenty-four volume set of World Book Encyclopedias. Opening a book, I
inhaled the distinctive scent and vowed to put them to good use, and not merely
for required school assignments. My early New Year’s resolution was to become
an intelligence force to be reckoned with, maybe even soaring into the rarefied
air occupied by the smartest girl I knew – my older sister.
Once the hubbub had settled into mild chaos, Dad appointed me cameraman.
Irene, who had restrained herself from playing the piano until then, walked over
and gave Dad a hug. She mouthed “thank you” with unbridled joy and affection
radiating from her eyes. Dad looked equally pleased while saying, “You’re
welcome, princess.” Returning to the bench, Irene began serenading us with
Christmas songs, hitting very few sour notes in the process.
The only uncluttered place remaining was the love seat. There, my parents
sat to exchange gifts. Following custom, Mama presented Dad with his gift first.
Given the length and narrowness of the packaging, he had a pretty good idea of
the contents. We had all guessed it to be a fishing pole. Be that as it may, Dad
observed our long-standing family tradition of making the suspense last as long
as possible. The one opening a gift never looked at the item until every scrap of
wrapping paper was removed and the actual container, if there was one, was
discarded. In that instance, observing tradition merely delayed the obvious. It
was a fishing pole. But, considering Dad’s jaw-dropping reaction, it must have
been some pole.
When Dad leaned over, hugged Mama, and said, “Thanks, hon, I really love
it,” he sealed it with a peck on the lips, and the significance hit me immediately.
“Hey, y’all. I just got Mama and Daddy’s first moving picture smooch.” The
laughter following that comment went through the chimney.
I was far more comfortable stationed behind the camera than in front.
Maintaining focus on the subjects while keeping a steady hand came naturally
to me.
With the speed of sorghum fl owing through a colander, Dad placed Mama’s
gift on her lap. Irene was aware of the contents, but knew better than to tell me.
She did say it was very special. A sudden vibration and flapping sound gave me
a start and I almost fumbled the camera.
Dad jumped up and said, “Gosh, be careful, Jean. My fault, though. I should
have warned you about that. Of course, I’ve only experienced it once, myself.”
The film was used up, but Dad had another roll on his desk. He sent Zack to
retrieve it while he readied the camera for another session. I looked slowly around
the room, marveling at the bounty, when I noticed something barely visible near
Danny’s name tag. In all the commotion, we had forgotten it.
Pointing to the corner of a gray box peeking from beneath a pile of rubble, I
said, “What’s that right there, Danny? Looks like you missed one. Better let it be,
though, until Daddy’s ready.” During the delay, I ran to the kitchen for some damp
napkins to wipe the sticky donut residue from Danny’s face. Things could not
have worked out better had they been planned. What was sure to be a memorable
event demanded its own uninterrupted screen play. Danny waited restlessly for
Dad to turn on the camera. When he got the nod, Danny lit into that box like a
bear into a picnic basket, though he did keep his eyes fixed on the ceiling until all
of the wrappings were removed and the box opened. And there it was.
“Davey, Danny Crockett, king of the wild frontier.” Irene sang and I
caterwauled the theme song from the Disney television show. It isn’t often a
five-year-old boy sheds tears of joy, but when Danny saw that complete Davy
Crockett outfit, including the coonskin cap, his eyes capsized. Mama told Zack
to go back and help Danny put it on. When they returned a few minutes later,
Danny appeared to have lost some weight, despite all of those donuts. By design,
the outfit was too large, allowing room for his growth spurts.
Mama said, “I’ll swanee. Would y’all take a look at my little rascal? Come
here, you.” As Danny protested, she picked him up and kissed his cheeks, leaving
lipstick where the donut cream had been.
“You can’t be kissin’ on ol’ Davy Crockett like that, Mama. It ain’t fittin’,
nor proper.” Above the laughter following Danny’s comment, I told Dad we
needed a camera with sound. As I filmed him, Dad reached into his empty pants
pockets, turned them inside out, wiggled his eyebrows, shrugged, and waddled
across the room like Charlie Chaplin.
The moment had arrived for Mama to unwrap her present. She seemed
bashful when it came to opening gifts from Dad. I don’t know if it was because
she was afraid she wouldn’t like what he had gotten, and it would show, or, if she
was concerned that she might not seem enthusiastic enough even if she liked his
gift. Either of those responses was less likely than John Wayne being the villain.
When Mama opened the beautiful, store-wrapped, lavender box to see an item
she had wanted since she was a little girl and her Great Aunt Vashti sported one,
she all but passed out. Before her was a mink stole, and, unlike Zack’s baseball
cap, it was one hundred percent authentic. With hands trembling, she gently
reached in to extract that extravagant fur piece.
“Honey, can we afford this? You shouldn’t have. It’s gorgeous, but I’m sure it
cost too much. Ahhh, I love it, baby. I can’t keep this, though. But it is so beautiful.
How much did you have to pay? No, I don’t want to know. Irene, did you know
about this, sweetie? Oh, my goodness, why’d you put me in this predicament, Dan
Beechworth? Lordy, Lordy, what should I do?” Mama’s head was on a swivel
as she continued to ramble on, sounding like a befuddled attorney representing
both sides of the same case. Dad sat soaking it in, with a grin reminiscent of the
cat who ate the canary. He did so relish watching her carry on that way.
“Why, sugar, that’s from Santa. Didn’t cost me a dime,” Dad teased, as
Mama’s reservations gradually eroded. Eventually, she wrapped up in the stole
and placed her head on Dad’s shoulder, sighing in contentment. And I caught it
all on film.
With the gift-giving complete, we stood together to perform our annual
version of “Hark the Herald Angels Sing.” Amid throat-clearing and a few do-re-mis
in front of the stocking-covered fi replace, we lined up to pay our respects by
singing to the One whose birthday we were celebrating. Looking directly at me,
with the camera relentlessly rolling, Dad told us to face him and sing out loud and
clear. I was suddenly grateful that camera didn’t have sound, but, unbeknownst
to any of us, Dad had secreted our tape recorder behind the couch; it had been
running all morning. He wanted to preserve our genuine comments, uninfluenced
by technology. When we finished the last line, “Glory to the newborn King,” we
casually removed our hand-stitched, red and green stockings from the mantle.
Our Grandmother Yates made one for each of her grandkids when we were born,
emblazoning our names in silver across the top. On Christmas morning, they were
filled with the same things – tangerines, Brazil nuts, and butterscotch candy. The
only time I recall seeing those items around our house was during the Christmas
season. In fact, a half-empty package of Brazil nuts hidden behind some canned
goods in the pantry, shortly after my eighth Yuletide, yielded my first clue to the
tightly-guarded secret of Santa.
My parents and siblings could not have been happier that Christmas morning.
As for me, I got plenty of what I expected – clothes, a charm bracelet, colored
bobbie socks, an Annie Oakley game. A couple of gifts struck me as weird – a
first aid kit and a diary. Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation alone was reason enough
for me to avoid learning first aid. And, why waste precious time recording my
pitiable experiences in a diary; the last thing I needed was a problem-reminder.
Overall, though, I was pleased. One particular gift did stand out beak and breast
above the rest – a shimmering, yellow canary, in an accessory-packed cage. I
named my long-awaited, first pet “Wingsong.” Little did I know, Wingsong
would soon have me hoping that Dad’s catty smile minutes earlier might be a
portent of things to come.
3
Though 1955 was a quiet year, relatively speaking, it ended with a relative’s
bang. Mama and Dad would be attending a formal New Year’s Eve dance thrown
by the Eastern Star. It would be the first time for Irene and me to babysit after dark,
and we felt empowered over being responsible for our siblings. Zack protested,
saying “I don’t need no looking after,” but brother, would his statement go down
in flames before the evening ended.
Mama had recently been elected “Worthy Matron,” the highest ranking
official in the Star’s local chapter. The dance would be her first chance to wear
Dad’s Christmas gift. Mama was ultra weather-conscious in the days leading up
to the big event. When it turned warm about midweek, her spirits flagged. The
thermometer contained far too much red for her to wear fur, without seeming
fl aunty. But, by the week-end, Old Man Winter returned with a vengeance, putting
the twinkle back in Mama’s eyes.
On the evening of the affair, Irene spent over an hour styling Mama’s hair
into what resembled a braided crown. Mama was draped in a blue-green gown
with matching earrings. With the mink added, she looked absolutely majestic.
Dad, who wasn’t given to high fashion, looked extraordinarily handsome
for the occasion. His outfit – a navy blue, double-breasted suit with hat to match
– was the perfect complement to Mama’s elegance. A light-green band encircled
his fedora. A wavy, brown lock of hair peeked from just under the brim.
“Daddy, I love your spit curl,” I said. Dad promptly brushed the curl back
under his hat.
“Daddy, where’s the camera?” Irene had spotted the obvious. The moment
had “everlasting visual” written all over it.
“Awww, it’s too late to get out all that movie equip-”
“No, no, Daddy, I mean the Ansco – the still camera.”
“Oh,” Dad said, looking relieved. “Hang on a sec, honey.”
Dad retrieved the camera and handed it to Irene, who took several snapshots,
one of which turned out to be priceless. In it, Dad is looking up at Mama with
the adoration of a blue-eyed puppy. Dad did not care for the photo. Key words
– “looking up.” Those pesky high heels again.
At seven PM, our parents began making their way to the door. By seven-fifteen,
they were still making their way to the door. Mama kept thinking of things
Irene and I should know, in case problems arose. Eventually, Dad stood between
Mama and the rest of us, gently nudging her beyond the front door, down the
steps, and coaxing her to the curb where our green and white, 1955 Nash Rambler
station wagon was parked. All six of us kids were jammed in the doorway when
Mama hollered one final reminder as they pulled away.
“Y’all remember, Santa’s still watching.” Irene and I looked at each other in
disbelief. New Year’s eve struck us as a wee bit premature to be invoking “The
Man’s” name as a remedy to bad behavior.
Danny, in the frontier outfit he had worn daily since Christmas, yelled, “Okay.
Remember the Alamo, Mom!” Our moment of glory had arrived.
Right away, everyone seemed in high spirits, except for Susie, who cried,
“I-mo-ma-mama” for the next fifteen minutes. None of my usual methods, like
making silly faces, would make her hush. It wasn’t until I handed her a Tupperware
mixing bowl, coated with the remains of chocolate batter from brownies Irene
was making, that she piped down.
“Funny how chocolate can make a toddler forget her issues,” Irene said.
With a rebellious air, Danny said, “We’re stayin’ up ‘til the next year, ‘coz
Daddy said we could.” Pammy nodded emphatically.
Irene closed the oven door, leaned against it, held her open palms upward
at shoulder level and said, “Fine by me, kiddos. Y’all can stay up until morning
and watch your first sunrise while you’re at it.”
Danny and Pammy stared at each other with a puzzled look that seemed to
say, “What’s the fun of staying up late if nobody cares if we stay up late?”
While the brownies baked, we discussed how best to spend the balance of
our evening. We were so excited over being Chief Cook and Bottle Washer that
we hadn’t given much thought to anything beyond that lifetime achievement
award. Watching The Perry Como Show was the extent of our planning. We loved
his voice and laid back attitude, but seldom got to watch the program, since The
Honeymooners came on at the same time. If Dad was home, and he normally
was on Saturday night, Ralph Kramden was king of our castle.
I suggested we take the kids out back to light sparklers. Danny and Pammy
bounced on their toes, smitten with my idea.
“Me pway spockle, too,” Susie enthused.
Irene dressed the little ones and led them out back, while I looked for
matches. I told Zack to join us, but he said he would rather watch television. His
request seemed harmless and I gave my approval, though I wasn’t sure I had that
authority. I ran to the porch and flipped off the floodlights so that the sparklers
would appear brighter. While cradling Susie in her right arm, Irene extended a
sparkler in her left. I had found only four matches; each one had to count. Right
away, I lost one to the wind. On the second try, I lit Irene’s sparkler. She held
it steady while I fired up two more, handing them to Danny and Pammy. After
that, each time a sparkler was about to burn out, we used it to light another. The
exhilaration on the little ones’ faces reminded me of how I had once felt, but
sparklers were dullsville to me by then, a promising introduction with no payoff.
When we were down to the last of the sparklers, the phone rang. I ran in,
yelling for Zack to answer it. No response. And, little wonder, it was Mama. I was
not pleased with Mama’s calling so soon, feeling it gave the impression that she
actually thought we might do something as foolish as leaving Zack inside while
the rest of us went out back to play with fire in the wind and cold.
“Mama, we’ve got the number where y’all are, all of two miles away. I
can’t believe you’d think we flubbed up this quick. If anything was to happen,
don’t you know we’d call? Why can’t you just enjoy y’alls night out instead of
worryin’ about us ever’ two seconds? We’ve been playin’ with the kids, just havin’
fun, and we’re fixin’ to eat some brownies Irene’s making here in a few minutes.
Everything is hunky-dory, Mama. I promise.” Startled by my own bluntness, I
decided some levity was needed to ward off possible backlash.
Using Mama’s playbook, I asked, “Now, Mama, what is it Irene’s makin’?”
It worked. Mama laughed heartily and seemed relieved by my objections to
her call. I knew it was not Irene she was worried about, anyway. She promised
not to call back except to say “Happy New Year.”
That rare burst of self-assertion had me feeling pretty good as I hung up the
phone. Then, I thought of Zack and my zeal vanished before I had a chance to
revel in it. Irene and the kids walked in.
“Mama?” Irene said.
“Yep.”
“Where’s Zack?”
“That’s what I was just wondering. He asked if he could look at TV and I
said ‘OK’.”
“And you fell for it! Jean, sometimes you’re as lame as a rahbul.”
“Takes one to know one,” I shot back.
“Brilliant response, Jean. Well, those brownies oughta be done. Let’s have a
treat before we have to fret over that little scalawag.” Irene took out the brownies
while I retrieved a half gallon of ice cream from the back porch freezer.
“This stuff is as hard as a brick,” I said, placing it on the counter with a thud.
“No wonder. Cold as it is outside, the freezer must be at absolute zero.” Irene
glanced my way, no doubt expecting me to be puzzled over the term.
“Yep, that’s pretty cold, alright,” I said, struggling to keep a straight face.
“Here, let’s stick it in the hot oven for a few minutes.” In no time, we were digging
into the hot and cold euphoria of brownies à la mode.
I took a large bite and noticed Danny staring at me, his hands frozen in space.
“What’s the matter, Danny?” My question was garbled, as the gooey concoction
stuck to the roof of my mouth. He parted his lips and bared his teeth, revealing
a gap where his upper right front tooth had been. “Look, Lefty, Danny’s finally
lost his tooth! What’s wrong, did the wind blow and freeze your face, Danny?”
I said, smiling. I leaned in for a closer inspection and saw no blood.
“Naw, Dan Jean, I just didn’t know how elth to look right now.”
“Where is it, Danny? Stuck in your brownie?” Irene asked.
“I think... I mighta... thwallowed it,” Danny whined. “Geth that meanth no
Toof Fairy for me, huh, ‘rene?” His bottom lip began to protrude.
“No-no, buddy. That isn’t how it works. I haven’t read Tinkerbell’s
Standardized Tooth Fairy Rules in a while, but I know it has a clause to cover
swallowed choppers. Anyhow, let’s be sure you did swallow it, first. Pass me
your bowl.”
Irene poked and prodded until she found his tiny incisor hidden in some
partially melted ice cream. Handing it to him, she said, “Here you go, kiddo. Run
put it under your pillow before you lose it again.”
“Wow, way to go, Reen. Now, we won’t have to look up Tink’s ruleth for
swallowed toofs,” Danny exclaimed while leaping into the air and pumping his
fi st. “Hey, reckon the Toof Fairy’ll leave me thum extra money thince it’s got
dethert on it?” Danny said, while jogging toward his room. When he returned,
Danny drank what was left in his bowl, and I bounced up to get seconds for the
two of us.
With our chocolate cravings satisfied, Irene and I rinsed the dishes and
started a search through Zack’s usual hiding places, hoping he was trying to
aggravate us. But, we knew that if he was anywhere within sniffing distance of
those brownies, he would have surfaced. We could not find him. The kitchen
clock read eight-thirty. Perry Como was half over. Susie was getting fretful, so
I warmed her bottle, put her in the crib, and she was asleep before I completed
the first verse of “Bringing in the Sheaves.” I loved singing to Susie, Pammy,
and Danny, since they seemed oblivious to the fact that I couldn’t carry a tune in
a metal washtub. Walking from the bedroom into the living room, I heard Irene
yelling on the front lawn.
“Zack. Zack Ross BEECHWORTH!”
In my rush to get outside to tell her to knock it off, I stubbed my big toe.
“Oh, shoot and heckfire, Irene,” I cried out, before I was anywhere near the door.
The arctic blast when I opened it made me angrier still. “What in tarnation do
you think you’re DOIN’, Irene?”
“What does it look like? I’m trying to find your vagrant little brother.”
“Yeah, but Reenie,” I lowered my voice, for it was my own clumsiness that
caused me to hurt my toe. “If you use his full name, you might as well go ahead
and tell him he’s already got hisself in a peck of trouble. Only time Mama does
that’s when’s she’s mad as a hornet.”
Irene nodded and said, “Okay, but, what if he’s out past midnight with the
older boys? They’ll be setting off fireworks and running the gamut from mischief
to mayhem. How do we explain that to Mama and Daddy?”
“Maybe we won’t have to,” I said, while trying to figure out what a “gamut”
was. “Danny and Pammy can’t stay awake much longer. Once they’re asleep,
we’ll track his little butt down. Mama promised not to call back ‘til New Year’s,
which means that phone’ll be ringing about two minutes past midnight.”
Smirking, Irene said, “Okay. Let’s get them to bed so we can start searching.”
In the den, Pammy was stretched out on the carpet, playing with her doll
house, looking about half as tired as a muskrat on No-Doz. Danny was behind the
couch, popping up in his coonskin cap every few seconds to fire another round
from his plastic rifle toward Santa Anna’s steadily advancing army.
“This ain’t goin’ too good,” I said, stifling a yawn.
“Jean, don’t you dare even think about gettin’ sleepy on me now!”
“Awww, just a random yawn,” I said, while fighting off another.
“What caused somnolence in us when we were little?” Irene asked, cradling
her chin and humming like Kingfish on Amos and Andy. “Hmmm.”
“Counting backwards from absolute zero?” I said. “Cut out the fifty-cent
words and speak English, egghead.”
Irene pursed her lips and slowly articulated each syllable, “What...made...
us...sleep...y, Jean?”
“Gimme a break. I dunno. How ‘bout ‘Laugh in the Dark’?”
“Laugh” was a game I made up, similar to Hide ‘n Seek. After being
blindfolded, the “It” person was required to grabble through a darkened room
until they touched someone. When the touch was made, “It” had to guess the
person he was holding. If the guess was correct, the identified person became
“It.” Usually, nervous giggles from the one being touched made guessing easy.
Playing without lights encouraged sleepiness.
“Gosh, great idea, Jean. Okay, let’s give that a tussle. Hey, we just had
‘somnolence’ on a spelling test was how I knew that word means ‘sleep.’ Just
messing with you. Okay, y’all ready? Let’s play!” Danny and Pammy were
raring to have at it.
After a quick round of Rock, Paper, Scissors, I won the right to count off
the “One potato, two potato” rhyme, or, as we called it, “One tay, two tay.” Forty-five
minutes and ten different “Its” later, Pammy was first to crash, the sandman
nabbing her while she sprawled beneath Irene’s bed. Soon after, Danny’s constant
yawns indicated he was losing the battle with his “staying awake ‘til the next year”
proclamation. To hurry things along, Irene told him he could lie on the living room
couch to watch television, and, if he happened to fall asleep, we’d awaken him
before midnight. With eyelids reluctantly drooping, Danny accepted her terms.
Danny dozed off as our grandfather clock, Big Tom, tolled the ten o’clock
hour. I never asked where the name “Big Tom” originated, but I had a hunch
Dad made it up to poke fun, indirectly, at Mama’s sisters. At least two of them
pronounced “time” like “tom,” as in, “What tom is it?” But then, few true
Southerners are phonetic fanatics. The soothing, hypnotic ticking of that clock
acted as an aural tranquilizer. Unfortunately, a wayward brother, with a nose
as predisposed for trouble as for snoring, had extended the miles we had to go
before somnolence became an option. Irene scooped Danny off to bed, while I
grabbed our heavy sweaters.
We got as far as the front lawn before noticing how much stiffer the breeze
had become. Wind chill was not yet factored into the temperature, but we didn’t
need a meteorologist to tell us it was downright bitter out. Irene ran back inside to
grab our fur-lined gloves and hooded car coats. I saw Ma Boone’s back porch light
burning, and, thinking I might be on to something, pointed out my observation
when Irene returned. She asked if it was uncommon for Ma Boone’s porch light
to be on at that time of night. I admitted I had never noticed before. She said I
should leave the detective work to Sherlock Holmes. I bristled.
We wandered the area aimlessly, so heavily clothed that we had to turn
our entire torsos, robotic-like, to see in different directions. Periodically, we
heard fireworks. As time passed, the combination of overcast sky and painful
wind, along with the late hour and gradually increasing noises, created a sense
of impending doom within us. Our once-safe neighborhood had turned into
something more ghastly than the Edgar Allan Poe poem Dad had read to us on
Halloween. I half-expected a raven to swoop down from the trees at any moment.
Though we were already holding hands, our grips tightened. Irene attempted
to lighten the mood by reciting, “Lions and tigers and bears, oh my.”
Following her lead, I gave a woeful impersonation of Woody Woodpecker.
Jokes could not hide the helpless look in our eyes. A hospital’s grading system
would have listed us as “serious.” Mama could call at any time, but certainly
would call shortly after midnight, and we didn’t dare lie if Zack was unaccounted
for. But even if we found him, what good would it do if she reneged on her
promise and called back without one of us there to pick up the phone? Should
that happen, Mama would appear in two shakes of a hickory switch. Grim reality
was bearing down with a Roman candle’s red glare. Irene decided to burst some
vocal bombs in midair.
“Zack Beechworth, where are you? You get over here right now.
Zaaaaccccckkk!” Irene screamed for all she was worth, but her words were
swallowed by the wind.
“You’re just spittin’ in the creek there, Reenie. Allow me.”
“It’s ‘ocean,’ Jean.”
“What’s ‘ocean’?”
“It’s supposed to be ‘spitting in the ocean,’ not ‘creek’.”
“What about ‘wind,’ then? It could be ‘spittin’ in the wind,’ couldn’t it?”
“It could. But you were using a body of water, which calls for ‘ocean’.”
“Ocean, smotion. Village Creek is the only ocean we’ve got. Besides, it’s
no time for quibblin’ now. Cover your ears.”
“They already are covered.” Irene pointed to the hood of her car coat.
“I meant your hands... your gloves. Awww, cover ‘em with your gloved
hands.”
“Oh, okay. Got ya covered.”
My shouting voice rivaled Mama’s whistle. “Zaaaaccck.” I screamed, while
slowly rotating. “ZACK ROSS BEECHWORTH, unless you want big troubles,”
I paused to inhale, “you better come on home, NOW, BOY! Aw, hush,” I said,
before Irene could hassle me for using Zack’s full name.
“Well, I’ll guarantee you one thing. If that blast didn’t get Zack’s attention,
we might as well throw in the towel.”
“You mean, ‘Throw in the dynamite’.”
“Huh?”
“You said ‘blast.’ What’s a towel got to do with it? Heh-heh-heh-heh-heh.
Ahem.”
“Jean, anyone ever tell you you’re nuts, certifiable even?” Irene’s attempt
at a smile didn’t take.
Our bubbling enthusiasm from earlier in the evening had lost its fizz.
Surrogate parenthood had major downsides. Our emotions had run Irene’s gamut:
disgust toward Zack for his disappearing act, anger at ourselves for letting him
slip off, fear for our own safety, and, most importantly, concern for Zack’s safety.
Despite the assorted bangs, we were unable to detect movement in anything
but plant life. We might well have been cobbling through a noisy ghost town. More
than likely, the apparent absence of human life was due to the fact that we were
the only ones foolish enough to be out in such terrible weather for any measurable
time. Our only option was to set out for home, praying Zack had returned.
Making our way up the steps to the front porch was difficult. We were a
complete mess – muscles tight, faces chapped, ears stinging, spirits sagging.
Fearing things that go bump in the night, we tiptoed over the porch through
shifting shadows raised by the street light’s illumination of the rustling shrubs, as
the gusting wind moved them to and fro. I reached for the brass doorknob. When
the tips of my fingers touched it, a thunderous noise jolted me into Irene’s arms.
“What the heck...” Beyond those words, Irene was speechless. Tears welled
in my eyes as we hugged cheek-to-cheek. Those gyrating shrubs were starting
to look like ghostly apparitions.
Voice trembling, I said, “That could’na been thunder. It didn’t rumble right.
Plus, it’s way too cold to be thunderin’. S’pose it was a sonic boom, Reenie?”
We knew what a sonic boom was, but neither of us had ever heard one.
We peeled our cheeks apart – the cold and some unwashed brownie à la mode on my face
had caused our skin to stick – and scampered into the house, locking the door.
“Serious” had just been downgraded to “critical.”
Anytime I was looking forward to something, like a good show coming on
television, the call to supper, or a trip to Lowe’s Skating Rink, Big Tom would
move so slowly, I worried that he was about ticked out. But, when we returned
from our fruitless search that evening, that old clock had been running like Jesse
Owens in Berlin. It was nineteen minutes until the witching hour, with no solution
to the Zack Ross Beechworth mystery in sight. Moaning, we fell back into the
deep, charcoal gray sofa cushions. Our world was in chaos. We sat in solemn
silence, staring at the floor, hoping for a miracle – anything that would prevent
our having to do what we knew could not wait another moment. “Critical” was
hanging by a frayed thread.
“Want me to?” I asked, with all the sincerity I could summon under the
circumstances. Irene sent me an appreciative look for offering, but she knew it
was the Chief Cook, not the Bottle Washer, who, ultimately, bore the responsibility
for our misfortune. With a tortured look she slowly removed the glove from her
left hand. I watched it tremble as she reached for the phone on the coffee table.
Her index finger remained inserted in the dial for each painfully slow trip forward
and back until she reached the last of the digits – a seven.
“Please, let it be a lucky seven,” Irene said, while gazing toward the ceiling,
still searching for a miracle. Redirecting her eyes to mine, she took a deep breath
and, with a sigh of resignation, turned the rotary dial loose.
Since that last big boom, a deathly hush had fallen over our world. Only
two sounds were audible – our irregular breathing and the incessant, annoying
ticking of that confounded clock. (It is truly remarkable how greatly mood can alter
perception.) I leaned on Irene and heard the first ring, followed by another loud
report, not nearly as deafening as the previous one, but much closer. Additionally,
the second one sounded destructive, like something out of a war movie, only, the
war was taking place in our backyard. I pressed the hang-up button, ending the call.
“Oh, my word, Jean, what was that?” Irene said. We broke toward the back,
hit the floodlights, and opened the door. There stood Zack – rigid, mouth wide
open, hands clasped atop his head.
“Gracious goodness, Zack!” Irene threw her arms up as she ran toward
him. “Are you okay, baby?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone slipping down the driveway in
a great hurry. I determined instantly that Zack, though visibly shaken, wasn’t in
physical distress, so I lit out after my brother’s accomplice. As the culprit turned
off our driveway, he couldn’t avoid running under the street light in front of Old
Lady Lewis’ house, and, as I suspected, it was Roy.
“Roy Lucifer Wilson! You know I can catch you, so you’d best just stop
right there, Buster Brown. Get back here this instant or I’ll kick your can right
in front of your friends this next time, you pusillanimous rascal.” That marked
the first time I had used the word I picked up from my grandfather, only he said
“pusillanimous skunk.” But, since Zack said Roy made a habit of showering at
least twice a day, skunk was not much of a fit.
Roy stopped, lowered his head, and did a u-turn. I hurried back to Zack.
His expression suggested that he might have had a genuine encounter with Mr.
Poe’s bird, but his body was unscathed, for the time being, anyway. Once our
parents got home, his physical condition was subject to going from “good” to
“grave” very quickly.
Looking as sheepish as Bo Peep likely did when she lost hers, Roy rounded
the corner. His hands were crammed so deeply into the pockets of his green
corduroy pants that I could barely see the crook of his elbows. An orange toboggan
dangled from his right back pocket.
Irene stood erect, neck cocked, eyes blazing, and said, “Smells like a sulfur
factory out here. Okay, let’s have it. What happened? And be quick about it.” Zack
and Roy stared at the ground, hoping to concoct a halfway believable, bald-faced
lie. Irene continued, “ Fess up. Let’s have it! Now!”
“Well, Paulie Snider’s Dad went somewhere in Mississippi a coupla weeks
ago to, you know, to buy some fireworks and junk.” As Roy spoke, I could see a
trace of pink in his ears, not unexpected given the temperature out, but he had a
most unusual characteristic. Anytime he got excited or embarrassed, his earlobes
turned pink. “Anyhow, I think that’s the only reason he went, but, you know, he
might’ve had something else to do over there, cause that’s where Paulie’s, you
know, grandmother lives, since her sister took ill. Seems like it was last Tuesday,
but... no, I think it mighta been Wednesday. I forget that part, but whatever, you
know, he was ju-”
“No, I don’t know, Roy. Sometimes you’re as thick as a tuba, you know it?
We ain’t got all night. Like Joe Friday says, ‘Just the facts’.”
Zack continued studying the ground. Roy took a deep breath and coughed
up the facts. “Paulie traded me two cherry bombs for an Indian head nickel and
said they would go off underwater, so I hid ‘em until tonight, and Zack walked
by my winder and I told him about ‘em. We like never to have found a light,
‘cause I didn’t want to borry matches from nobody who might ask ‘what for,’
‘cause I heard cherry bombs might be against the law. Anyway, we went over
to Village Creek to see if they’d really stay lit under water. But it was so dark,
the one I threw landed on a rock and exploded, which wasted half of my Indian
head, right there. Then Zack said we should drop the other one in the toilet water
in y’alls shed where we couldn’t miss, and we did, but we didn’t think it’d work,
‘cause water puts out fire. Ever’body knows that. So I was gonna make Paulie
give me my nickel back, but it did work and that’s what you smell and that’s all
they is to it, so help me.”
Irene said, “What’s that stickin’ out of your coat pocket, Roy?”
“Oh, that’s a pack of Black Cat firecrackers, but they ain’t nothin’ but great
pertenders. They barely make a noise.”
“Good,” Irene said. “Set ‘em down there beside the shed and light the whole
pack. Right now.”
“But why in the heck should-”
“Just do it. No more questions. Now.”
“What if Old Lady Lewis comes out?”
“Roooy, that’s a question! Anyhow, she’d have already been out by now if
she was home. Lucky for y’all, she’s at the witches and warlocks convention in
Salem. Light the blasted firecrackers, you nincompoop.”
Dropping to a knee, Roy attempted to do as instructed, but was unable to
prevent the wind from extinguishing his match.
“How’d you light the cherry bomb, Roy?” Irene demanded, growing angrier
by the second.
“We was in the sha-yed.” Roy’s voice was quavering and he seemed to be
fighting mightily to avoid crying. He stared angrily at the firecrackers, like they
were his enemy. I couldn’t take anymore, and was about to speak out on Roy’s
behalf, but hesitated just long enough for the Chief Cook to change her tone.
Speaking more slowly, Irene said, “It’s okay, bud. Hey, very clever of you
referencing the Platters song like that.” Presto, the harshness in Irene’s voice
disappeared; Roy’s aggrieved face had gotten to her, as well.
“Thanks,” Roy said, almost as a question.
“Alright, tell ya what. Go on back inside the shed to light the fuse. Soon as
you get it going, just flip the pack out on the ground real fast-like. They might not
be loud, but they can still hurt your fingers. Then, you wait inside until they’ve
all gone off. Got me?”
Those firecrackers sounded like a toy Tommy gun. Roy pounced out of the
shed and awaited further orders. “Go on home, Roy. Not out the front, though.
Best take the back way, through the alley. Hurry up, now. Chances are, I’ll see
you tomorrow.” Roy gave a quick wave and crashed through our back gate.
“Okay, you two... inside.”
I was last to clamber up the steps. Before I could close the door, explosions
erupted from Village Creek to Hobbs’ Drugs. Big Tom chimed in, tolling the
midnight hour. Precisely two minutes later, the phone rang. After staring at each
other briefly, Irene and I began laughing uncontrollably. Mama was as predictable
as a toast on the threshold of New Year.
Zack answered the call and we could all hear Mama’s shout of, “Happy
New Year!” We ran to the extension phones. It became obvious that our mama,
a 99.88% teetotaler, had imbibed a bit of bubbly. She must have done some
practice toasting in preparation for the big one at midnight. Mama wanted to talk
to Danny, Pammy and “Slusie,” wondering why they were in bed at the “shank
of the evening.”
Dad got on the phone and greeted us with a second rousing “Happy New
Year.” After hearing us say everything was fine at home, Dad said they would
stick around the celebration another half hour or so.
Irene said, “Super. We’re going to bed. Oh, by the way, Daddy, if you run
into a sulfuric smell in the back yard near the shed, that’s where Roy shot off
some firecrackers. G’night.” And, on that occasion, no white lie was necessary,
since Roy had done as Irene described, the fact he’d set off a cherry bomb in the
shed, notwithstanding.
We did go straight to bed. Any explanation for our baby-sitting shortcomings
would have to be conjured up the next morning, after our brains were rejuvenated.
I slipped on my thickest flannel pajamas and crawled under the covers. I felt bad
when I thought about the name I had called Roy – not “pusillanimous.” I didn’t
even know what that meant, but I knew it could not be vulgar, or Grandaddy
would not have used it in my presence. It was the other thing – Lucifer. That
was not Roy’s middle name. I hadn’t a notion what it was, but surely not that. I
instinctively threw in a middle name to make my anger clear. In my first prayers
of 1956, I asked God’s forgiveness for my name-calling. My last request that
late, winter night involved the following morning. I begged Him to give Mama
and Dad an overpowering urge to sleep in.
4
An invisible sun arose the next morning, as heavy, billowing mountains
of metallic gray clouds crowded the sky. For the fi rst time I could recall, eight
o’clock had slipped by without any sign of activity in the Beechworth household.
In reality, there was one early bird stirring – a very noisy canary. Though I’d had
Wingsong for only a week, that infernal bird was rapidly working his way up
my enemies list with his persistent early morning screeching. I had hoped that
he would either become acclimated to his surroundings and hush, or I would get
used to his chattering. Neither looked particularly promising.
At half past eight, I quietly rolled out of bed and padded off to the bathroom,
oblivious to the frenzy of the previous night. I tried to get my bearings, but was
unable even to recall what day it was. While washing my hands, I saw my
refl ection in the bathroom mirror. “Good grief,” I said. “Trick’er treat. Yuck!” I
lumbered sadly and wearily back to the bedroom, where the fog partially lifted.
It was Sunday. Zack and I had perfect Sunday school attendance records. Should
I wake him? Should I awaken everyone? Presently, a more pressing problem
crossed my mind. Irene and I had not thought to check inside the shed after the
explosion. Though she normally woke up as soon as I began to stir, the late night
had taken its toll. I dreaded doing it, but I had to get Irene up right away. Since she
hated to be shaken awake, I needed to come up with a way to rouse her – one that
wouldn’t cause her to bite my head off. I thought of something that might work.
“Reenie,” I spoke softly, lightly tapping my fi ngers on her shoulder. “Reenie...
cherry bomb... toilet... cherry bomb... toil-”
Irene lurched forward. “Oh, my goodness, Jean! We didn’t inspect the toilet
for damage. Let’s go! Shoot, need to tinkle first.”
“Can’t it wait?”
“Yeah. Guess so. Where’s our wraps?”
“Wraps? Did you say ‘wraps,’ Irene?”
“Yeaa-esss. You know. Those things we wear when it’s cold out, also known
as coats!” She lifted her arms skyward in exasperation.
“Oh, I dunno. Let’s see. Maybe I better check in the… cloakroom! Wraps?
G’night, Nellie. Sounds like something from a Charles Dickinson book.”
“Alright, I concede. Maybe a little dated. But, the name is Dickens... not
Dickinson. Dickinson is Emily... not Charles.”
“Aw, well. I was close, at least.”
We slipped into our coats and made a bee line down the hall, across the back
porch, and onto the steps, making sure the screen door didn’t slam. The smell of
sulphur lingered in the early morning air. The wind had calmed considerably, but
still bit like a polar bear on Seal Island. We opened the door to the shed.
Dad’s little washroom stood no chance of passing a white glove test. Aside
from the toilet, it contained only a sink, an always gunked-up can of Boraxo below
it. Dad used it to partially clean up before entering the house after puttering in the
yard or working on a fl oor furnace. Some of that puttering included feeding his
fish bait. To save money on live bait when he and Mama went to the lake, Dad
built a worm bed in the left corner of the backyard. It was huge, and overflowing
with slimy, red wigglers. He nurtured those vile vermin with Jim Dandy corn
meal. “I feed the bait good meal to give them fish appeal so we can catch free
meals,” he liked to say. The shed was meant to provide a buffer between the
house and worm bed, which, to me, was about like using a sheet of thumb tacks
to buffer a bed of nails.
Once inside, we were stopped dead in our tracks. The filthy toilet had become
a shattered, filthy toilet. It was in shambles.
Enraged, Irene cried, “Cherry bomb, my foot. They musta dropped a deadblamed
hand grenade in here!”
We brainstormed for a couple of minutes, hoping to scratch up an excuse
that didn’t involve heavy artillery. Only one thing seemed plausible. Since it was
so cold out, the water in the toilet could have frozen, its expansion causing the
bowl to break apart. Though that may have been plausible, Dad might declare it
impossible. Neither I, nor Miss Absolute Zero knew for sure, so we tossed that
idea. Given the seriousness of the offense, there could be no stretching of the
truth, then proclaiming it a white lie. Our being involved in a cover-up of such
magnitude was something Dad would not tolerate. Time to awaken Zack. He
would not be pleased when we presented him with his options, particularly since
we hadn’t any.
“Leave me alone. Can’t you see I’m sleepin’?” Zack tugged on the covers,
attempting to roll away from our finger jabs to his chest and belly. There were
no rules for getting Zack up; he was perpetually ornery over being awakened,
no matter the method or reason.
Irene said, “Daddy’s not up yet, Rootie Kazootie, but when he sees that
toilet bowl blown to kingdom come, whooooo-eeeee! Looks like you’ll have to
plunk your magic twanger, Zackie.”
“Awww, slabbles!” Zack barked out his chosen exclamation for registering
anger or disgust. I found it rather catchy, assuring it would not catch on.
“What can I do? Come on, y’all. Help me think of something, quick. Please!”
“You better hustle on down to Roy’s and see if y’all can come up with your
own something,” I said. “If you can’t, all I can say is, ‘tough toenail’.”
Zack said, “Gee, thanks a lot, Dannie Jean,” and jumped into his clothes like
a fireman. He always left his next day’s wardrobe beside his bed in an orderly
mess – jeans on sneakers, shirt on jeans, socks on shirt. That arrangement let
him squeeze out every cherished second of sack time. As he worked a knot out
of one of his shoelaces, he recalled seeing a discarded toilet in one of the alleys
while bike riding. Only the mule wagon would pick up toilets, so there was a
good chance it was still there, wherever “there” might be; Zack wasn’t sure. After
begging us to keep Dad away from the shed, he grabbed his coat and dashed out
the front door for the orphanage.
I removed my shoes and sat back on Zack’s bed. “So, how do we keep
Daddy down on the farm, but out of the shed?” I said.
“Heh-heh. Thought you were gonna say ‘but out of Par-ee.’ Always dreamed
of going to Paris, but not if Daddy’s shed is representative of their restrooms.
Well, he’s not likely to be doing much of anything outside today, cold as it is, and
this being Sunday. Tomorrow, all of the football bowl...” Irene threw her head
back and giggled. “Why, they’re liable to be out looking for a toilet bowl while
Daddy’s lookin’ at the Sugar Bowl.”
Good humor occasionally springs from crises. Eyes squinted, I shook my
head at Irene’s feeble attempt and said, “Oh, brother!”
The reality was, if Zack wasn’t sitting in our back den watching the games
with Dad, a red flag the size of a football field would be raised, since neither hot
flames nor high water could tear that boy away from the television set on New
Year’s Day. From the start of the Cotton Bowl until the final play of the Rose
Bowl, the males were glued to the tube, except to go outside and toss a football
around during halftimes.
Danny awoke and asked why we hadn’t gotten him up to watch fireworks.
Irene immediately adopted a look of disbelief, lifting her chin, arching a nostril,
and leaning away from Danny. A white lie seemed imminent.
“Why, Danny, you don’t remember watching all of those Roman candles
and bottle rockets exploding?”
Rather than appear ignorant, Danny went the white lie route, too. Placing his
hand on his cheek, he looked toward the ceiling light, and said, “Ohhhh, yeah...
I think I ‘member thum of that thuff, now.”
Danny’s newly acquired lisp reminded Irene and me of urgent unfinished
business – the Tooth Fairy. Irene had removed the tooth from beneath Danny’s
pillow after putting him to bed, but, for probably the first time ever, she could not
find any small change. In the pandemonium, we forgot to tell Mama, though it
is unlikely she’d have remembered, anyway. It was only a matter of time before
Danny caught on, also. I excused myself, walked calmly into the hallway, and
broke for Mama’s room.
I reached for the door knob, turning it and gently pushing, until it was near
that squeaky spot. Then, using a technique I had discovered quite by accident,
I shoved the door halfway open in one sharp motion, bypassing the squeak. I
assumed I had the extraordinary ability to maneuver doors faster than the speed
of sound, without the sonic boom. Tiptoeing in, I surveyed the dimly lit room. My
parents were sleeping soundly. I saw nothing helpful on their dresser – a box of
tissues, Dad’s pocket watch, and a small stack of diapers. But, on the far side of
the double bed, I caught sight of the mother lode. Mama’s silk purse was resting
in a chair, four feet from where she slept.
Setting out for the purse, I tried to walk in rhythm to Dad’s heavy breathing.
Rounding the bed, I struck my toe on a clothes hamper, the same toe I had stumped
the night before. I bit my lip to keep from screaming, but quickly realized how
utterly stupid that idea was. I groaned softly and doubled my fists with such force
that I left fingernail prints in my palms. Dad stirred, ever so slightly. I froze on
the spot, holding my breath. When his steady breathing resumed, mine did, too. I
touched my finger to my lip to see if I had drawn blood; it was impossible to tell
in the low light. I was beginning to feel like the villain in a short story I had read in
Irene’s American lit book – “The Telltale Heart.” A tear escaped my watering eyes
and inched its way down my cheek, causing an irritating itch. I refused to scratch
it, though, fearful the noise from that act might alert my parents to my presence.
After what felt like ages, I reached the chair and opened Mama’s purse,
running my hand along the bottom, trolling for coinage. Three pennies and two
nickels later, I felt a larger unit and removed it. A new quarter. Perfect. Slowly,
while keeping an eye on Mama and Dad, I backed out of the room. When I
thought I was home free, my fingers – the ones holding the coin – grazed my
thigh, knocking the quarter loose. I kicked my foot out hoping to prevent its
crashing into the wooden floor. I was successful, catching it on my toe – my big
toe – that same, twice-injured, big toe. I leaned to retrieve the coin and glared
at my other big toe for not doing its fair share. My eyes had become so watery
they were beginning to drip. Phlegm had formed in my nostrils. I sensed a major
sneeze coming on. Hobbling gingerly through the door, I made it to the back den
before the ah-choo explosion, followed by a second. I almost drew blood when
I vigorously scratched my itching, tear-stained cheek. After quickly blowing my
nose, I began to get a whiff of the sweet smell of success.
Rubbing the quarter between the thumb and forefinger of my left hand, I
coated my right thumb and forefinger in spittle and used them to pamper my
abused toe while considering my next move. Within moments, I hit on what
I considered a foolproof idea, though Mama once said that if an idea seems
foolproof, there is an excellent chance somebody will provide proof they are a
fool. But I didn’t see any way for this one to blow up in my face. I dashed to the
living room, planted the quarter beneath a sofa cushion, and rushed back to Danny
and Irene, closing Mama and Dad’s bedroom door along the way. Evidently, the
battering I absorbed during my escapade had taken a toll on my lightening-like
reflexes, for the squeak had returned.
“Well, I might not ‘member ever’thing, Irene, but I know I puth the toof
right under my piller. Now... it’th gone, and there ain’t even a thingle penny.”
Danny’s bottom lip was quivering. Irene strummed three fingers rapidly on her
semi-puckered lips as she searched my face for a flicker of hope.
“Say, didn’t you go to sleep on the couch, Danny?” I asked.
“Yeah, but my toof wath under here,” he said, lifting his pillow and pointing
to the exact spot where he had deposited it.
“Hey,” I said. “I’ll betcha the Tooth Fairy got your tooth, but when she
didn’t see you, she flew around lookin’ for you. When she saw you sleepin’ on
the couch, she pro’bly put it somewhere around there. Doncha think, Lefty?”
“Yeah, that could be what happened, Davey Crockett. Maybe your treasure
is up front on the couch!”
“That make thense to me,” Danny said, running toward the living room.
Irene smiled at me as she wiped make believe sweat from her forehead and
flicked her wrist. “I owe you one, Dan Jean,” she whispered, giving my neck a
quick squeeze as she brushed past.
“Good!” I said. “That reduces my paybacks to you by one, leaving me only
ten million down.” She laughed. Given the number of times she had bailed me
out, I was hopelessly trailing in the favors department.
Danny removed the cushion, revealing the quarter. “Yippee,” he said, the
gap in his teeth prominent behind an endearing smile. “I can get loth of great
junk with thith!”
“Sure can, a lot of great junk to make your teeth rot out,” I said.
“Hey, good thinking, Dan Jean. Then, the Toof Fairy will make me rich.”
His smirk and rolling eyes made it clear he was sniping. I grabbed him and
gave him a shake and a kiss on the nose, receiving a warm giggle for my efforts.
I heard the toilet flush in my parent’s room and wondered if I had pulled
off my caper undetected, though I wasn’t worried. Never could a better case be
made for the ends justifying the means. Still, it had to be the strangest Beechworth
Sunday morning ever. Zack was outside chasing down a commode, Danny
had come within a snaggle of getting quilled by his second favorite fey and my
parents were rolling out of bed just thirty minutes before Sunday school started.
Normally, we would have been finishing an enormous breakfast.
We heard Mama in the hallway and Irene looked at me, anxiety etched in
her eyes. I felt a mite queasy myself. Mama walked in and stood before us – erect
and stone-faced. It was hard to believe she was the same woman who had set
out only fourteen hours earlier for the party. Curlers, stale makeup, baggy eyes
– Cinderella had turned into her ugly stepmother. Even though we maintained
complete silence, our startled expressions gave us away. Mama issued a warning.
“Don’t you dare say it, kids. I know I must look a sight. I’m just not used
to bein’ up so late, is what.”
“Yes ma’am, or used to drankin’,” I said, and promptly squeezed my eyes
shut in disbelief over what I had just heard.