Color the Sidewalk for Me (6 page)

chapter 7

I
want to go into Albertsville, Mama. Why won't you let me? There's nothing to do here!”

“Celia, I said no and I mean no. Now hush up about it.”

Sunlight filtered dustily through the living room window, the lazy buzz of honeybees drifting from the roses lining our lawn. A neighbor's dog was barking. It was a beautiful day in May, school was almost out for summer, and I couldn't think of one thing right with the world.

“Bradleyville's so boring!” I threw out my hands. “Fifteen years old and I can't even go to the next town. I might lay eyes on a boy, God forbid, or see the outside of a movie theater. My very soul would be tainted!”

“Celia, stop it!” Mama spat, face flushing. “I'm tired of fightin' about this every Saturday. Your friends' mamas wouldn't let them go, either.”

“Mary Lee can take me. She's my friend and she's got her own car at sixteen, for heaven's sake! She even goes on dates.”

“Mary Lee wasn't raised in this town.”

“I sn't that the truth!” I paced furiously, lips pressed. “So what am I supposed to do—hang out at Tull's? Go swimmin' in the river? Big deal!”

“Celia, enough!” Mama said, throwing down a mended sock. “You are not going into that town. You'll stay right here like the rest of your friends. You will not drive all over tarnation in that fancy green car of Mary Lee's, and you will stop yelling at me!”

“Why? You're yelling at me!”

“That's it. Go to your room!”

I huffed away, slammed my bedroom door for effect, and flung myself across the wedding ring quilt on my bed. Narrow-eyed, I hissed words at Mama, wishing I could be like Mary Lee. The lucky girl lived in Bradleyville but attended a private school in Albertsville. More important, she wasn't slave to all the rules heaped on my head. If I thought it would do any good, I'd have begged Daddy to intercede for me, but he always just said, “Ask Mama.” Heaving a sigh, I pounded my pillow in frustration.

A tentative knock sounded at my door. “Can I come in, Celia?”

Wearily I pulled Cubby, the teddy bear I'd had since I was a baby, to my chest. “Yeah, Kevy, it's okay.”

He slipped into my blue-walled room and closed the door, absently pulling at his T-shirt. Fixing upon my desk, he took in the bright watercolor I'd painted of ocean waves and sand. “I like your new picture,” he ventured.

Gazing at his round Charley Brown face with the sprinkle of freckles across its cheeks, I felt a familiar burst of affection. I had watched over Kevy since his birth, and he'd certainly needed it at times. He was bold and daring in his play, as if his sweet naïveté precluded all thought of nature harming him.

“Well, you're in, Kevy. What do you want?”

I knew what he wanted, deep down in his sensitive being—he wanted peace in the house. Like Daddy, he craved mellow understanding, a light banter around the supper table. Kevy's heart was generous. He was the first to comfort anyone who was sad, the last to say a negative word. Sometimes, I thought, living in our family was hardest for him. Rarely in trouble himself, he was continually in the maelstrom of Mama's arguments with me and Granddad.

He shrugged. “Just wanted to see if you're okay, I guess.”

“Yeah, sure, I'm great.”

Wandering over to the dresser, he picked up my silver brush and pulled a hair from its bristles, absently watching it drift to the floor.

“What do you want, Kevy?”

He straightened his shoulders with purpose. “I wanna go fishin'.”

“So go with Reid.” Reid Barth was Kevy's best friend, and they were seldom apart.

“He's busy. And so are all my other friends; I already tried.” He waited. “And Mama won't let me go alone. She says the water's too high.”

“Well, you're wastin' your time here. I don't want to go fishin'. Have to walk all the way down there,” I grumbled. “Have to buy worms.”

“Please,” he begged, clasping his hands in supplication. “Never know who you'll meet along the way. Maybe some kids from school. Maybe some boys.” He flashed me a dopey grin.

“Come on, Celia!” Happily toting his fishing pole, Kevy skittered over pebbles at the water's edge until he hit a group of idly scattered boulders. Sunlight glittered off the water as it flowed briskly, fed by mountain runoff from the long winter's melting snow. The water would be icy cold.

“Keep up the shoutin', Kevy. Let those fish know we're comin'.” I picked my way across the rocks toward our usual spot, carrying my pole and a bucket halfheartedly. Nobody interesting had been downtown or in the hardware store, where we picked up a can of night crawlers. I'd waved to a couple of younger girls hanging out at Tull's Drugstore, who turned up their noses at Kevy. When I was their age, I hadn't cared for boys, either. Then suddenly after my thirteenth birthday something had fallen away from my senses, like ice slithering down a warmed windowpane.

In all of ninth grade Melissa had giggled about how Bobby Delham, whose daddy ran the bank, was in love with me. At first I'd tossed my head at the notion. Bobby was short for his age and his full mouth a little too large for his oval face. His hair was black and his eyes brown and big like a doe's. I hadn't been interested; nevertheless I began carefully choosing clothes that best reflected my blue eyes. Let him suffer for his affection, having to watch me from afar, cool and collected. But lately I'd begun to dream of going on dates with him or sitting beside him on a moonlit beach.

Kevy was prying off the top of the worm can with stubby fingers. “Ooh, nice fat ones!” he exclaimed. He stuck a hand inside and drew out a wriggling night crawler spotted with dirt. “This is gonna get me a nice trout.” I gazed at it absently. Granddad had taught me to fish before Kevy was born, hauling me down here and patiently demonstrating how to hook the worm and cast the line into the river. I'd screwed up my face in disgust the first time but had been determined not to let Granddad down. Now I could bait a fishhook while chewing on a sandwich. Kevy was an expert in his own right. In no time his line was in the water. We leaned side by side against one of the large boulders. “Aren't you gonna fish?”

“Maybe later.”

As he waited in silence for a bite, I listened to the faint rush of the rapids downstream. Typically they couldn't be heard from here, but the water was deeper and swifter with the spring runoff. “Be careful of that water,” Granddad had warned.

I thought of Granddad as I tipped my head back against the rock and closed my eyes, seeing the black-red of my lids, smelling the rich scent of earthworms. Granddad was seventy-four now and slow-moving. Sometimes he needed to rest during our walks downtown to Tull's, where he and his old friends Jake Lewellyn and Hank Jenkins would yak the afternoon away in their chairs under the green awning, cold drinks sweating in their hands. On Saturdays he could drive down if Daddy or Mama didn't need the car, but he didn't like to. Much as he wouldn't admit it, I think he was scared of having one of his “heart flares” behind the wheel. I used to love driving into Albertsville with him when I was little; he'd fly over the hills, pretending we were chasing the Germans out of Paris. But those days were gone. Even the lifelong besting feud between Granddad and Mr. Lewellyn, once energetic and conniving, had recently been reduced to playing checkers at our dining room table, crabbing over who was cheating.

Mama was forever fussing over Granddad's health until his ears turned red with annoyance. “I ain't dead yet, Estelle!” he'd holler at her, and she'd back off. But when he bragged of his battles in the war, she'd turn a deaf ear. As for Granddad, it seemed the less he could do, the more he wanted to talk about those battles, clinging to the days when he was gallant and strong. Over the years the whole town had heard how he'd earned the three Bronze Star Medals that lay upon gold velvet in dark blue rectangle boxes on his bookcase. Visitors were always invited to view the famed stars hanging from their patriotically striped ribbons, along with the military insignia Granddad kept in a sandalwood box. The details of his first medal constituted his favorite story, about when he stealthily crossed the Volturno River in Italy under heavy enemy surveillance to scout out a German camp. He earned his second medal also in World War II by single-handedly shooting seven German soldiers before they could surround his ragtag group of men in a lethal “pocket.” And the third one he earned in Korea after risking his life to drag numerous wounded American soldiers from a perilous knoll to safety.

My granddad was a wonderful Christian man, full of integrity. But he wasn't afraid of confrontation if God led him to it. “Choose your battles carefully,” he always told me. “Then if you gotta fight, fight like the angel Michael.”

The afternoon sun was making me drowsy. Abandoning the boulder, I sat on a log, leaning against an ancient tree. Kevy hadn't gotten a single nibble. It was shortly after four o'clock—time to leave soon, but I couldn't summon the energy. I was beginning to think I could curl up for a nap right there on the rocky riverbank. My head dipped and my jaw slackened. The world began to fall away . . .

A sudden splash jerked my head up. Automatically I checked for Kevy. He was knee-deep in the river, holding his fishing pole high, his shoes on the riverbank, each one stuffed with a sock.

“What are you doin'! Get back here right now!” I jumped to my feet.

“I'm wadin' over to Jake's Rock,” he called. “Bet there's plenty of fish around it.”

Jake's Rock had been named for Mr. Lewellyn years ago when he and Granddad, at age twelve, had held a spur-of-the-moment fishing contest, the loser having to sing a serenade under the window of an ugly girl chosen by the winner. Granddad had fished from the bank; Mr. Lewellyn had decided to sit on the huge boulder in the middle of the river. It was a perfect seat for fishing. Upstream its slope was gentle, offering an easy climb to the top, which was good and flat for sitting. The downstream side fell off abruptly—a great spot to hang your knees over and cast. According to Granddad, he'd have won the contest fair and square if Jake Lewellyn hadn't stolen two of Granddad's fish and thrown them in his own bucket once he was back on the bank.

“The water's too cold, Kevy! Another minute and you won't even feel your legs!”

He threw me a grin. “I can't feel 'em now!”

“Well, get back, idgit! You're gonna be chest-deep by the time you reach the rock.” I strode as close to the water as I could without getting my feet wet. “Besides, the current's too strong. Look at it!”

He was up to his thighs now, fighting to stay even with the rock as the current swirled. “I don't have to look at it; I can feel it.” His voice drifted over one shoulder.

“Drat it, Kevy,” I breathed, putting my hands on my hips as I watched in silence, willing him to make it to the boulder. “Go, Kevy, go,” I urged under my breath. He seemed to be making no progress. “Kevy!” I yelled.
“Move!”

“My legs won't work, Celia!” His voice was tinged with fear.

I resisted the urge to declare I'd told him so. “Just try harder, Kevy!” I cried, pacing along the water. “You're almost there.”

And miraculously he did. One step, then another. A third and a fourth, and he was pulling himself up on the rock. “See! Told you I could do it!” He lay breathing hard near the bottom of the slope, watching his hand in fascination as he tried vainly to move his fingers. I exhaled loudly, feeling the clutch in my chest release. “Well, on your way back,” I hollered, “if you drown, don't come runnin' to me. I'm not about to go in that water after you!”

“Whew!” a voice exclaimed behind me. “I was sweatin' for a minute there.”

With a start I spun around to see the jean-clad figure of Danny Cander, an old white T-shirt turned lengthwise and tied around his hips, his chest bare. He held a fishing pole in one hand and a rusty tackle box in the other. A strand of his thick brown hair was hanging into one vivid green eye, and he absently tossed it away. “Sorry,” he said, embarrassed. “Didn't mean to scare you.”

My mouth dropped open, then snapped shut. “Oh . . . oh no,” I managed. “It's okay.” Our eyes met and held; then I looked down, seeing his gaze slip away at the same time. I was suddenly aware of the old beige shorts and faded blue T-shirt I was wearing. My hair had to be in tangles and my skin was too pale. I shifted from one foot to the other during the awkward pause, feeling a flush rise in my cheeks, hoping he'd say something. But the only noise I heard from Danny was the sound of his swallowing. I put a hand to the nape of my neck and turned back toward the river to look at Kevy. “My silly brother. Thought the fishin' would be better out there.”

He exhaled. “Probably is.”

I watched Kevy climb up the rock, dragging his pole along with him, a worm writhing on its hook. “Guess he's warmin' up.”