Darby (10 page)

Smiling, I told her, “Thanks,” and I swung about and made big eyes at Evette.

She bulged hers back. “I suppose you wants me to play like we’re sisters, too?”

I told her, “It’s my birthday.” Taking up both of their hands, I said, “We’re playing sisters.”

Sitting at the other tables, my friends looked at us.

“We’re playing sisters,” I announced again.

Sissy frowned. “How can you be sisters? She’s black.”

Angry, I told her, “We’re just playing, is how.”

After cake, Mama and Aunt Greer got some games going. We pinned paper tails on the outline of a donkey and did musical chairs with a phonograph. We were sitting in the cold grass, playing hot potato, when Boog’s daddy arrived to take him and Shoog, who was his neighbor, home. Then Helen’s brother drove up and carried her and Jack-Henry back into town. A few minutes later, Beth’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild, bounced down the driveway in their Cadillac, pulling up next to the Grab. Getting out, Mrs. Fairchild came over to us while Mr. Fairchild waved and went into Ellan. Watching the door shut behind him, I wondered if he wanted to talk to my daddy about the Klan man. I stared at the back side of the house for a few minutes. Then I forgot and listened to Mrs. Josephine Fairchild’s funny story about one of her birthday parties when she was little. She told about how her daddy had made up an extra-large pot of Brunswick stew, and their dog found it and pushed the top off and tried climbing in before it spilled on top of him.

“Did your dog get burnt?” Evette asked.

“Luckily, it wasn’t steaming hot.”

“If it was, he might’ve cooked,” I said.

“You’re right,” she agreed.

Mrs. Fairchild started in on another story about her dog, and by the time she was finishing up, my daddy and Mr. Fairchild came out the back door and moseyed in a circle around us, stopping by the laundry house. They began laughing.

I peeked over at Beth and smiled.

She smiled back.

Turning, Beth’s mama said to me, “Darby, I nearly forgot to tell you. I loved your article in the
Bennettsville Times.
”

“You did?” I asked.

“It was exceptionally sweet,” she declared.

“Thank you, ma’am,” I told her. “I got another one coming out next week. But I don’t think it’s gonna be sweet. It’s different ’cause Evette helped fix it up and . . . and . . .” I sputtered to a stop. My heart sunk because I’d just given away the secret me and Mr. Salter were keeping.

“Evette,” Mama said, turning toward my friend, “you helped her write about Great-Uncle Harvey?”

Shaking her head, Evette answered, “No, ma’am. I just fixed things when she asked me to. My aunt’s been writing for a newspaper in New York, so I’ve wanted to write. I wanted to since I was little.”

Mama looked back at me. “Is that why you got the itch to write articles, because of Evette?”

For a minute or two, I considered not telling the truth and even thought about running over to my daddy. But I didn’t do either. I stood my ground and repeated to myself that newspaper girls are supposed to tell the truth.

I said, “Yes, Mama, she’s how I got the idea. I liked what Evette told me about newspaper girls, and I was thinking that if I don’t ever have any money and can’t ever afford new dresses and jewelry, then I might wanna do something like that.”

My mama turned toward Evette. “I’m impressed you’ve got such a fine grasp of the language.”

“I guess I just do,” Evette whispered.

Mrs. Fairchild touched Evette on the head. “I think it’s wonderful that you want to be a writer.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” she answered bashfully.

Beth tugged at her mama’s dress. “Me and Evette and Darby, we played like we were sisters today.”

Mrs. Fairchild nodded. “Do you want to be a writer now?”

“We didn’t talk about that,” Beth admitted.

Nervous, I watched Mama’s face soften to the notion that I’d copied Evette. Like everyone in Marlboro County, my mama has a lot of respect for Mrs. Fairchild, and if Mrs. Fairchild believes something is okay, everyone usually decides that way with her.

“So, Darby, how was your party?” Mrs. Fairchild asked me.

“Oh, it was fun. Mama set up a fright show and we had games and ice cream and cake and such, and we played tag. But I haven’t opened my presents yet so that other kids don’t get jealous.”

Laughing, Mrs. Fairchild pushed some of her pretty curls behind an ear.

My daddy and Mr. Fairchild walked over. Tilting his hat, Mr. Fairchild said, “Hello, Greer and Big Darby and Sissy. Happy birthday, Little Darby.” Then he surprised me and stuck a hand on one of Evette’s shoulders. Squatting down, he smiled at her. “Darby’s daddy just told me you’re Elwood Robinson’s daughter. Is that right?”

Evette’s eyes became wide and worried. “Yes, sir.”

“Darby’s daddy thinks the world of your father.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I got a question for you.”

“Okay, sir.”

“How does your daddy know Mr. Hawkins, the man whose boy died the other night?”

She shrugged. “They’s friends from church, sir. My daddy and Mr. Hawkins collects the money in baskets and sometimes they go to church at night to discuss things.”

“Did you know Mr. Hawkins’s boy?”

“Yes, sir. His name was Devin, and he was older. He was nice to me, but once I saw him pull his sister’s hair.”

Mr. Fairchild nodded and let go of Evette’s shoulder. Standing, he smoothed out the top of his pants. He told her, “It was a sad thing that happened.”

Evette said, “Yes, sir.”

When everyone was gone and Annie Jane was doing dishes, I opened my presents from Mama and Daddy and Aunt Greer while McCall sat nearby and watched. “Hurry up,” he egged me, “ I wanna see if I like anything.”

I said, “It doesn’t matter ’cause I won’t let you have it.”

Altogether there were three presents, and I picked the biggest one first. Tearing it open, I found a new wool sweater that Mama had knit me. Holding it in the air, I imagined myself wearing it to school. “It’s so pretty,” I told her. Getting up, I gave her a big hug. The next gift I opened was wrapped in a kitchen cloth. As I undid it, I recognized that it was a little plaster sculpture of a horse with Robert E. Lee, the famous Southern general from the Civil War, alongside him. Since before I could recollect, my daddy had kept that teeny sculpture on his desk at Carmichael Dry Goods. On account of the horse being so proud and handsome, I always liked it. When I’d sit in his office, I’d pretend that the horse was a unicorn and Robert E. Lee was a princess.

“Thank you, Daddy,” I told him, getting up and giving him a hug.

“I know how much you liked it.”

“Yeah,” I said, feeling dizzy from happiness.

The last thing I got was a pecan pie that Aunt Greer had made me.

“Can I have some?” I asked.

“Not till after dinner,” Aunt Greer said.

That night while tucking me in bed, Mama said, “Was it a good day, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” I told her, looking into her round, friendly face. Unless she’s mad, she’s so sweet-looking that you just want to climb into her arms and have her hold you tight and delicate. Sometimes, it seems impossible that she was considered one of the hardest and meanest teachers at the Murchison School. But everyone says that it’s true, that when she first got to town, she was serious and difficult and didn’t want anything to do with the locals, including my daddy. I guess that changed after he asked her to marry him.

“Mama, are you angry about me wanting to be a newspaper girl?”

She laughed. “No, Darby. Newspaper writing isn’t ladylike, but it’s not a horrible thing for a girl to try her hand at.”

“Evette’s real smart,” I told her. “If she wasn’t black, she’d be a genius.”

“I suppose.”

“Mama,” I said, “why do you think Mr. Fairchild asked her all those questions?”

She shook her head. “Who knows?”

I said, “Mama, I love my sweater, and the fright show was perfect.”

“It’s my pleasure to do those things,” she told me, tucking the covers around my shoulders.

On the Monday after my birthday, Daddy came home from work with the
Bennettsville Times.
Excited, he showed me and Mama and Aunt Greer my new article. I called Annie Jane over to see, and the four of us crowded around Daddy. Looking between his hands, I saw my story at the bottom of the front page. In big letters it said: “Living Without Sight.” In small letters it said, “Another article by Marlboro County’s favorite columnist, Little Darby Carmichael, with editorial assistance from Evette.”

I asked my daddy, “What’s a columnist?”

He answered, “It’s a newspaper writer who writes personal opinions and stories.”

“I’m a columnist kinda newspaper writer then?”

“Sure are.” Aunt Greer laughed.

I asked, “Did you like my story, Daddy?”

“I was left breathless,” he declared. “It’s really an accomplishment.”

“You think?” I asked, and started jumping up and down.

Annie Jane told me, “Congratulations, child.”

Mama finished reading and shook her head. “Amazing,” she said, her throat and eyes clogged with tears. She reached over and held my cheeks in her hands. Letting go, she gave me a nice soft hug. “I’m proud of you. You’ve got a special gift. You certainly do.”

McCall walked in, and I yapped, “My new columnist came out.”

“You mean your column?” he snapped back.

I was confused.

Aunt Greer explained, “A columnist writes a column.”

“So what I did is called a column?”

“Yeah, love,” she told me as she read.

I turned back to McCall. “Everyone thinks my column’s real good.”

“Who cares,” he mumbled.

“McCall!” Mama barked at him. “Be good!”

Playing innocent, he declared, “I’m being good.”

I asked my mama, “Can I go show Evette?”

“Right now?”

“It’ll only be a second, Mama. Please?”

Staring at me, she didn’t try to hide her frustration. “You don’t dawdle, Darby,” she said sharply, “and take King.”

The nice thing was, when Evette saw her name alongside mine, she got so excited she gave me a hug that nearly cracked my back. It was perfect.

A lot of people liked my second article more than the first, including the teachers I eat lunch with. They praised me about ten times, which was something I didn’t mind. Plus, my daddy said that everyone who went into his store gushed over it. At home and at school I was feeling pretty important until, on the Thursday after my birthday, while Miss Burstin wrote on the blackboard, Beth gave me a note. Unfolding it, I read, “You got to come home with me. Mercury is so sad for not seeing you for almost two weeks. That’s what Chester said.”

Thinking about that goat, I wrote back, “Are you playing?” But Beth never got my question. While my head was down, Miss Burstin had walked away from the blackboard and was standing in front of me. She grabbed up my note and scolded me good. “Darby Carmichael, I’d like to think that you of all people would try and set a good example for others.” Ripping the paper into a hundred pieces, she sprinkled it into the garbage can.

When school was over, I got up and rushed for the parking lot and our Chevrolet. I wanted to go straight home and hide under the sweet, blue sky of our farm. But Beth caught up with me downstairs. “Darby, aren’t you gonna come make Mercury happy?” she asked.

Breathing hard, I stared at her. “Is that really true about him?”

“Yeah, it is,” she promised. “Even Chester said you gotta come make his goat feel better.”

I wanted to leave, but I knew I couldn’t. I liked Mercury so much I was stuck. “Okay, I’ll stay.”

“Mercury’s gonna be glad,” Beth told me.

Walking to her house, I explained that because I was semifamous for writing articles in the paper, I felt especially bad about getting caught passing notes.

Beth told me to stop worrying.

“You think?”

“It’s true. Miss Burstin shouldn’t’ve said you should set a good example. That wasn’t very nice. You’re still just a kid.”

I thought about it but couldn’t exactly decide if Beth was right. We walked on some more, and I asked, “Did you like my birthday?”

She nodded. “It was nice.”

“You didn’t like Evette, though, did you?”

“I like her all right.”

“She’s smart and funny.”

Beth didn’t answer.

“You should hear her tell stories about her brothers. Once she said they were walking down a dirt road, and they passed a snake who was sitting in a ditch, and her little brother stayed behind and picked it up and swang it like a rope. He tossed it around their older brother’s neck, and their older brother nearly screamed his head off from fright. He was worried it was a poisonous snake. As soon as he found out it wasn’t, he wrastled their little brother into the dirt and made him eat a handful.”

“Ugh, I woulda fainted if somebody threw a snake around my neck,” Beth declared.

“Me, too,” I told her.

She laughed.

“You see how fun Evette is?”

She didn’t say anything.

At Beth’s house, Chester stayed in his room while we brushed Mercury’s soft coat. Stepping in place, Mercury seemed happy I was there. I asked Beth, “Do you really think he missed me?”