Darby (17 page)

At home, my mama was collecting the pecans that’d blown from the trees during the storm. She had Annie Jane and Aunt Greer helping her gather out back, but they weren’t finding as many as a kid could. Kids are better at that sorta thing. When I changed, I went outside and said that I could ask Evette to help when she got home, and my mama didn’t even bat an eye. She seemed fine about that.

“We aren’t doing very well so far,” Aunt Greer told me.

Mama said, “Where’s McCall?”

“He left out the front door.”

“Figures,” she muttered. “If he was here, I’d tell him what I’m gonna tell you. If you want a Christmas present this year, you better start searching.”

“That’s what I’m gonna do,” I told her softly, taking up a croaker sack and walking down toward the dairy barn. Before I started, I looked up at the weavy, curvy limbs of the pecan trees my granddaddy had planted, and they reminded me of swoopy, torn nets. Behind them, the crystal blue sky was so bright it almost hurt my eyes.

Scooting off to the beginning of the cotton field, I searched and searched, finding a load of pecans under every few plants. The first rows of cotton bushes had caught them like baseball mitts. On the edge of the dirt road leading back to the dairy barn, there were pecans in every mule hoof print. In the tallish grass, pecans were hidden like Easter eggs. In the woods between the dairy barn and the chicken house, pecans were underneath leaves and even stuck in the branches of small shrubs.

I’d worked for an hour by myself when I finally spotted Evette and her brothers. Dropping my sack, I tore off through a line of dried cotton bushes, their leaves crackling against my hips. By their house, I called, “Hey, guys.”

As she got closer, Evette stared at me like I was a slobbering dog, like I had rabies.

“What?” I wanted to know.

Standing in front of me, seeming embarrassed, she whispered, “Everybody heard about what happened last night. Daddy said he could see the cross from our back windows.”

Feeling strange, I told her, “It doesn’t matter. My family isn’t worried about it.”

“It don’t look that way on your face.”

“What’re you talking about?” I asked.

Softly, she said, “Your face looks sad.”

A hard lump took ahold of my throat.

She corrected herself. “Your face sorta looks worried, is what I’m meaning.”

“I’m not worried or sad,” I lied.

She fiddled a hand in her pocket and gazed out toward the pecan trees. “What’re y’all doing?”

I said, “Picking up pecans that the storm knocked from the trees. It’s easy. You . . . you wanna come help?”

She said, “All right.”

After Evette had changed her clothes, me and her walked toward Ellan, where Mama and Aunt Greer and Annie Jane smiled and quit, saying they were tired. Together they went inside, which was good for us. Alone, me and Evette found a ton of pecans and nearly loaded two croaker sacks full. It was fun, too. We made games out of it. First we came up with a different person’s name for every pecan we found. The one who couldn’t think of a new name lost. After going on and on, I got stuck after Evette said, “Kwasi,” which is a name I never heard of. After that, we counted to thirty, and when we got there we checked to see who had found the most pecans. We did that over and over again. When we got bored, we decided that each time we found twenty-five pecans we had to pole-vault over a higher and higher fence till we knocked it over. Then we scratched out a hopscotch course we had to do before dropping our pecans into our sacks.

Evette said, “Let’s say that when you get to the end you gotta holler somethin’ you don’t like, like ‘collard greens.’”

“You show me,” I told her.

“All right,” she said, and hopped along the squares, landing on one foot when she got to the last one. Leaning over the croaker sacks, she said, “I don’t like rain.”

I smiled and jumped down the course. At the end I said, “I don’t like when people mess up my hair.”

When she went again, she said, “I don’t like dogs that bite.”

On my turn, I said, “I don’t like it when I wake up in the middle of the night.”

We came up with about a thousand things we didn’t like, and when the sun rays stretched out real far, Evette said she had to go home. A few feet into the cotton field, she stopped. Turning, she asked, “Darby, you feel better?”

I nodded. “Yeah,” I said, and it was like I was turning into a baby or something. I almost cried again for liking her so much. “See you later, alligator.”

Evette said, “Catch you in a while, crocodile.”

During dinner, as we passed the greens and Daddy served up the smoked ham, Mama scolded McCall for not helping gather pecans.

He told her, “I was doing other things.”

Mama balked. “Here me and Aunt Greer and Darby worked so hard to pick up pecans, and you didn’t even help. You ran out the front door instead of doing work.”

McCall smiled.

Mama told him, “Don’t you dare look at me that way.”

Because McCall was getting scolded, I smiled, too.

McCall saw me and snitched. “She’s doing it now.”

Mama whipped her head around. “Darby!” she said. “You wipe that smile off your face.”

Apologizing, I said I would. But it wouldn’t leave. Happiness was running through my arms and legs and face. Hearing Mama yell at McCall was nice. I explained to her, “My smile won’t go away because it’s so nice that everything seems normal.”

On Saturday morning, so that I could go into Bennettsville early, I got up and ate breakfast with Daddy. At school the day before, like most everyone else, me and Beth had made plans to walk down to see the Gulf, which is the area where all the black-owned shops are. During the storm, most of the stores had flooded, and the owners were digging out their muddy property. We’d even heard that they had found a few dead fish in strange places, like in drawers and on shelves, and that excited us awful. After we were done there, we were going to take a picnic up to the courthouse lawn. Every Saturday farmers and their families rolled into town, and most of them rode wagons. That meant that they had to water their horses, and we liked to wait for them by the fountain. We enjoyed patting all those sweet animals.

When I woke up that morning, I felt better about everything. My arm had stopped hurting and for some reason I felt like my article was fading away, that people had stopped caring. At breakfast, I was even a little glad about things.

“Are you happy?” I asked my daddy while he ate.

Smiling, he said, “Sure. I’m happy enough.” But I don’t think he got what I meant. What I’d wanted to know was if he was happy right then and there, not with his life.

As I started off for Carmichael Dry Goods, the sun was skimming the very tippy-tops of trees. In the quietness of morning time, Daddy’s Buick seemed like it was roaring as loud as the Bennettsville & Cheraw train. Still, the noise was all right and soothing for some reason. As we passed along, birds torpedoed off dried cotton plants, shooting away in straight lines. I’d seen it a billion times, but I always thought it was pretty. Each bird raced across the fields like they were attached to wires, getting smaller and smaller until they all the sudden disappeared. On the edge of town, a couple of crows pecked at something in the roadway, eating till we were almost on top of them. Then, in a slow manner, they flapped and jumped out of the path of our tires.

At the store, my daddy flicked on the lights and checked his record book and pencils and fountain pens. Outside, a few folks were already waiting to get in, but he paid them no mind and did what he always does. Moving his head from side to side, he inspected the shelves to make sure nothing was in the wrong place.

When Russell arrived, my daddy checked his watch. Together, we went and sat in his office till it was exactly eight-thirty. Then he rose slowly and opened the front door. Three men came right in. I recognized two of them as brothers who worked a farm in the terrible soil up near the Sand Hills. Even though they’re famous for struggling and getting nothing for it, they’re real nice. Both waved to me.

The other man asked my daddy if he had a plow harness, and Daddy led him up the steps to look at the different types. Comfortable, I leaned my elbows on the counter waiting for nine o’clock, which was when I could go to Beth’s house.

A lady from the Mill Village came in and went over to our selection of frying pans and pots. A few other people entered, and a man named Mr. Nathaniel signed for a sack of meal. He said, “Thank you, Little Darby,” and carried it out on his shoulder.

I daydreamed about things and traced the wood-grained pattern on my daddy’s store counter. I tried to count the number of circles I found, but there were so many I stopped. Then, for some reason the hairs on my neck rose like tiny cactus prickles, and I looked toward the door and saw Mr. Dunn coming through it. Right off, my heart started pounding. Twisting, I checked to see if my daddy was coming down the steps, but he wasn’t.

As he approached, Mr. Dunn’s lard eyes nearly sizzled and popped in his head. Towering above the counter, he said to me, “Hello, Little Darby.”

Stuttering, I answered, “Ah . . . hel . . . hello, Mr. Dunn?” I heard the elevator doors close and hoped Russell was going up to fetch Daddy.

Mr. Dunn said, “I need some matches, lamp oil, and thirty feet of strong chain.”

I could barely speak. “I . . . I suppose we got all that, sir. My daddy’ll be down in a minute.”

Mr. Dunn put a hand on the countertop. “Good. That’ll give me a moment to talk with you.”

Quaking, I said, “Yes . . . sir.”

The lady from the Mill Village looked over.

“Now, Little Darby, let me say right off, I ain’t gonna beat around the bush and treat you like a kid. Far as I’m concerned, you’re an adult, or adult enough to understand my point when I get to it.” Rubbing his sharp chin, Mr. Dunn said, “See, I was awfully let down with what you wrote in the paper. I was awfully bothered by what you and your black friend said about things. Top of that, to make things worse, I know your daddy helped out the Hawkins family, which was my business and not his to begin with. But I know your daddy did it. That’s why I been let down with y’all,” he said. “I been real let down with the way y’all are feeling so charitable toward my tenant farmers and the blacks in general.”

Closing his hand, Mr. Dunn made a giant fist. “But we all make mistakes, is what I say. And I’m a Christian man, ain’t I? That’s why I’m gonna let it all go. I’m gonna forgive y’all, being that I know you and your family learned a proper lesson. Now, you tell me, did you learn a proper lesson from all this?”

Fingers trembling so hard I couldn’t even grab up a pen, I said, “I . . . su . . . suppose, sir.”

Playing like he hadn’t heard me, Mr. Dunn put a hand up to one of his ears. “Didn’t catch that, Little Darby. Say again?”

I couldn’t talk.

“Speak up, g . . .”

My daddy cut him short. “Turpin!” he hollered, coming down the steps. “What are you doing here?”

Mr. Dunn turned and lifted his hands to play like he was innocent, reminding me of McCall. “I ain’t doing nothing, Sherman. Me and your daughter was just talking.”

My daddy glared at Mr. Dunn. “Turpin, your money’s no good here, so I believe you ought to just go on.”

Turpin laughed. “Now . . . now, I ain’t doing nothing, Sherm,” he said. “Far as I’m concerned, you’re acting crazy. I mean, I was just making small talk with your daughter while you were busy. You tell ’im, Little Darby. Wasn’t that all I was doing?”

Looking away from Mr. Dunn, I spoke up. “No . . . sir. No . . . you weren’t . . . talking nice to me. You were sc . . . scaring me.”

Mr. Dunn said, “Aw, Little Darby, I didn’t mean ta do any such thing.”

The lady from the Mill Village said, “I beg to differ with you.”

My daddy snarled, “Out of my store, Turpin!” He pointed toward the door. “Now!” Daddy said.

The two farmer brothers from the Sand Hills came down the steps. “Is there a problem, Mr. Carmichael?” one of them asked.

Daddy said, “No, not as soon as Turpin leaves.”

Turpin glowered at Daddy, and growled, “You throw me out, and you’re gonna be sorry, Sherm. You’re gonna be real sorry. Everyone from here to Columbia is gonna label you a traitor for taking the black side of things, and that’s the kinda tag that’ll come back to bite you, ’cause nobody likes a backstabber. Matter of fact, people are glad ta turn the other way when a backstabber gets his comeuppance.”

“Leave,” Daddy demanded.

“You’re gonna be sor . . .”

Daddy shouted, “Leave!”

Gritting his teeth, Mr. Dunn looked about the room, looked at all of us before locking his eyes on me. He smiled.

“St . . . stop doing that,” I begged, and could feel tears roll from my eyes.

Daddy bolted forward and gave Mr. Dunn a shove in the chest. “Turpin, if you want to try and intimidate somebody, you try me.”

Angry, Mr. Dunn stared at Daddy like he was going to take a swipe. Balling up his fists, he leaned forward like a bull getting ready to charge. But something all the sudden changed inside of him, and he turned and yanked the front door open, tearing off a bell on a spring. “Y’all’re gonna be real sorry,” he declared as he left. “This ain’t the end, at all.”