Fire from the Rock (2 page)

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Authors: Sharon Draper

BOOK: Fire from the Rock
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“You know, you're the only colored woman in Little Rock who will still do laundry for that fool,” her sister said bitterly. “You let him talk to you like you're a child, and he only pays you ten cents a shirt.”
Sylvia looked up in surprise. Her mother rarely showed anger against anyone, especially her own sister.
“You used to work for his wife,” Aunt Bessie retorted.
“I went one time. Then, because she treated me like dirt, I refused to go back, like you should have years ago,” her mother said flatly.
Aunt Bessie's shoulders drooped. She had told the girls to wait for her outside Mr. Crandall's back fence while she col- lected her two dollars and fifty cents. Mr. Crandall always took a long time because he checked every shirt for brown marks or water spots before he would pay her.
Hateful old man never finds any spots—he just likes to make Aunt Bessie stand there in the cold.
Sylvia noticed her hands were squeezed into fists.
“It was cold, Mama,” Sylvia explained quietly. “Donna Jean had the jump rope she got for Christmas and she was jumping a little to keep warm, I guess. Both of us were giggling and acting silly—maybe a little scared, too. Then that dog got loose and headed straight for Donna Jean. I tried to get her out of the way, Mama—really I did—but the dog was too fast.”
Sylvia kept replaying the scene in her mind, trying to figure out how she could have been faster, quicker, smarter—something that might have helped her sister. But superheroes only exist in
my
comic books, Sylvia thought with a sigh.
In real life innocent children bleed and people like me just feel guilty and helpless.
Her mother reached over and gave Sylvia a hug. “It's not your fault, child,” she said gently. “You did the best you could. Donna Jean is going to be just fine.”
Sylvia pulled away. “But it shouldn't have happened, Mama! What kind of person trains a dog to bite little children?” she asked angrily.
“A hateful man is an unhappy man,” her mother replied philosophically.
“Well, I hope he chokes on his misery!” Sylvia paced around the small living room, not able to channel her anger.
Donna Jean whimpered softly. “It hurts, Mama.”
“I know, baby. Mama's gonna fix it. Lie still now, you hear?”
“Should we take her to the hospital?” Sylvia asked, her voice tight.
“The wounds aren't deep. As long as we don't let them get infected, I think she'll be all right,” her mother responded. She was bathing Donna Jean's leg with alcohol, daubing it with iodine, and wrapping it with clean, white gauze. Sylvia felt a little dizzy because the red iodine made the wound look even bloodier than it really was.
Aunt Bessie continued. “I dropped the shirts onto the porch and ran screaming toward Donna Jean with a shirt hanger in my hand. I beat that dog off her.”
“Mr. Crandall really started cursing then, Mama,” Sylvia explained. “He told Aunt Bessie that she would have to do every single one of those shirts over again, plus pay for any injuries to his dog. Can you believe that?”
“He can let that dog wash and iron his shirts!” Aunt Bessie said angrily. “Never again, Leola. Never again!”
“Or his lazy, busybody wife,” Sylvia's mother mumbled, almost to herself.
Sylvia couldn't help smiling at the thought of a huge, snarling hound dog standing in front of an ironing board, calmly pressing shirts. Then the memory of the real dog, teeth bared, its eyes red with rage, sobered her.
She told her mother, “When Mr. Crandall finally came over to tie up the dog, he said to us, ‘Stupid gal ought not to rile up good hunting dogs.'”
“I believe he was smiling when he said it, Leola,” Aunt Bessie said. “He and his drinking buddies will have a good laugh about this tonight.”
Mrs. Patterson's face showed a mixture of sorrow and bitterness, but she made no comment because just then Gary burst through the front door. A cold wind always seemed to follow him, Sylvia thought with a shudder, even when the weather was warm. At seventeen, her brother was tall and thin, with large, slightly crooked teeth, and he wore his hair straightened and slicked back in the style many of the teenaged boys thought made them look good. He took one glance at Donna Jean, the blood, the bandages, and the look of defeat on his mother's face, and he cried out, “What's going on? Who hurt my baby sister?” He clenched his fists. He wore his anger like clothing.
“She's fine, Gary,” his mother said, trying to calm him with her voice. “She had an unfortunate run-in with a dog.”
“One of Crandall's dogs attacked her?” Gary looked around wildly, then, in one swift movement, grabbed the poker from the fireplace.
“It was an accident, Gary. The dog got loose, and Donna Jean got in the way. There's nothing we can do,” his mother said, her voice pleading now.
“He has trained those dogs to attack us!” Gary cried. “I'll kill it! I swear I'll kill all those vicious beasts!” Sylvia looked terrified as Gary's anger seemed to dart about the room looking for ways to escape.
Aunt Bessie grabbed his upraised arm and took the poker from him. “No, you won't, Gary. Calm down. You'll only bring trouble to this family. Just leave well enough alone. Your sister is not seriously injured. Let it be for now.”
Gary retorted, “No, I can't just let it be. Crandall needs to be punished! How can you
live
like this—never taking a stand, always letting them hurt you?”
“The Bible says vengeance belongs to the Lord,” his mother replied quietly.
Gary shook his head in disbelief. “What about you, Sylvia?” Gary asked. “Are you going to stay in the Amen Corner with the old folks, or open your eyes and look at the future?”
Sylvia blinked, unsure what to say. She remembered her brother as a freckle-faced boy who loved to climb trees, who insisted on going to the very top where the branches got thin and he swayed in the wind. To Sylvia he used to be better than Batman when it came to beating up her imaginary monsters. But this was very real and very scary. “I just want things to be like they used to be,” Sylvia said helplessly, “when we were little and nothing bad could hurt us.”
“You're going to have to get over that and move on,” Gary said harshly. He ignored the hurt look on Sylvia's face. He walked over to the sofa then, knelt down, and said gently to his youngest sister, “It won't always be like this, DJ, but I will always protect you, understand?” She looked up at him solemnly and nodded. He kissed her on the cheek, then walked back out of the door, saying nothing more to the rest of them. The door slammed loudly.
Sylvia trembled a little as swirls of his fury seemed to settle on the carpet. They finished tending to Donna Jean without speaking. Finally, when the child was all bandaged, had been given an aspirin and some hot tea to drink, they tucked her in with a warm blanket and she finally fell asleep.
Sylvia's mother and aunt moved to the kitchen table, sipping the cinnamon tea that Sylvia had made for them. Sylvia poured a cup for herself, hoping they would invite her to join them. She was pleased when they nodded in her direction.
“I worry about Gary,” Sylvia's mother said as she sipped her tea. “He is angry and impetuous at a time when we need to be patient. The Bible says blessings come to those who wait.”
Sylvia felt like groaning, but she didn't. She was sick of her mother's Bible verses and platitudes, but she knew better than to say anything.
“We've been waiting a long time, Leola,” Aunt Bessie said. “Maybe the young folks have a point.”
Sylvia wished her mother would be more understanding of Gary's need to fix the world in a hurry. As far as she could tell, not much had been accomplished in Little Rock by waiting.
Sylvia's mother ignored her sister and said, “And Lester is going be really upset that his baby girl got hurt.”
“Hmmph! Angry enough to confront old Crandall?” Aunt Bessie asked as she flashed her eyes. “I doubt it. Probably just pray himself into a corner like he usually does.”
Mrs. Patterson got up, walked over to the sink, and began to scrub her favorite iron skillet. Sylvia knew that anytime her mother got angry or upset, she'd start to clean something-dishes, rugs, walls—anything to channel her emotions. “Lester is a good man. Don't belittle his beliefs,” Mrs. Patterson replied sharply. “If we don't depend on our faith, haven't we sunk to the level of people like Crandall?”
“That whole pack of dogs he keeps ought to be shot!” Aunt Bessie said angrily. “I'm getting tired of feeling helpless all the time, and praying just isn't enough anymore!”
“Are we going to call the police?” Sylvia asked, finally speaking up. She ached to see Mr. Crandall punished, but she didn't look directly at her aunt or her mother as she sipped her tea.
“We'll let your father decide when he gets home,” her mother replied, “but I doubt it. They won't do anything to Crandall, and Donna Jean is going to recuperate.”
“So he's just going to get
away
with this?” Sylvia almost choked on her tea. “Maybe Gary is right! It's been almost a hundred years since slavery was over. This is 1957 and we shouldn't have to put up with treatment like this!” Sylvia couldn't believe she was raising her voice to her mother, and even more, that her mother was letting her do so.
“They will say it was an accident, Sylvie. Just a case of a dog protecting its property. We have to save our calls to the police for real life-threatening events.”
“I don't get it!” Sylvia cried out to her mother and her aunt. When she thought about her little sister lying there with her leg wrapped up, she understood how Gary wanted to fight rather than pray.
Her mother didn't respond, only continued to scrub pots that already gleamed, and Aunt Bessie finished her tea. The kitchen was silent.
Finally Aunt Bessie began to hum an old spiritual that Sylvia heard every Sunday at church. Sylvia's mother joined her gradually, her alto voice low and full of sorrow. Sylvia, feeling unsettled and confused, sat there quietly, picking at the pattern in the tablecloth, listening to their voices drift up like soft smoke.
Wednesday, January 2, 1957
I love my new diary.
Mama seems to know what I need even before I ask. When I looked in my stocking on Christmas morning, there it was-a pale green, leather-looking, golden-trimmed little book with a tiny lock and key.
The pages are thin—all clean and smooth with little blue lines just waiting for me. I had planned to fill the first page with lovely words and ideas, but instead I'm forced to write about that dog, that blood, my sister's screams. I hate old Crandall! Is that a sin? I'm sure Daddy would say so. I don't care. Crandall needs to be put in a pen full of vicious snakes with poison fangs or something horrible like that—maybe even wolves or tigers or hyenas-and left there overnight! But maybe not. When I really think about it, it's not hatred I feel, but hurt. Why do people have to be so mean?
I don't know how adults deal with stuff like this every day. Mama is very proper, which gets her in trouble with white folks sometimes. They say she's “putting on airs,” but she's really just being herself. She won't go out of the house without her white gloves and a black straw hat. When we take the bus downtown to shop, she makes me wear my white gloves, too, even though for the life of me I cannot figure out why we need gloves in the middle of summer. But she says if you think of yourself as a lady, then no matter how the world treats you, you will always know that you are a lady inside. Mr. Crandall's dog didn't care whether Donna Jean was a lady or not. It just saw a little colored girl and jumped on her, the way it had been trained to do. White gloves and thinking like a lady would not have helped.
Even Daddy doesn't get much respect. He's so smart he could quote the whole Bible, and his sermons get everyone in church rocking, but nothing outside the church ever changes. White folks like the Crandalls don't care how hard we pray or how loud we scream hallelujah. They still hate us.
I need more than hot, sweaty emotion. It's time for something real to happen.
THURSDAY, JANUARY 3, 1957
Mama, do I have to wear that new dress to school?” Sylvia asked at breakfast. “Why can't I wear something really neat, like a poodle skirt? I am so tired of being in junior high!” Sylvia was anxious to get to Horace Mann High School, where she hoped everybody would stop treating her like a kid.
“Youth is a treasure that's wasted on the young,” Sylvia's mother said absentmindedly.
Sylvia sighed with exasperation.
“Who're you trying to impress, Sylvie?” Gary teased. “I've seen Reggie Birmingham looking at you at church like you were a hot roast beef sandwich!”
Sylvia smiled and blushed. “Like you look at Anita Carver?” It was Gary's turn to smile. “I dress to please myself!” Sylvia replied with as much dignity as she could.
She could tell she wasn't fooling her brother, and she really did look forward to seeing Reggie again. Since she saw him almost every Sunday at church, and every day at school since kindergarten, she'd never even considered him as a member of the opposite sex. He used to be just Reggie—as inconsequential as a bug. But somehow this year things had changed. Reggie had muscles, and a faint shadow of mustache, and eyes the color of maple syrup—things Sylvia had never noticed before.
“Anita is the only thing in Little Rock that makes me feel special. She makes me feel like a man,” Gary said quietly.
“I really don't think you need one of those silly skirts, Sylvia,” Mrs. Patterson told her, ignoring Gary's reference to both Anita and Reggie. “Somehow the girls who wear them just seem a little, well, fast. You know what I mean? You know what the Bible says about loose women.”

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