Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe (23 page)

He didn't answer.

"Isn't that right?"

"Aunt Idgie, I was just
kidding
."

"Well, you're lucky you didn't get your face popped."

"Her brother was standing right there with me."

"Well, he ought to have his butt kicked, too."

"She's just making a big thing out of nothing."

"A big thing out of nothing? Do you have any idea how much nerve it took for that poor little thing to ask you to the dance, and then for you to say something like that in front of all those boys? Now, you listen, buddy boy. Your mother and I didn't raise you to be an ignorant, knothead redneck. How would you feel if somebody talked like that to your mother? What if some girl told you to come back when you grew a penis?"

Stump turned red. "Don't talk like that, Aunt Idgie."

"Yes I will talk like that. I will not have you acting like white trash. Now, if you don't want to go to the dance, that's one thing, but you are not going to talk to Peggy or any other girl like that. Do you hear me?"

"Yes'm."

"I want you to go down to her house right now and apologize to her. And I don't mean maybe. Do you hear me?"

"Yes ma'am.”

He got up.

"Sit down. I'm not through with you!" Stump sighed and slumped back down in his chair. "What now?"

"I need to talk to you about something. I wanna know what's going on with you and the girls."

Stump looked uncomfortable. "What do you mean?"

"I've never pried into your personal life. You're seventeen years old and big enough to be a man, but your mother and I are worried about you."

"Why?"

"We thought you might outgrow this stage you're in, but you're too old to keep hanging around the boys like you do."

"What's the matter with my friends?"

"Nothing, it's just that they're all boys."

"So?"

"There are a whole bunch of girls that are just crazy about you, and you never even give them the time of day."

No answer.

"You act like a horse's ass whenever one of them tries to talk to you. I've seen you."

Stump started picking a hole in the checked oilcloth on the table.

"Look at me when I talk to you . . . your cousin Buster is already married, with a baby on the way, and he's only a year older than you."

"So?"

"So you've never even asked a girl out to a picture show, and every time there's a dance over at the school, you decide to go hunting."

"I like to hunt."

"So do I. But you know, there's more to life than hunting and sports."

Stump sighed again and closed his eyes. "I don't like to do anything else."

"I bought you that car and had it fixed up for you because I thought you might want to take Peggy somewhere, but all you do is run it up and down the road with the boys."

"Why Peggy?"

"Well, Peggy or anybody—I don't want you winding up all alone like poor Smokey in there."

"Smokey's all right."

"I know he's all right, but he'd be a whole lot better if he had a wife and a family. What's gonna happen to you if something happens to me or your mother?"

"I'll get by. I'm not stupid."

"I know you'd get by, but I'd like to think you'd have somebody to love and take care of you. Before you know it, all the best girls are gonna be taken. And what's the matter with Peggy?"

"She's all right."

"I know you like her. You used to send her valentines before you got to be so high and mighty."

No answer.

"Well, is there anybody else you like?"

"Naw."

"Why not?"

Stump began to squirm and yelled, "I JUST DONT, THAT'S ALL. NOW LEAVE ME ALONE!"

"Listen, bub," Idgie said, "you may be a big deal on that football field, but I changed your diapers and I'll knock you to hell and back! Now what is it?"

Stump didn't answer.

"What is it, son?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. I gotta go."

"Sit down. You don't have to go anywhere."

He sighed and sat back down.

Idgie quietly asked, "Stump, don't you like girls?"

Stump looked away. "Yeah, I like 'em all right."

"Then why don't you go out with them?"

"Well, I'm not weird or anything, if that's what you're worried about. It's just—" Stump was wiping his sweaty palm on his khaki pants.

"Come on, Stump, tell me what it is, son. You and I have always been able to talk things out."

"I know that. I just don't want to talk to anybody about this."

"I know you don't, but I want you to. Now, what is it?”

"Well, it’s just that . . . oh Jesus!" Then he mumbled, "It’s just that what if one of them wanted to do it . . ."

"You mean, wanted to have sex?"

Stump nodded and looked at the floor. Idgie said, "Well then, I'd consider myself a lucky boy, wouldn't you? I think it would be a compliment."

Stump wiped the perspiration off his upper lip.

"Son, are you having some kind of physical trouble, you know, getting yourself up? Because if you are, we can take you to the doctor and have you checked out."

Stump shook his head. "No. It's not that. Nothing's the matter with me, I've done it a thousand times."

Idgie was amazed at the number, but remained calm and said, "Well then, at least we know you're all right."

"Yeah, I'm all right, it's just that, well, I haven't done it with anybody . . . you know . . . I've just done it by myself."

"That's not gonna hurt you, but don't you think you should try it out with some girl? I cain't believe you haven't had the chance, a good-looking boy like you."

"Yeah, I had the chance. It's not that—it's just—" Idgie heard his voice crack. "It's just. . ."

"Just what, son?"

All of a sudden he couldn't stop the hot tears from running down his face. He looked up at her. "It's just that I'm scared, Aunt Idgie. I'm just plain scared."

The one thing Idgie had never suspected was that Stump, who had been so brave all of his life, could be scared of anything.

"What are you afraid of, son?"

"Well, I’m kinda afraid I’ll fall on her or lose my balance because of my arm and maybe I just won't know how to do it right. You know, I might hurt her or something . . . I don't know." He was avoiding her eyes.

"Stump, look at me. What are you really afraid of?"

"I told you.”

"You're afraid some girl might laugh, aren't you?"

Finally, after a moment, he blurted out, "Yes. I guess that’s it,” and he put his hand over his face, ashamed to be crying.

At that moment, Idgie's heart went out to him and she did something she very rarely did; she got up and put her arms around him and rocked him like a baby.

"Oh, honey, don't you cry. Everything's gonna be all right, angel. Nothing's gonna happen to you. Aunt Idgie's not gonna let anything bad ever happen. No I'm not. Have I ever let you down?"

"No ma'am."

"Nothing bad's gonna happen to my boy. I won't have it." The whole time she was rocking Stump back and forth, she was feeling helpless and was trying to think if she knew someone who might be able to help him.

Early Saturday morning, Idgie drove Stump over to the river, as she had so many years ago, and through the white wagon-wheel gate and up to a cabin with a screened-in porch; and let him out.

The door of the cabin opened, and a freshly bathed, powdered, and perfumed woman with rust-colored hair and apple-green eyes said, "Come on in, sugar," as Idgie drove away.

OCTOBER 30, 1947

Stump Threadgoode Makes Good

Stump Threadgoode, son of Idgie Threadgoode and Ruth Jamison, got a big write-up in the
Birmingham News
. Congratulations. We're all mighty proud of him, but don't go in the cafe unless you're willing to spend an hour having Idgie tell you all about the game. Never saw a prouder parent. And after the game, the whole team and the band and the cheerleaders were treated to free hamburgers at the cafe.

My other half has no fashion sense. I came home the other afternoon looking so smart in my new snood that I got over at Opal's beauty shop, and he said my snood looked like a goat's udder with a fly net on it. . . . Then, on our anniversary, he carries me over to Birmingham to a spaghetti restaurant, when he knows I'm on a diet. . . . Men! Can't live with them and can't live without them.          

By the way, we were sorry to hear about Artis O. Peavey’s bad luck.          

. . . Dot Weems . . .

OCTOBER 17, 1949

Artis O. Peavey had been staying with his second wife, the former Miss Madeline Poole, who was employed as a first-class domestic. She worked for a family on the exclusive Highland Avenue. They were living at her house at No. 6 Tin Top Alley, over on the south side of town. Tin Top Alley was nothing more than six rows of wooden shack houses with tin roofs and dirt yards, most of which had been decorated with washtubs planted with colorful flowers to offset the drab gray wood of the shacks.

It was a step up from their last address. That had been the old servants' quarters in the back of a house, whose address was simply No. 2 Alley G.

Artis found the neighborhood extremely pleasant. One block away was Magnolia Point, where he could hang out in front of stores and visit with other husbands of domestics. In early evenings, after a supper, usually of white folks' leftovers, they would all sit on the porches, and many a night one family would start to sing, and one by one the others would join in. Recreation was plentiful because the walls were so thin that you could enjoy your neighbor's radio or phonograph along with them; when Bessie Smith sang on somebody's Victrola, "I ain't got nobody," everybody in Tin Top Alley felt sorry for her.

The area was certainly not lacking in other social activities, and Artis was invited to all of them; he was the most popular man in the alley, with men and women alike. Every night there would be at least one or two chitlin fryings or barbecuing . . . or if the weather was bad, you could just sit under the yellow light on your front porch and enjoy the sound of the rain hitting the tin roofs.

This fall afternoon, Artis had been sitting on the porch watching a thin trail of blue smoke rise up from his cigarette, happy because Joe Louis was the champion of the world and the Birmingham Black Barons baseball team had won all their games that year. Just then, a skinny, mangy yellow dog came loping around the alley, scrounging for something to eat; he belonged to After John, a friend of Artis's, named such because he had been born after his brother John. The dog wigwagged his way up the porch steps to Artis and got his daily pat on the head.

"I ain't got nuthin' for you today, boy."

The yellow dog was mildly disappointed, and wandered off in search of leftover cornbread or even a few greens. The Depression had never ended here, and dogs were in it too, for better or for worse; and most times for the worse.

Artis saw the dogcatchers' truck drive up and the man in the white uniform got out with his net. The back was already loaded with yelping dogs unfortunate enough to have been caught that afternoon.

The man who got out whistled for the yellow dog, who was up the street.

"Here, boy . . . here, boy . . . Come on, boy . . ."

The friendly, unsuspecting dog ran over to him and in a second was in the net, flipped over on his back, and was being carried to the truck.

Artis came off the porch. "Hey, whoa, mister. That dog belongs to somebody."

The man stopped. "Is he yours?"

"Naw, he ain't mine. He belong to After John, so you cain't be carrying him off, no suh."

"I don't care who it belongs to, it don't have a license and we're taking him in."

The other man in the truck got out and just stood there.

Artis began to plead, because he knew that once that dog got down to the city pound, there wasn't a chance in hell of ever getting him back; particularly if you were black.

"Please, mister, let me go and call him. He works over at Five Points, fo' Mr. Fred Jones, making ice cream. Jes’ let me call him."

"Do you have a phone?"

"No suh, but I can run up to the grocery store. Won't take but a minute." Artis pleaded harder with the man. "Oh please, suh, After John is jes' a simpleminded boy no woman would marry and that dog is all he's got. I don't know what he'd do if anything happened to that dog of his. He's liable to kill hisself."

The two men looked at each other, and the larger one said, "Okay, but if you ain't back in five minutes, we're leaving. You hear me?"

Artis starting moving. "Yes suh, I'll be right back." As he ran, he realized that he didn't have a nickel, and prayed that Mr. Leo, the Italian man that ran the grocery store, would loan him one. He ran in the store, out of breath, and saw Mr. Leo.

"MR. LEO, MR. LEO, I GOTS TO HAVE A NICKEL . . . THEY GONNA CARRY AFTER JOHN'S DOG OFF. . . AND THEY'S WAITING FOR ME. PLEASE, MR. LEO . . ."

Mr. Leo, who hadn't understood a word that Artis had said, made him calm down and explain to him all over again, but by the time he got his nickel, there was a white boy on the phone.

Artis was sweating, moving from one foot to another, knowing he couldn't make that fellow get off that phone. One minute . . . two . . .

Artis moaned.

"Oh Lord."

Finally, Mr. Leo passed by and knocked on the glass booth. "Get off!"

The young man begrudgingly said goodbye to his party for the next sixty seconds and hung up.

After he left, Artis jumped in the booth and realized he did not know the number.

His hands were wet and shaking as he searched through the telephone directory, hanging from a small chain. "Jones . . . Jones . . . Oh Lord . . . Jones . . . Jones . . . four pages full . . . Fred B. . . . Oh man, that's his residence . . ."

He had to start all over in the Yellow Pages. "What do I look under . . . Ice Cream? Drugstore?" And he couldn't find it. He dialed information.

"Information," a crisp white voice answered. "Yes, please, may I help you?"

"Uh, yes ma'am. Uh, I's looking for the number of Fred B. Jones."

"I'm sorry, could your repeat that name, please?"