Getting Near to Baby (10 page)

I was not in the mood to feel sorry for Miss Pettibone. “We didn't get thrown out, we left,” I said.

“And that smart mouth of yours is exactly why,” Aunt Patty said. “You sound just like your mother. If I told Noreen once, I told her a hundred times she ought not to raise a sassy child.”

“It wasn't our fault. Won't you give me a chance to explain?”

“I will not. You are in the doghouse now, Willa Jo. You are to hush up until I tell you I can bear to speak to you again.”

So I did. But the first thing after we got home, Little Sister scratched at something on her butt. It was a tick that had crawled up under her shorts. Aunt Patty got all flustered and didn't know what to do.

“Miss Pettibone lit matches and touched it to the ticks and made them drop off,” I said. I would've felt smug if it hadn't been Little Sister that tick was attached to. “I don't think it hurt anybody,” I said, so Little Sister wouldn't be scared.

“You make it sound like the woman spent the better part of an hour dropping ticks,” Aunt Patty said, still sounding mad. But she was getting the box of matches from over the stove.

“She did,” I said. “But she still made everybody sit in the grass. I bet a lot of those girls still have a tick on them somewhere. Maybe I do.”

It turned out I didn't. “Too ornery to attract a blood-sucker,” Aunt Patty said. But she made us both strip to skin to be certain, and she wouldn't let us put those clothes back on. She hung the clothes out on the line.

“She didn't like us right from the start,” I told Uncle Hob that evening. We were sitting on the shaded porch. Little Sister was running around the yard with Isaac. Only Isaac's voice could be heard.

“What was the start?” he asked.

“She wanted Little Sister to be in the Lambs, but I said I had to talk for her. She acted like Little Sister could talk if she wanted to.”

“Well...” Aunt Patty said.

“She can't,” I said.

“No, I don't suppose so,” Uncle Hob said.

“Well, she could,” Aunt Patty said. “It's not like her throat has been injured or anything. But she can't. Of course.”

I said, “You think Little Sister is pretending she can't speak?”

“No, I don't,” Aunt Patty said. “Willa Jo, that day you all went to the fair, did Little Sister drink any of that dirty water?”

“The water wasn't dirty.”

“Not so's you could see it, I know,” Aunt Patty said. “But the water was bad.”

“Nobody else drank it.” Nobody but Baby.

We were all quiet for a few minutes. Aunt Patty swallowed so loudly her throat squeaked. I knew if I looked I would see her eyes had welled up with tears, but I wouldn't look. I was afraid she would get me started.

“Her voice was like an angel's,” I said.

Aunt Patty's voice trembled when she asked, “Little Sister's?”

“Miss Pettibone's,” I said.

“You mustn't take it to heart,” Uncle Hob said.

“Women who don't have children...” Aunt Patty started, then stopped, turning a pretty shade of pink. She cleared her throat and began again. “Women who have not been with children don't know what a child goes through.”

Uncle Hob rustled his newspaper like he was preparing to read.

“She didn't like us,” I said, but I wasn't minding so much anymore.

“She didn't understand, that's all,” Aunt Patty said. “She'd like you fine if she knew what this was all about.”

“I don't think so.”

“Well,” Aunt Patty said, giving in after a long moment of saying nothing at all, “you might be right.”

We could have gone back to Bible school the next week because Miss Pettibone lost the rest of her turn at being the teacher. Too many girls told their folks what happened and it didn't go down too well over supper.

Aunt Patty was so happy to get a call inviting us back that she didn't even mind that I said I didn't care to go. Well, she minded a little. But Uncle Hob said he didn't mind and we didn't have to go. Aunt Patty told whoever it was on the phone that we were going to be busy for the next few days.

T
hings might've smoothed out after that, but for the fateful trip to the Piggly Wiggly. Little Sister was picking out breakfast cereal when a woman pushed a grocery cart around the end of the aisle and said, “Patty, is that you? I can't believe how long it's been.”

“Tressa,” Aunt Patty said, looking pleased. Her voice didn't even go high. “Why, you haven't changed a bit.”

“I have been meaning to call you, Patty, but you know how it is. With the boys home from school, I don't have a minute.”

“What are you doing all the way over here?” Aunt Patty asked. “Don't you still live on the other side of Raleigh?”

“We've moved back,” Aunt Patty's friend said. “As soon as school starts—”

“We'll get together,” Aunt Patty said. “Oh, it'll be so nice to be able to have coffee with you again.”

A boy of maybe fifteen came up to her and said in a deep voice, “Mom, which brand do you want?” He held up two bottles of dish detergent.

“Is this Randall?” Aunt Patty said, while her friend Tressa pointed to one bottle.

“Nope, this is Robert,” Tressa said. “He's tall, like his daddy.”

“Your youngest,” Aunt Patty said, as Robert bobbed his head. He was shy.

“Well, not exactly,” Tressa said.

A boy about Little Sister's age, maybe younger, had come from the other end of the aisle and he dropped a box into Tressa's grocery cart. “Oh, no,” she said. “Not this sugary stuff. Get Corn Chex or Cheerios. And get two boxes.”

He went off again.

“That's
your youngest,” Aunt Patty said almost gleefully. “You tried for that girl.”

“Nope, that's Peter,” Tressa said. Then she added, “Well, yes, I tried for the girl. The younger two are at home with Grandma. I have six boys, Patty. No girls.”

“Six?” I could almost see Aunt Patty's thoughts written on her forehead. Six boys? Running around fast enough to look like twelve? But she recovered herself very well. “These are my nieces, Tressa. Willa Jo, say hello.”

“Hello, Mrs.... er...”

“Call me Tressa,” she said in a friendly way. “I've known your aunt Patty since we were girls your age. We don't have to be formal.”

“Yes, ma'am,” I said.

“You look enough like your aunt Patty to be her twin sister, I mean it,” Tressa said. “You're the girl who took on that Pettibone creature, aren't you?”

“Oh, my lands,” Aunt Patty said. “You heard about that?”

“I am filled with admiration for Willa Jo,” Tressa said.

Aunt Patty didn't know what to make of this, and neither did I. “Admir—” Aunt Patty began.

“Like mother, like daughter, I guess,” Tressa went on to say. “You know she's the daughter of the Mrs. Pettibone Robert had in third grade? Do you remember what a terrible year he had, that he still hadn't learned how to read? He had to repeat?”

While Tressa talked, Little Sister had taken up counting the cans of evaporated milk on the shelf beside her. She counted with quick movements of her fingers, and a thumb touched quickly to her shirt, as if this would help her remember the number. Then she went on to count the condensed milk.

“Well, the next year,” Tressa was saying, “he had a new teacher, new to the district, that is. She made all the difference. He was reading by the time we moved in November. He went right into the fourth grade, where he should have been all the time.”

“I had no idea,” Aunt Patty said.

“And who is this pretty little thing?” Tressa said, looking at Little Sister like she was a wrapped present. Little Sister was on to counting the boxes of baking soda, thin lips moving silently to record what her flickering fingers told her.

“This is Willa Jo's little sister, JoAnn,” Aunt Patty said, pulling Little Sister's hand to her side. “She's the quiet type.”

Little Sister realized they were talking about her and offered up her most polite smile.

“Cat got your tongue, sweetie?” Tressa said.

“Little Sister,” Aunt Patty said quickly, “why don't you get us all some donuts too? Do you know where to find them?”

Little Sister shook her head.

“Well, here's Peter,” Tressa said as he came tearing around the corner again. “Peter, take JoAnn here to find some donuts, will you?”

Peter gave Little Sister a brief sizing up and said, “Come on,” nicely enough. Little Sister went with a tiny smile of , pleasure.

“Well, what was all that about?” Tressa said as they disappeared around the end of the aisle at a brisk walk.

“Donuts,” Aunt Patty said.

“Now don't you give me that, Patty Hobson,” Tressa said. “We are old friends. Doesn't that little girl hear?”

“She hears fine,” Aunt Patty said in a definite tone. “I'll tell you about it some other time.”

“Well, all right then,” Tressa said, giving in. “Are you still on Gilbert Road?”

“No, Hob and I have built a house in a little development off—”

Just then a stack of pickle jars at the end of the aisle crashed to the ground. Both Little Sister and her new friend Peter stood there with a pickle jar apiece and guilty expressions on their faces. The next few minutes were noisy and confused. We rushed to do what we could, but several of the jars had broken and more were rolling every which way. The smell of sweet pickle juice hung ripe in the air.

The manager of the store came around the end of the aisle with thunder on his face. Peter got scared and dropped the jar he was holding. Of course that one broke too. Peter began to cry loudly. In all fairness, he was also holding a box of a dozen donuts, and he didn't drop those. Little Sister slipped behind me, still holding her pickle jar.

“I don't know what we wanted pickles for anyway,” Tressa said, looking at Peter in the way that mothers will when there are more things they will have to say later.

Aunt Patty said to the manager, “We are so sorry for the mess.”

Tressa offered to pay for the broken jars, all seven of them.

But with every lady in the store looking on with interest, the manager said, “No, I don't need you to do that.”

“We are truly sorry,” Tressa said, and offered once more to pay for the pickles.

The manager was really pretty nice about it, considering how red his face was. But in showing Peter and Little Sister, and anyone else who might want to know, that they were forgiven, he made a big deal of speaking to them in a voice that could be heard by everyone. “This was nothing but an accident, isn't that right?” he said, and held out his hand as if to shake on it. “Could've happened to anyone.”

Tressa gave Peter's elbow a nudge. Peter got the idea and shook hands with the manager. He said he was sorry in a voice that threatened more tears.

But of course Little Sister did not. She hitched up her pickle jar a notch—she wasn't about to loosen the grip she had on it—and looked at him as earnestly as anyone could want. But he didn't understand. When it became clear that the manager was waiting for another apology, Aunt Patty had little choice but to say that Little Sister didn't speak.

“I didn't realize,” the manager said.

“Well, it's just for now,” Aunt Patty said nervously. Every eye was on her. “We expect she'll get her voice back one of these days.”

The manager was looking like Little Sister was just the saddest thing he'd ever seen. Tressa was looking at her too, as if Little Sister was sad and interesting, both. I gathered that whoever told Tressa about Bible school had not told her about Little Sister. I didn't like Tressa all at once. I didn't like the way Aunt Patty acted like she was ashamed of Little Sister. I wished she would do like Mom and just behave as if every day some child took it into her head never to speak another word.

But Aunt Patty got all flustered and rushed us out of there, only pausing to tell Tressa to be sure to call. When she didn't say another word about it all the way home, I knew she didn't want Little Sister to feel bad. But I also knew she didn't like it that Little Sister couldn't say something like Peter did and have the whole thing finish nicely.

That evening, after Little Sister had fallen asleep in the living room, Aunt Patty came out to sit on the step with me. As reluctant as ever to use the front door, she was afraid we might all get into the habit, so she came out through the garage.

There isn't any path between the garage door and the front step unless she was to walk three-quarters of the way down the driveway and come back by the S-shaped path that almost nobody uses. So Aunt Patty minced across the grass holding on to the cuffs of her shorts as if they were the folds of a skirt. Slugs.

She sat and checked her shoes. She didn't find any slugs and breathed a sigh of relief. Myself, I breathed a little sigh too. It used to be I had a little peace and quiet on the front step.

“Why do you think it is,” Aunt Patty said after a few minutes of talking about this and that, “that Little Sister doesn't talk?”

“I'm not real sure,” I said, never taking my eyes off the lights of the nine little houses across the street.

“Have you ever thought about it?”

“Some,” I said.

Aunt Patty sat quiet for a piece, like she might have received an answer that needed some deliberation. Then she said, “Well, why do you think?”