Me & Emma (24 page)

“What in the hell?” I hear Momma saying over us. “What’ve you gone and gotten yourself into?”

I keep my eyes closed because opening them will mean having to heave myself and Emma up offthe ground and I just don’t feel I have the strength for it.

“Get up,” she says. And I can hear her sucking the life out of her cigarette again. “Go on, get up. I know you ain’t asleep,” she says to us. And she’s half right—I am not asleep but Emma sure is out cold.

The floorboards squeak and squawk with the weight of her walking away and I figure that’s for the best, anyhow. She ain’t strong enough to pick both of us up, anyway, so I was just putting offthe inevitable, I s’pose.

“Emma.” I rattle her back with the arm that’s still stuck underneath it. “Come on, Em. Move up just a little. Emma.”

I turn my head completely sideways and see that her eyes are blinking open.

“Just move a little so I can stand up and then I’ll get you up,” I say. “That’s good. Okay. That’s real good.” She arches her back up so I can slide my arm out and hop up.

“Okay, now give me your hands and I’ll pull you up and we’ll get you up to bed good and quick. There. Now give me the other arm. That’s real good. On the count of three FI1 pull you up. One. Two. Three!”

ELIZABETH FLOCK

And just like that game where you swing a baby over a puddle, I swing Emma up off the floor.

“Let’s go over to the stairs,” I say, holding her left arm across my shoulders again. “Good. Little baby steps. That’s real good, Era.” I find that when I talk to her like she’s a baby I get a whole lot further than when I get mad at her.

“Good girl, that’s real good. One more step. There. We’re at the top of the stairs now. A few more steps and we’re on the bed. One step. Two steps. Good! Three steps. Four. There!”

I let her fall facedown onto the top of the bed so I can pull her shoes offbefore I set her in there proper. Pine needles are stuck to the hack of her shirt so I pull that over the top of her head by kneeling on the bed right over her. It’s messy but I get it off. She’s gonna have to sleep nekked on top ‘cause I cain’t get her sleep shirt onto her, but that’s fine since it’s real hot tonight, anyway.

I walk on my knees to the top of the bed where our pillows go and I pull her up so her bead’s on one of them and then I shimmy the sheet out from under her so I can let it fall on top in case it gets drafty overnight.

Phee-you.

Now I can go down to see about some food in my belly ‘cause I know I won’t be able to sleep with it empty.

Momma’s at the kitchen table, smoking, and I know better than to ask her about supper so I go to the icebox to see what’s what.

“There’s chicken from Sunday in there,” Momma says. “Don’t eat standing up–how many times I have to tell you that? You sit and eat proper.”

I spoon out some of the chicken stew onto a plate I take right from

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the top of the pile in the sink…no use dirtying up another when I know it’s me that’s gonna clean ‘em all, anyway.

Momma sets back in her chair and crosses her arms in front of her like she’s inspecting my eating habits.

“What happened to the stage star I saw all passed out on the floor in front, begging to be carried in?” she asks me, fixing her lips tight around the cigarette. “You want me to spoon-feed you, too?”

“Wasn’t me that needed carrying in,” I say, “it was Emma.”

Momma pushes her chair back from the table and crosses over to the cabinet to the right of the sink, where the glasses are.

“Caroline Parker, I am so sick of Emma this and Emma that,” she says, helping herself to a bottle she keeps under the sink. It’s so quiet I can hear her Adam’s apple move up and down, pushing the drink faster into her belly. “That’s all you whine about—Emma needs this, Emma needs that. Every single goddamned day. When’m I gonna get a break, huh? When?”

She’s sitting in front of me again, the glass in between us like a silent relative that’s gonna ruin the night whether you like it or not.

“I’m sorry, Momma,” I say, trying to keep the glass as filled up as possible.

“Ah, but you didn’t answer me,” she says, reaching for it. Her Adam’s apple goes up and down again but when the glass is set back down the level isn’t too much lower so I’ve still got time. “When’m I gonna get some peace around here?”

I push the last of the stew onto my fork with my left finger and hope she doesn’t notice. I don’t know how anyone can expect to get the last bite of stew onto a fork without their free hand helping.

And while I chew I think about how I can answer my momma. Thank goodness she starts talking again so I don’t have to think

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too hard. “Things are gonna change round here,” she says. “I’m gonna be taking in some cleaning and whatnot and you’re gonna be helping me with it after school. I don’t want to hear a peep from you in the

way of whining, you hear me ? Not a peep.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“None of this Emma needs this or that, you hear?”

“I cain’t help it if Emma gets in trouble,” I say, trying to keep the whining out of my voice, but I swear it’s hard to do ‘cause it’s not fair I’m getting blamed for what Emma does.

“Emma can fend for herself,” she says. And from the way she stubs out her cigarette I can see the subject is closed.

“You better get the crack on with those dishes,” she says. “They ain’t gonna do themselves.”

So I go over to the sink and pull the can of soap slivers out from the cabinet below the sink and turn on the water to let the suds settle where they can in the canyon below the spigot.

One by one I wash each plate and fork and knife, setting them on the counter beside the sink for drying later. My old button-down shirt (minus the buttons, which Momma snipped off when I outgrew it) is the dishrag I use for drying. The crickets are so loud outside it’s

like they’re singing along with my hands.

Slam!

The screen door bangs shut, footsteps stumble in.

“Aha! You a good girl, doin’ them dishes fo’ yo’ momma,” Richard says, working his mouth around each word with more than a little effort since the drink makes them slide into one another like a dream. “Tha’s mo’ like it.”

I’m almost finished stacking the plates, but then I’ll have to dry the silverware so there’s no escaping him.

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“Wher’s yo’ momma at?” he slurs.

“I don’t know,” I say.

“You forgot to call me sir,” he says. “I deserve sir, don’ you think?” He’s feeling for a chair to fall into like he’s in the dark but the lights .r2 on.

“Sir.”

“Wha?”

“I don’t know where my momma is, sir,” I say.

“Tha’s better,” he says, plopping into the chair at last. “Now I got to look at this shit?” he says, looking at the casserole in front of him.

I go over to it but he grabs my arm hard when it reaches out to take the glass container. I try not to wince when he twists it up to the ceiling.

“Give y’daddy a kiss,” he says, holding his cheek out for me to kiss. “You mean my stepdaddy,” I say, real quiet-like. “What did you say?” Richard’s head snaps straight. “Nothing,” I say. “You sassin’ me, girl?” “No, sir.”

Then whap! The slap comes from the other hand that’s not grabbing onto my wrist.

Whap! Whap! The slaps come faster.

“Why you gotta sass me?” Richard’s voice is higher than I’ve ever heard it. But maybe it just sounds that way ‘cause I’m holding my one free arm over my head to keep my face from being hit too hard.

“Why? Why you always gotta back-talk me?” His voice cracks, almost like a girl’s. “I feed you,” whap, “I give you a roof over yo’ dirty little head,” whap, “and whado I git? Sassin’ all the time,” whap. “Day an’ night, night an’ day.” The slaps let up and I look out from

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the space underneath my elbow and see that Richard is folded over, his shoulders heaving up and down, his sobs loud. He lets go of my wrist.

“Things are gonna change round here.” His arms dangle, tired from hitting. “Y’all won’t know what hit you. Things gonna

change “

I could run. I could. I could make it up to our room, crawl alongside Emma, who’s soft in sleep by now. I could even make it to the Diamord River if I wanted. But my feet won’t move. I’ve never seen Richard cry.

“Get out of here!” he hollers, even though he’s resting his forehead on the edge of the table. “Go on and get.” He cries and cries, not caring whether I do go or not.

And for once…just this once…I stay.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper into thin air. But it drifts away like Momma’s smoke.

“Go!” he sobs. The veins running up and down his arms look thick, like river lines on a map, squiggly. His hand is uncurled and

limp when it waves out blindly in my direction.

Arid I do.

Emma’s breathing hard and heavy when I come in and I almost hate to have to move her but I have to; she’s sprawled out sideways on the bed, taking up the whole dang thing.

I crawl up along the one side that’s got a bit more room and shove her over some. Seconds later she’s back to snoring.

Lying on my back, blinking so my eyes can get used to the blackness of the room, I picture Richard crying at the kitchen table. Garnrny’s just got to come out here and fix things. If she could make

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Auntie Lillibit live she could make things right here at number twenty-two, I just know it.

I cain’t fall asleep on account of the fact that I’m writing the letter in my head.

Dear Gammy,

It’s me, Carrie. How are you? I am fine. We’re wondering if you’d like to come on out here to visit us. It’s so nice and pretty here at our new house. You’d love it. There’s our own stream, for starters, and a whole lot of trees—too many to count. Momma really misses you and Emma and I do, too. Please come out to see us. Please? Okay, well, got to go. Love, your granddaughter, Caroline Parker.

She could even bring Auntie Lillibit! I just thought of that. With the two of them here things’d be even better. I know Momma’s gonna whip me good when she finds out I wrote Gammy, but it’s worth it if it works.

I must have fallen asleep ‘cause the next thing I know Emma’s shaking my foot to wake me.

“Carrie, c’mon,” she’s saying from the bottom of the bed. “We’re gonna miss the bus.”

I jump up and into the first clothes I can pull on and two minutes later we’re running out the front of the house, without even hollering bye to Momma and without anything in the way of lunch.

“There it is!” I can see the yellow top of the bus chugging toward Mr. Wilson’s path and I run faster than Emma so I can flag it down and tell it to wait on my baby sister. “Hurry!” I end up not having to do it, though, ‘cause Emma keeps right at my heels the whole way.

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“That was close,” she says, falling into the seat bench alongside me. She’s panting hard, too.

“Did you get something to eat?” I ask her.

“Just some bread.”

She’s lucky. It’s gonna be a long day. “Hold my books for a second,” I tell her. I have to tie my shoe.

“Hey, Carrie.” Orla Mae Bickett weaves past our seat and settles down in the one right behind, ignoring Emma like she always does. She ignores everyone but me, practically.

“Hey, Orla Mae,” I say back to her, once I straighten up.

“I brought you something,” she says, unhooking the two clips that keep her lunchbox good and tight. “My momma made it last night.”

It’s a piece of corn bread almost as thick as my flattened-out hand. The plastic wrap is stuck to the top of it, there’s so much butter—just the way I love it.

“Thanks, Orla Mae,”! say. The only thing keeping me from digging in right away is I sort of want to cry—I don’t know why. I guess

it’s on account of no one ever bringing me corn bread before. “Y’welcome.”

I balance it on top of my books and then pretend to be appreciating the scenery out the window. Inside my head, though, I’m figuring out how I can wait until lunchtime to eat it. I don’t think I can. My finger pushes into the top of the plastic wrap—the corn bread’s so soft it leaves a dent where my finger was and that just makes my mouth water.

The bus squeaks and lurches over the hills to school. Past a sign pointing to Johnson’s Farm tipped over onto one sign so there’s no telling where you’re s’posed to turn in. Past hundreds of pine trees, thousands, maybe. Up a long stretch of hill that promises something

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good’s gonna lay on the downhill side, but when you get up to the top there’s just more of the same, blacktop with double yellow lines, sometimes broken up, sometimes straight. Finally we slow in front of the long, low building where we go for learning. Donford Elementary School is carved into the stone above the single front door, which has a handle that’s worn from years of hill children pulling on it, dragging themselves in for a few hours each day. The windows on either side of the door show the backs of pictures taped up, no telling what’s on the other side, unless it’s your classroom you’re going into. Inside the dark hallway there’s a poster that reads “We’re yearning for some learningl” and has a smiley face dotting the letter i. I like coming in and seeing that smiley face every day.

“Carrie, wait up!” Orla Mae’s calling after me once we’re inside the door.

So I do.

“I hear you been shootin’ over at Mr. Wilson’s.” She leans in to me,

her arms hugging her books into her chest.

“Where’d you hear that?”

“You kiddin’? My daddy says round here you can scratch your ass on one side a town and the ladies on the other’d talk about how many

strokes you used,” she says. I keep walking, not saying anything. “Well?” she keeps at me. “Is it true?” “What if I said yeah?”

“‘Tain’t no big thing, I’s just wondering,” she says, straightening up. “Mr. Wilson role my daddy you the best shot he’s seen since Harry Maphis, and my daddy says that’s something since Harry Maphis could shoot a squirrel’s eyeball out from a mile away if’n you tole him to.”