Jim the Boy (12 page)

“Oh, Lord,” Abraham mumbled. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.”

Jim suddenly felt as if he were going to cry.

“What’s going to happen to us?” he said.

“Just hush,” said Abraham.

Jim heard people coming down the alley.

“All right now,” said Abraham. “If I say go, you
go.
Mr. Carson, you find the policeman. Jim, you find your uncle.”

Jim and Penn started to stand up.

“Not yet,” Abraham said. “We’re going to eat this apple here.”

Hague the policeman stepped into the courtyard, followed by King. Hague carried a blackjack. Abraham reached up and took off his hat.

“That’s him!” King yelled, looking out from behind the policeman. “That’s the nigger tried to cut me!”

Abraham cut a slice from the apple and handed it to Jim. Jim took it and ate it. Abraham cut another slice and handed it to Penn.

Hague stared at them a long moment.

“Thy rod and thy staff,” Abraham whispered.

Hague turned and looked at King. “Nobody here tried to cut you,” he said.

“He did, too!” King whined. “He did try to cut me!”

“You’re crazy,” Jim said. “That’s the craziest thing I ever heard. He was just peeling an apple.”

King squinted his eyes at Jim in a threat.

“What an imagination,” said Penn.

“I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever,” whispered Abraham.

Hague pointed across the street.

“You the punk been writing all this garbage on the walls?” he said.

“What?” said King, his mouth and eyes widening.
“What?”

“Get out of here,” said Hague.

“But …,” King said.

Hague tapped King on the backs of his legs with the blackjack. King jumped each time as if the blackjack were hot.

“I said take off,” said Hague.

King pointed at Jim. “I won’t forget who you are,” he said.

“That’s a dumb hat,” Jim said.

Abraham handed Jim another slice of apple. Jim chewed it slowly while staring at King.

“Don’t make me tell you again,” Hague said, tapping King’s legs again with the blackjack.

King stared around wildly and disappeared up the alley. The policeman stared up the alley until Jim could no longer hear King’s footsteps.

Hague turned to Abraham and pointed the blackjack at him. “Don’t you
ever
do that again. You understand me?”

Abraham bowed his head and nodded.

Hague pointed the blackjack at Jim and then at Penn.

“And you boys,” he said, “might ought to go find your daddies.”

“Yes, sir,” said Penn.

Jim thought about telling Hague that he didn’t have a daddy, but thought better of it.

“Now,” Hague said. “I’m going to take a walk down to Trade Street. And the three of you might want to follow me.”

“Yes, sir,” Jim said.

“Yes, sir,” said Penn.

“Thank you, sir,” said Abraham.

Hague led the way up the alley. Jim and Penn followed him closely. Abraham brought up the rear four or five steps farther back. When they reached the street, Jim saw King and his friends watching from a safe distance away. Jim stuck his tongue out at them, knowing that whenever he came to New Carpenter in the future, he would have to stay close to the uncles.

When the four of them reached Depot Street, Jim saw that Mr. Carson had miraculously parked next to Uncle Zeno. Penn reached over and lightly punched Jim on the arm. Jim punched his friend back. Behind them Abraham began to hum.

Blackbirds

T
HE BLACKBIRDS
come out of the northwest in a great, raucous, glittering stream. When the birds at the front of the flock begin to drop in a hooking curve and light in the walnut tree at the edge of the field, the rear of the flock looks as if it is only then crossing the dark hump of the mountain. Cissy has never seen anything like it; her face turned upward, she stares into the twilight until the last bird has passed overhead.

The flock transforms the tree into a picture of its lush, summer self — only, instead of leaves, its limbs have sprouted birds. She realizes it is a thing she misses already, the fullness of a tree, and is thankful for the illusion. The day has been neither warm nor cold, fall nor winter; the weather lacked anything she could feel. It seems to Cissy that the din raised by the roosting birds is the only sound she has heard all day.

The boy runs up breathless beside her.

“Mama, how many birds do you guess that is?” he asks.

“I don’t know. Hundreds. Thousands. A multitude. I don’t know.”

She sees him start to count, then abandon the idea as hopeless.

“If Uncle Zeno shot up in there with his shotgun, how many birds do you think he would kill?”

Cissy looks down at the boy, then back at the tree. It trembles in the failing light.

“Jimmy,” she says. “Why would you ask me something like that? Why would you want Zeno to shoot those birds?”

“I bet he could kill a hundred,” says the boy. “Maybe two hundred.”

Cissy’s eyes begin to fill. She doesn’t know if the boy can even hear her; she doesn’t know if she has spoken out loud. She blinks so that she can see clearly.

“What’s wrong, Mama?” he asks.

Cissy waves him away, doesn’t dare look at him. She unties her apron and takes it off. She pushes her hair behind her ears. She takes a few hesitant steps toward the tree, then breaks into a run; she reaches down with one hand and pulls up her skirt so that she can run faster; she is surprised by how good running feels.

The boy trots along beside her, his eyes wide. He has never seen her run before. She has not run a step in his lifetime.

“Mama,” he says. “Mama, where are you going?”

Cissy begins to wave the apron over her head.

“Shoo!” she yells. “Fly away! Leave!”

When she closes to within thirty yards of the tree, the flock lifts as one body with a percussive, ripping sound, as if the air itself is tearing. It moves away from the tree, a creature with a single mind; it flattens and stretches out and winds fluidly across the field, like water seeking a low place.

Cissy runs a few more steps, still flapping the apron, then slows to a stop. Her heart throbs wildly inside her chest; her breath burns in her throat. She stares at the gaunt limbs of the walnut tree, the empty sky. She hears the birds shouting in the dark woods along the river. They sound angry, indignant, accusing. In the morning they would be gone. She wheels and stares down at the boy. He backs up a step. When she steps toward him, he backs up again. She points at the tree.

“There, Mr. Glass,” she says. “It’s winter now.”

BOOK IV

Cold Nights

December 12, 1934

Dear Mr. Whiteside,

I am informed by my brothers that by my refusal to remarry, I am somehow depriving my son Jim of the masculine companionship necessary for the proper forming of young boys. Which perplexes me. I ask you, Mr. Whiteside, how can it be that my son suffers from a lack of male companionship and Love, when each of my brothers would gladly lay down his life in order that Jim might live? What can four men possibly provide for a young boy without a father that three cannot? And were I to marry a man who desired to take Jim and me away from this place, away from his beloved uncles, would Jim then not suffer because one man occupies the space formerly occupied by three? If Jim is to be so immeasurably helped by addition, could he not also be equally harmed by subtraction?

But still, despite my protests, I am told by my brothers that you wish to speak to me formally and make your suit. (Which surprises me somewhat — can it truly be said that we even
know
each other, Mr. Whiteside? You are a man I recognize as someone with whom my brothers do business, nothing more — and what can I be to you other than a woman, a widow, you have seen sitting on a porch, or perhaps walking to church with her son and brothers?) You should be flattered, Mr. Whiteside, that my brothers have chosen to champion you, for they are fine, honest, Christian men and good into their meddling bones. I am sure that in everything they do and say and suggest they have my best interest, and that of my son, in their hearts and seek only to honor me in their endeavors. Which is the only reason I am writing you today, Mr. Whiteside. They tell me that agreeing to see you is in my best interest and, more importantly, in the best interest of my son Jim. You must understand that I live only for Jim, who walks through my small life, in the footsteps of his father who died just over ten years ago, and brings me joy. Because my brothers — whom I love and honor — suggest that I would be acting in a manner that would bring harm to Jim if I do not see you, I will see you. I will hear what you have to say.

But I must warn you, Mr. Whiteside, I cannot imagine what you might say to me that would make me change my mind. I do not expect you to understand what I am about to say, but the simple truth with which I live every day is that I am a married woman. (Do you not think me insane for saying such a thing?) When I took Jim Glass for my husband, I forsook the possibility that I would ever take another man for my husband. Believe me, Mr. Whiteside, no one understands better than I that my husband is dead. He died alone in a field while hoeing cotton in the sun one week before Jim was born. These are the unadorned facts of my life. But so is this — even though my husband is dead, Mr. Whiteside,
I still feel married.
How could I possibly take another husband?

Yet my brothers, knowing that I feel this way, have encouraged you. They are wise men, and good, and are perhaps working for Our Lord in ways not yet made manifest by Him. (Although I pray without ceasing and doubt in my deepest heart that this is so!) So I will see you. I will see you once and hear what you have to say. Do not get your hopes up, Mr. Whiteside. I am doing this only because my brothers say it is what I should do, that it is the best thing for Jim, for whom I thank God every day. So I will see you. The next time your travels as a salesman bring you this way, speak to one of my brothers, who will make arrangements, as this is their idea and responsibility, and therefore only fitting.

I am, with all honesty,

Sincerely yours,

Elizabeth McBride Glass

Christmas Eve

J
IM WOKE
with a start when someone placed a rough hand over his mouth. Above him loomed a dark figure. “Doc,” whispered the figure, “don’t be afraid.”

It was Uncle Zeno. Jim felt the fright that had bloomed inside his chest folding back into itself and growing smaller.

“Do you promise to be quiet?”

Jim nodded.

“Do you promise you won’t say a word until we get outside?”

Jim nodded again.

“Good,” Uncle Zeno whispered. He removed his hand from Jim’s mouth. “Get dressed. We’ve got places to go.”

When Jim threw off the covers, the cold in the unheated room rushed at him and peeled away whatever warmth was still left from the quilts. He hurriedly put on his socks, his shirt and overalls, then his shoes.

He didn’t really think about where they were going, or think about how strange it was that they would go anywhere during the middle of the night on Christmas Eve. He was simply excited. Uncle Zeno had come for him; it didn’t matter where they were going.

After Jim buttoned his coat, Uncle Zeno pointed at the window, which, Jim noticed for the first time, stood wide open. Jim walked around the bed to the window and looked outside. Uncle Coran and Uncle Al stared up at him from the yard.

“We’re waiting for Jim Glass,” Uncle Coran whispered.

“I’m Jim Glass,” Jim whispered back.

“Oh,” said Uncle Coran. “You better jump out the window, then.”

Jim swung his legs over the windowsill and pushed himself into Uncle Coran’s arms. Uncle Coran took a stumbling step backward and fell down, still holding Jim. Embarrassed, Jim scrambled to his feet. Uncle Al clapped his hand over his mouth and pointed at Uncle Coran. Uncle Coran lay on the ground and silently shook with laughter.

“Shh,” Uncle Zeno hissed from the window. “Daggummit. You’re going to wake up Cissy.”

Uncle Zeno stuck one long leg out the window, then the other, and lowered himself backward, holding on to the sill with his arms. He looked back over his shoulder and tried to see the ground. Finally, he let go and clumped noisily into the yard.

“I can see the star,” Uncle Coran said from the ground, pointing.

Jim looked up, but saw thousands of stars, the dusty, bright streak of the Milky Way wiped across the sky. He didn’t know which star Uncle Coran was talking about.

“O Little Star of Bethlehem,” Uncle Coran sang softly.

“Town,”
Uncle Al whispered.

“O Little Town of Bethlehem,” sang Uncle Coran.

Uncle Zeno and Uncle Al grabbed Uncle Coran’s hands and pulled him to his feet.

“You’re going to get all of us skinned alive,” Uncle Zeno said.

The uncles stood and grinned at Jim.

“What’s wrong with y’all?” asked Jim.

Uncle Coran looked offended. “It’s Christmas,” he said.

“We’ve got a surprise for you,” said Uncle Zeno.

“Yep,” said Uncle Al. “A surprise.”

The uncles led Jim around the house and onto the state highway. They stopped in the middle of the road and turned to face the uncles’ three houses.

Jim looked nervously up and down the highway.

“We’re in the road,” he said.

“There ain’t nothing coming,” Uncle Zeno said. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“Above thy deep and dreamless sleep, the silent stars go by,” sang Uncle Coran.

“You’re flat,” said Uncle Al. Uncle Al prided himself on his pitch.

“I am not,” Uncle Coran said. “You’re just listening flat.”

“Are y’all drunk?” asked Jim.