Authors: Diane Munier
Darnay Road (23 page)
“How
you know her so well?”
“My
dad…he went there. Some do. That’s how she gets by. See? I tell you all the
wrong things. Everything I say about it is wrong.” He looks up at the house,
but I know my Granma isn’t following me now.
“Well,
I’ll see you around maybe. But we have to stay apart. That track over there
might as well be a wall. Don’t come to Scutter no more. It’s not safe for you.
This is your place.”
“You
can’t tell me that.”
He
laughs. “You’re a bulldog looking like Little Bit,” he says, and there is love
in his eyes.
“What
about your work, for Aunt May and my Granma?”
“I
figure it’s over after this. Older boy tries to get money from their little
girl? I wouldn’t want me around either.”
“That’s
not true. I gave it freely.”
“I
got that route and I don’t know what will happen with me. But I’ll be all right
so you don’t have to worry. Some get in the army early…if you get permission. I
got an uncle went in at sixteen. I figure I’ll try.”
“Easy,”
I say and I grab onto his arm.
“Go
on in. They’re both in the window. Don’t make them come out,” he says.
I
let go. I’m ashamed of myself for some reason. But I don’t want to ever say
good-bye. “I’ll see you around, Easy. Hear me?” I say.
He
just smiles. Then he gets on his bike and takes off.
Darnay
Road 41
“President
Kennedy has been shot.”
That
is what comes through our loud speaker during study time. Mother Superior
enters the classroom and we are all a-buzz. “Has President Kennedy been shot?”
someone cries out.
Of
course he has not. Such a thing could never ever happen in the United States of
America and I’m so mad it’s being entertained.
Sister
goes to the front of the room with Mother and we are all waiting. “Our
president has been shot and killed. It’s a very sad day. Let’s pray.”
I
am staring at my desk. President Kennedy cannot be shot…cannot be killed? It
just can’t be possible. I am staring at the notebook and pencil and ruler that
I’d been working with just moments before when the world was a mysterious but
very wonderful place even though my heart has had more arrows shot straight
through it than a small girl’s heart can hold, but still, there are things that
go on and are always strong and solid like our president. Our wonderful
President Kennedy and First Lady Jackie. We’d been so happy. Our first Catholic
president. It wasn’t possible.
We
are dismissed early. We are quiet and orderly. We get our coats because it’s
getting cold now, it’s nearly Thanksgiving, just six more days, the time when
we eat turkey dinner and Dad might come. For the first time ever I really hope
he does.
The
bell rings early and outside Granma is there and Aunt May. They are huddled
with others, with Sister even all talking at once. President Kennedy has been
killed. I check to see if the sun is still in the sky. Somedays, since Easy
went away, I’m not certain, but I don’t look like I do now because maybe I
shouldn’t take anything for granted ever again.
The
sun is there, but its light is dimmed and the world, all of us are a little more
pale and washed over in gray. No one told me this could happen. I read about it
in history class, but all the bad things happened so so long ago.
I
wonder where Easy is now. I wonder if he’s at his school in Tennessee wondering
if Kruschev will come and try to kill us all. I wonder if Easy ever thinks
about how he was going to keep me safe.
I
wonder if he ever thinks of me at all.
Darnay
Road 42
Abigail
May wrote faithfully, but I did not write as faithfully. I meant to. But after
Easy left, I just couldn’t begin. There was too much, so I didn’t write at all.
But I wanted her to write. I needed her to write.
But
I guess she got discouraged because for a month I had not heard a thing.
But
Aunt May had. She had wanted them to come for Thanksgiving but they weren’t
coming because Gloria Sue didn’t have the money. May wanted to send the money
and the whole idea just made me think of Easy and it hurt. It shouldn’t have,
but it did. Why didn’t they just trust me to give Easy that money?
Why?
It
didn’t do to be mad at them. I just wish Easy could know what a good influence
he’s been. After they realized he was gone because they went to Easy’s house,
the two of them and saw it was empty and a notice from the county was on the
door. Eviction, it said. And he was nowhere to be found and Disbro Peak said he
lit out, Easy did, just hopped one of the trains that ran through, but I don’t
believe that, but then I can’t get it out of my mind.
I
just know I can’t think about him without feeling like my middle is scooped out
with a giant spoon.
So
after, they got Father Anthony involved and the church and they got ahold of
Miss Little’s sister and that one came and took Miss Little away. Her house is
empty now and it was just disgusting is what people say. But her sister took
her to Omaha and she’s getting treatment there. Granma told Aunt May they were
likely to put her in the nuthouse.
Poor
Miss Little. I can see just what Easy was afraid of now. Good people. When good
people find out about something look out world.
We
have lived in front of the television for three days. President Kennedy had
been shot on a Friday so we had the weekend to huddle together with all the
other families in all the other houses all over the world and try to believe
all that was unfolding.
I
tried to imagine how Lee Harvey Oswald could ever want to kill President John
Fitzgerald Kennedy. He went to Russia and turned on the United States. He was a
traitor to America. I tried to think of it, but it was not possible. Oswald had
a wife and a kid even. He knew people here, what they were like. How could he
hate us like this? How could he like Kruschev and hate President Kennedy?
I
couldn’t believe it. What would it ever be like to be his kid? Worse than
having Easy’s dad even. The very worst.
Poor
Jackie. And Carolyn and John-John. I couldn’t imagine how they must feel.
Neither could my Granma. Then on Sunday we watched Jack Ruby shoot Lee Harvey
Oswald. I had just taken a bite of the sandwich Granma handed me on a paper
plate and Jack Ruby went up to Lee Harvey Oswald and bang. I screamed and
Granma said, “What? What?” Little Bit was shaking all over. Jack Ruby killed
Lee Harvey Oswald and now we would never ever know why Oswald shot our
president.
After
that Aunt May came over and the two of them talked and talked and talked, “My
Lands,” this, and “Have mercy,” that. I tried to ignore it while all three of
us eked every bit of news from the television we could possibly get and read
and reread the newspaper to ourselves and aloud. But inside I’m thinking there
has to be more to being alive than just tsking and fainting over everything
after it’s gone and happened already.
Then
sometimes they talked about Abigail May and Ricky, but not as carefully as
usual. It’s like we had all seen so much they became children and I became a
grown up and we met somewhere new I guess. Aunt May said Mr. Figley was a
tight-fisted son of Satan. They didn’t even care if I heard. He didn’t even try
to be a father to Ricky, and that one was running wild like a hoodlum. Her
Ricky. Then she boo-hooed, Aunt May did, and Granma patted her back like I
wasn’t even in the room having to hear all this. Fortunately forgotten.
So
I just blurt out, “Get him back then. Get them back.”
They
both look at me. “I’m not their mother,” Aunt May says.
“Yes
you are,” I say. “Why did you let her take them? They didn’t want to go.”
“Well…when
you’re a mother you have the right….”
“She
didn’t have any right,” I say. “Her children didn’t want to go. You didn’t want
them to go. What about all of those rights?”
They
are just looking at me.
I
just keep going. “Easy was living alone. He was living all alone and he wanted
that money to bring his mom and Cap home.”
They
probably think I am as crazy as Jack Ruby. Aunt May is dabbing under her eyes
and she blows her nose, but her and Granma don’t take their eyes off of me.
“He’d
still be here if you would have let him have MY money.” I get louder on ‘my.’
“Why…why
in the world didn’t you tell us that boy was alone?” Granma says tightening her
collar around her neck.
“Because
it was a secret so Easy wouldn’t get taken away. Or sent to Tennessee where
they are all mean to him. But you could have found out maybe. If you’d tried
you could have found out she wasn’t there.”
My
Granma is about struck speechless.
“Why
in the world would she leave her child here while she went off to Tennessee?”
Aunt May says all breathy like she’s going to faint which I know she is not.
She just doesn’t want to hear me say they could have found out before Easy had
to leave. I have never said anything like that before, but I want to now. I
want to shout it.
“All
I know is he wanted them back and he was doing all that work to hold the house
just hoping and hoping he could pay the rent and electric and keep that place
so they could return. He was holding place for them, like in line, holding it
so you can let someone up like me and Abigail May always did with each other
before stupid Gloria Sue took my best friend away. But Easy couldn’t do all of
it so I was going to help him. Because he’s my best, best friend after Abigail
May. But she’s gone. And he’s gone. And President Kennedy is gone. And Miss
Little. And even stupid Lee Harvey Oswald.”
Granma
tries to get my attention to quiet me down but I just get louder, “And you
don’t change,” I yell at Aunt May, “and you don’t either,” I yell at Granma. I
don’t know why I yell at them about change. I have no idea.
“Settle
yourself,” Granma says, but it’s not like usual Granma, it’s this new Granma
whose president is killed.
“I’m
mad,” I say. I have stood up and Little Bit has jumped off my lap and gone
under the ottoman.
“How
do you know one thing that boy said was the truth?” Aunt May says.
“Because
he was never ever a liar. But he didn’t tattle either. When I told him about
Father Anthony, he already knew. But he kept his mouth shut tight. Just like me
when I saw. And just like Abigail May.”
Aunt
May goes frozen. Then her bottom lip starts to tremble.
“What about Father
Anthony?” Granma says. She looks from me to May. “What…about Father?”
My
other almost favorite movie is
The Unforgiven
with Burt Lancaster. I
wish Burt was my father, but anyway, in that movie there is a crazy guy who
appears one day saying Burt’s little sister is an Indian. Right before they
hang the crazy guy he points to Burt’s mother and says, “She knows,” in a
terrible crazy voice.
I
want to do that to Aunt May right now. I want to scream and rattle some chains
and stomp and howl. I want to do something, stop something, change something,
yell at somebody.
“It’s
not fair,” I say to Aunt May. “It’s not fair what you,” and to Granma, “and you
did to Easy.”
Granma
is making the ‘w’ in why or what. But I don’t care. “Unfair,” I yell. And I
have to stop myself from yelling it again and again.
Granma
stands and takes me by my arms. I’m kind of sorry already, but not enough that
I couldn’t get going again—yelling like a hoodlum—in a pink room. A hoodlum and
a pink room? I doubt it. But that’s how I feel, like Ricky must feel, a hundred
sharks on his tail and none of them fast enough to catch him.
If
I was a boy, I’d hop one of those trains. I’d go to Tennessee. Shoehorn. I
wouldn’t be afraid of mean uncles and grampas. I’d fight my way in and no one
would stop me and I’d get to Easy and I’d put my arms around him and squeeze,
squeeze. And I’d never let him go.
“Georgia
Christine,” Granma says, “you apologize to May. And you tell us what you mean
about Father Anthony.”
“I’m
sorry,” I say to Aunt May, but I do not feel sorry at all. “I don’t know what I
meant about Father. But I don’t take back what I said about Easy. He wouldn’t
of had to go if you’d both just listened for once.”
I
go running out then. I can’t watch television anymore and I can’t listen to
them talk so helplessly, like two old crows sitting on the washline, caw, caw
and squawk. I am not going to take this lying down. I am an American and my
president has been killed and my best friend was taken to Tampa and my other
best friend hopped a train and disappeared.
I
am not a boy and yet I know a lot of things a boy might do when he gets mad.
But I don’t know a thing about what a girl does when she gets angry. Maybe
Abigail May knows. She always fought for her way. But the girls I know, big and
little, me included, we just bake cookies or something while everything in the
world, the very world gets wadded up in God’s hands and tossed like it ain’t
worth a dime.
Mad
men kill presidents and kill those who kill presidents. They make wars and fight
in wars and some don’t come home and their wives go crazy. They stop being
married to wives who want to be models and they forget to love their daughters.
They say mean things and steal pom-poms and treat crazy women like they don’t
have souls. They try to boss and pick fights, they don’t obey and they don’t
give money to their step-children or even want them very much.
But
I don’t know what angry girls do but caw caw and squawk.
So
it is Thanksgiving in a couple of days and my dad calls and he has to work so
he might come after, or Christmas for sure. I only care a little bit, but not
so much I’m going to fall off a cliff of sorrow and drown in a pool of despair.
Well
maybe I’m already there.
But
then something good happens, something so unexpected I can’t even close my
mouth for five minutes…when it happens. I’m in the kitchen cutting noodles for
my Granma for the Thanksgiving meal and someone knocks on the big door and
Granma tells me to stay put and keep cutting.
I
hear my Granma open the door and laugh and the steps, light and fast and there
she is. Abigail May. Hair longer, maybe a little taller, those little white
teeth and eyes like firecrackers. I get up and I still can’t talk and she runs
for me and we grab each other and hug, hug and I trip a little, but I don’t
even care.
Well
I start crying then, and she just holds me, Abigail May does, and she’s patting
my back and I’m holding her, for dear life. And Granma is there saying, “Well.”