The sandwich and juice were gone. In their place were three little guinea-hen eggs. Uncle Beau's favorite. I squinted into the woods. Okay, Rupert Goody. Now you really got me messed up. I picked up the eggs and thought about throwing them as far into the woods as I could. Was I glad to know Rupert was still out there somewhere, or did I wish he'd've kept on going and never looked back? I don't know.
Me and Vernon minded the store for the next two days. Once in a while, someone would ask about Rupert and I'd toss my head toward the back of the store or flap my hand and say, “Oh, you know Rupert.” That seemed to satisfy most everybody but Vernon. Even when things are smooth as ice, Vernon's like a lit firecracker. The sizzle before the bang. So I had to be careful when he said, “What you up to, Jennalee?”
I watched the guinea-hen eggs boiling on the hot plate.
“Boiling eggs for Uncle Beau,” I said, trying my best to keep that firecracker from blowing.
“I mean with Rupert.” He squeezed my arm, but I didn't let on that it hurt.
“I ain't up to nothing with Rupert.”
“Then where is he?”
“He's okay, Vernon.” I pulled my arm away but kept my voice calm. “I know what I'm doing. It ain't none of your business.” I never should've said that.
“Well, I can make it my business.” He pushed my shoulder so hard my head snapped back and my teeth clattered together. “Rupert's just up and disappeared. Don't that seem a little peculiar to you?” he said.
“Way I see it, Rupert's pretty peculiar hisself.”
“You tell Uncle Beau Rupert's gone?”
The way Vernon was eyeing me, I was starting to squirm a bit. “Ain't no use getting Uncle Beau all riled up over nothing.” I smiled at Vernon, but he didn't smile back.
“You've gone and done something, ain't you?” he said. “What you done?”
“I ain't done nothing.” My voice got a little squeaky at the end.
“You know where Rupert is?”
“I got an idea,” I said, shuffling my toe around on the dusty wooden floor.
“You mind telling me what that idea is?”
I could see that being sweet and reasonable wasn't working, so I switched tactics. “Yes, Mr. Bossy Butt, I do.”
Big mistake. Vernon grabbed me by the shoulders and put his face in mine.
“I can call the sheriff out here. Get some hunting dogs out there in the woods to look for Rupert. That what you want?”
“Rupert's gonna come back, Vernon. He's just having a crazy spell, is all. Ain't no reason to go and get hysterical.”
Vernon glared at me. Ordinarily, I could match that glare with one of my own, but that day I struggled to keep my face looking as close to sweet as I knew how.
“You listen to me now, Jennalee,” he said. “If you've gone and done something stupid, I'll be the first in line to kick your butt. You hear me?”
I nodded and put the boiled eggs in a paper bag for Uncle Beau.
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I'd had a small streak of good luck by timing my visits to the hospital just right. One time Uncle Beau was sleeping and once he was gone getting some kind of tests on his heart. But I knew it was only a matter of time before we met face-to-face and he said, “Tell me where Rupert is, Jennalee, and don't you go sugar-coating nothing cause I ain't in the mood.” And that's almost exactly what he said.
“He run off into the woods back of the store.” I peeled an egg and handed it to him. “But he's okay I been putting food out for him. He left these eggs for you. I figure he'll be back by the time you get home.”
I felt Uncle Beau's eyes on me, but I looked down at my
hands, busy peeling another egg. Then his thin hand covered mine, and I stopped peeling but I didn't look up.
“Why's he in the woods?” he said.
I forced myself to chuckle and said, “Well, no offense, Uncle Beau, but he ain't exactly working with a full deck, you know.”
“You see him, Jennalee, you tell him I'm coming home and I need him to be there, okay?”
I nodded, squeezing my jaws together tight so my chin wouldn't quiver. I wanted to say, “Yessir, I'll tell him,” but I couldn't say nothing.
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The day Uncle Beau came home, Jake just about wagged hisself to death. Folks came by the store with tuna casseroles and sweet-potato pies and homemade pickles. Everybody fussed over Uncle Beau and told him not to lift that box or stack them jars, but he wouldn't have none of it.
“I ain't dead, you know,” he'd say.
We all sat on the porch and listened to Uncle Beau tell about how he got his batteries recharged right there on the glider. Everybody laughed when he told about his chicken hair. Before long, it got dark and folks wandered on home. I could see Uncle Beau was wearing down.
“You want an extra pillow?” I asked him.
“No, that's okay.”
“Might make you sleep better.”
“I'll be okay.”
“You want me to put a extra blanket on the bed?”
“I ain't sleeping in my bed.”
“Where you sleeping?”
“I'm taking me a lounge chair out back and waiting for Rupert to stick his big toe out of them woods and then I'm gonna get him back in here where he belongs.”
“Then I'm gonna stay back there, too.”
“No, ma'am.” Uncle Beau shook his head. “You get on home and let me take care of my doings my own self.”
Well, he just might as well have shoved me off the porch cause I'd've felt the same way as I did, hearing that.
“They my doings, too,” I said, hanging my head and feeling like a little bed-wettin' kid like Ruth. I lifted my eyes and looked at Uncle Beau. He looked smaller than I'd ever seen him look before. His shoulders slumped down and his hands rested on his bony knees. The quiet between us stretched out so long that ole Jake started thumping his tail on the floor like maybe something was up.
“Then go on in there and call your mama,” Uncle Beau said, jerking his head toward the store.
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I reckon it must have been about midnight when Jake jerked his head up and growled. Me and Uncle Beau like to jumped out of our skins, waking up from a sound sleep.
“What was that?” Uncle Beau said, sitting up.
I listened, squinting into the darkness. There was a snap, like a twig breaking, and the sound of breathing. Jake growled again.
“Hush up, Jake,” Uncle Beau whispered.
Another snap.
“That you, Rupert?” Uncle Beau stood up. There was rustling and then silence. “You come on out of there, Rupert.”
Jake trotted over to the edge of the woods, sniffing along the ground. Suddenly he stopped and wagged his tail.
Uncle Beau walked over to where Jake was at. The crunching gravel sounded loud and spooky in the dark. I pulled my blanket around me and shivered. Uncle Beau shined his flashlight into the woods. The circle of light darted through the trees like a lightning bug.
“I know you're in there, Rupert,” Uncle Beau called out.
Silence.
“Come on, Rupert,” Uncle Beau said. “I been missing you. I need you here with me.”
Now, if that wouldn't break a person's heart, I don't know what would. The next thing I knew, Uncle Beau and Rupert were walking toward me, with Jake trotting after them.
“Let's go in and warm up,” Uncle Beau said.
Even in summer, Smoky Mountain nights can be chilly. I was glad to get into the warmth of the store.
Inside, Uncle Beau turned on the lamp on the counter and I snuggled up in my blanket on the couch. Rupert was a mess. Clothes all dirty and wet. His shoes caked with mud. A stubble of beard on his face. He was skinny before, but now he was nothing but bones. And when my nose
caught a whiff of him, I was hoping a bar of soap would be heading his way before long.
Uncle Beau sat on the stool by the counter and nodded toward the couch. “Why don't you sit down, Rupert?”
Rupert sat down and stared at his hands in his lap.
“Why you wanna go and stay in the woods like that?” Uncle Beau said real soft.
Rupert didn't say nothing. I pulled the blanket closer around me. I wished I could pull it over my head and disappear. Rupert was home. Why couldn't Uncle Beau just let it lie?
“How come you run off, Rupert?” he asked.
Rupert lifted his head like it was a sack of cement. “You mad at me?” he said.
“Mad?” Uncle Beau reached over and put a hand on Rupert's knee. “No, I ain't mad. Why would I want to go and be mad at you?”
“For making you sick.”
“Now where in tarnation did you go and get yourself an idea like that?”
My insides squeezed up as I watched Rupert's face. His eyes met mine for about a half a second that at the time felt like an hour. Then he looked back down at his lap and shrugged.
Uncle Beau's eyes darted in my direction, then back at Rupert.
“It was the lightning made me sick,” Uncle Beau said.
Rupert lifted his head and looked at Uncle Beau with his mouth hanging open. “The lightning?”
“Sure. Recharged my batteries. That's all.”
Rupert stared at Uncle Beau for the longest time. Then he said, “Oh.”
I pulled the blanket up under my chin and in my head begged Rupert not to look at me. I was already feeling about as low as a worm. If I got any lower, I was liable to sink right on into the ground. But Rupert did look at me. Too bad for me I didn't sink into the ground. Just stayed right there on the couch, a lowly ole worm wrapped in a blanket.
“The lightning,” Rupert said, shaking his head in amazement.
Uncle Beau slapped Rupert's knee. “Now, what say we make some popcorn?” he said. “If I can get that gol-dern hot plate to work.”
My stomach settled down some. That was just like Uncle Beau. Always knowing the right thing to say to set everybody at ease. Then, before I had a chance to pick my wormy self up and feel better, Uncle Beau put his arm on Rupert's shoulder and said, “Welcome home, son.”
Funny how one little three-letter word can stab a heart right through.
On the Fourth of July we cooked hot dogs on the grill out in the parking lot. Rupert ate four. We put marshmallows on coat hangers and roasted them over the hot coals. Rupert ate about a hundred. We tried to play horseshoes, but tourists in campers kept driving in, wanting ice or beer or hamburger buns. Uncle Beau would throw down his horseshoe and say, “Dang. Can't a body have a gol-dern holiday for one blessed day in his sorry ole life.”
That night, Curtis Rathman came over with a truck full of kids and coolers and fireworks and Mrs. Rathman carrying potato salad. Rupert stayed in the shed and wouldn't even come out for sparklers. One of them kids kept saying, “Why won't Rupert come out of that shed?” and Uncle Beau kept saying, “Don't you be worrying about Rupert.”
It was hot as all get-out, even when the sun went down
and the lightning bugs came out. I marched around the parking lot in my flip-flops, waving a sparkler in big figure eights. Used to be, Uncle Beau loved that. He'd sit on the porch and laugh. “You in a parade, Gravel Gertie?” he'd call out.
But that night he hardly paid attention at all. Seemed like he had his thoughts back there in the shed instead of out front with me.
“What does this spell, Uncle Beau?” I called out, waving and swooping my sparkler in the shape of letters.
Uncle Beau didn't even try to guess. Just shrugged his shoulders and smiled a sorry excuse for a smile. I was spelling my name, but I should've been spelling “Rupert Goody is an idiot.”
Finally, I gave up and sat on the porch steps, hugging my knees.
“What's wrong with you, Uncle Beau?” I said, getting right to the point.
He looked kind of surprised for a minute, then he smiled and shook his head. “Oh, I don't know. I was just thinking about that boy back there. Wondering what goes on inside that head of his sometimes.”
Well, I wanted to say, “Ain't nothing going on in that head far as I can see,” but I didn't. Kept my mouth shut for once in my life.
When Curtis and everybody left, Rupert came out and we sat on the porch smacking mosquitoes and listening to firecrackers going off somewhere up the mountain.
“Why don't we take a walk on the wild side next week and go on over to Asheville?” Uncle Beau said.
I stared at him. “What for?”
“For my birthday.”
I shook my head. “No way.”
What was he talking about, going to Asheville for his birthday?
“Might be fun,” Uncle Beau said. “I know where there's a trout farm. You can catch yourself a trout and they'll fry it up for you right there.”
“But that ain't what we do on your birthday,” I said. I could hear my voice starting to get whiny. Rupert was smacking his gum and getting on my nerves.
“I bet Rupert would get a kick out of trout fishing,” Uncle Beau said.
“But what about the do-it-your-own-self store and the Sara Lee pound cake and the whiskey?” I protested.
Ever since I can remember, on Uncle Beau's birthday, he sits out on the porch and people who come to the store just wait on theirselves. Uncle Beau calls it a do-it-your-own-self store. He buys hisself a pint of Southern Comfort whiskey and sits out there rocking and talking and sipping out of that bottle the whole livelong day. Only day of the year I ever see him drink a drop of anything harder than apple cider. When the bakery truck comes, we get us a Sara Lee pound cake and I put candles on it, and that's what we've always done. I couldn't for the life of me see why Uncle Beau wanted to go and change things now.
I whirled around and looked at Rupert. “Rupert,” I said, “which one you like better, fried trout or pound cake?”
Rupert looked at me and he looked at Uncle Beau and he looked back at me and then he even looked at Jake, who started wagging his tail like he was happy to be included.
“Pound cake,” Rupert said.
Well, Uncle Beau started laughing so hard I thought he was going to fall out of his chair. Myself, I didn't see what was so funny.
Then Rupert started laughing, holding his stomach and rocking back and forth like he was a dern comedian or something.
Uncle Beau wiped his eyes and shook his head. “Rupert, I swear you beat all.”
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So on Uncle Beau's birthday I strung crepe-paper streamers around the porch and blew up balloons and tied a bow on Jake. I put up the sign I'd made four years ago: Uncle Beau's Do-It-Your-Own-Self Store.
A few folks came by to give Uncle Beau gifts. A load of firewood. An army knife. A crocheted afghan. I always feel bad that I can't buy Uncle Beau something nice, but he always makes a big to-do over the things I make. I'm all the time coming across some of the crappy ole things I made when I was little. A clay ashtray (he don't even smoke). A Popsicle-stick cabin. A crayon drawing of Jake (looks more like a dinosaur!).
Uncle Beau got out his pint of whiskey and sat out on the
glider. (I guess he wasn't worried about getting his gizzard fried again.) All day, he sipped and talked and even slept a little.
We had chili from a can for dinner and corn bread that Lurlene Macon sent over. Rupert tried to take the last piece, but Uncle Beau made us call heads or tails. (I won!)
After dinner, I gave Uncle Beau his present. Pot holders. He said they were the best pot holders he'd ever had. Perfect size. Nice colors. Sure needed them. Then I'll be danged if Rupert didn't go out to the shed and come back with something wrapped in newspaper.
“Now, what in the name of sweet Bessie Marie could this be?” Uncle Beau said, feeling all over the package. He held it up to his ear and gave it a shake.
“It's for you,” Rupert said (like Uncle Beau didn't know that!).
Uncle Beau tore off the paper and what do you think it was? His hot plate!
“My hot plate,” Uncle Beau said, looking as delighted as if he was holding a new fishing rod or something.
“I fixed it for you,” Rupert said.
Uncle Beau's face turned all soft. “You fixed it?”
“So it won't get so hot no more.”
Uncle Beau laughed. “Well, now, ain't that something? Where'd you ever learn how to do that?”
“At the lawn-mower shop.”
“The lawn-mower shop?”
“One where I worked.”
“You pretty good at fixing lawn mowers?”
“I can fix rototillers, too,” Rupert said.
“Rototillers?” Uncle Beau's voice was starting to crack.
“And fans and toasters and hot plates.” Rupert smiled.
Uncle Beau's eyes got watery and he blinked real hard. “Guess I never knew you could do all them things.” He looked down at the hot plate in his lap. “Guess there's a lot of things I don't know about you.”
The glider squeaked as Uncle Beau pushed it back and forth. We all sat there, looking at the hot plate and listening to that squeaking glider.
“Well, now,” I said, jumping to my feet. “Time for pound cake!”
I brought out the cake with four candles on it. (That's as many as I could find.) Me and Rupert sang “Happy Birthday”. Uncle Beau closed his eyes and blew out the candles.
“Did you make a wish?” I said.
And then it happened. Uncle Beau started crying. Not big boohoo crying. Just chin-quivering, eye-blinking, tear-rolling crying.
“Yeah, I made a wish,” he said. “Wished I'd done things differently. Wished I could see Hattie Baker one more time. Wished I'd held Rupert in my arms when he was born.”
Me and Rupert didn't move a muscle. Didn't make a sound.
“Wished Rupert could've known his mama,” Uncle Beau went on. “Eyes like stars in the sky. A smile that could make a saint a sinner. Not that I was a saint, mind you.” He
leaned forward and winked at me and Rupert, making another tear roll down his whiskery face.
He took a sip out of the whiskey bottle and looked up at the sky. “Hattie, Hattie, Hattie,” he said real slow, shaking his head. “I wish I could have just one more laugh with you, Hattie. Wish you could see your boy here, all grown up and fine as can be.”
Rupert gazed up at the stars.
“That's all my wishes, Gravel Gertie,” Uncle Beau said, leaning back and pushing the glider again.
Well, I knew this was whiskey talk. That's what Mama calls it. I'd heard it plenty of times from Daddy. Sad, weeping, loving-everybody kind of talk. “That's the whiskey talking,” Mama always says, real disgusted-like. “I got no time for whiskey talk.”
But coming from Uncle Beau, that whiskey talk sounded like coming-from-the-heart talk. I sat beside him and held his hand and helped him push the glider back and forth. Somewhere up on the mountain, an owl hooted. We all watched the sky, not talking. The stars seemed extra-shiny that night. The crickets chirped extra-loud. The breeze blew extra-soft. And I knew that Uncle Beau knew that Rupert knew that I knewâthat Hattie Baker was out there somewhere watching us.