Aim (7 page)

I snuck a peek at Dudley. He was staring into space and chewing on his pencil. “What you looking at?” he snarled. “Mind your own beeswax.”

After the first day of school I hadn't said a word
to Dudley about his daddy and the night my pop died. Mostly I avoided him because I had enough to think about without arguing with someone I'd rather not talk to. But now, since he seemed determined to pick a fight with me, I went along with it. “It's about time you tell me what your old man was doing on the night my pop died. What'd you find out?”

“Like I said, mind your own business.”

“What happened to my pop
is
my business. And I better not find out your sorry old man had anything to do with it.”

Dudley let on like he hadn't even heard me.

I had half a notion to go stand over top of him until he paid me some respect. I was fixing to do just that when the class came back from lunch.

Miss Hinkle took one look at my paper. “First of all,” she said, “it appears that you've been twiddling your thumbs instead of writing. And second, your handwriting leaves much to be desired. Were you using your left hand?”

“Yes, ma'am,” said Dudley. “He sure was.”

The truth was, I didn't remember which hand I used. I'd been worrying too much about what to write.

Miss Hinkle ignored Dudley. “I want you to finish this, Junior. And then rewrite it. Your small t's should not have loops in them.” She quoted from that confounded handwriting book. “
Do not fail to see and correct all errors.”

“Yes, Miss Hinkle.” I sure didn't know when she thought I'd have time to rewrite a whole page, plus do my other work.

When I got home, I hadn't even changed into everyday clothes when Momma came up with jobs for me. “The sweet potatoes have to be dug before we get frost,” she said. “And we'll need a whole lot more firewood before winter sets in.”

I knew that. But knowing it didn't mean I had time for doing it. Between Momma and Miss Hinkle I was covered over with more work than one person could possibly do.

But I dug the sweet potatoes and carried them to the back porch. After I cleaned up, I finished the essay. I still had to copy it over in my best Palmer longhand. But my brain and my muscles were plumb worn out for one day. So I put it off until the next morning.

October 1941

I crawled out of bed early and worked at the kitchen table. The more I thought about that pencil in my right hand, the more I wanted to switch it to my left. But with every word leaning in the wrong direction, Miss Hinkle would know.

Momma came into the kitchen in her nightgown and bed jacket and Pop's thick wool socks—squinting against the light. “You're up early.”

“Homework.”

She hugged her bed jacket close around her. “And you couldn't load the woodstove first?”

“Wasn't thinking. Just trying to do my homework.” I left my paper on the table and went to the porch for wood. Pop would've had the fire laid last night so all he had to do this morning was stir the ashes and blow on them to light the kindling.

Unless he was out drinking, of course.

Momma didn't seem to notice that all his jobs had been left to me. I carried in wood and lit the fire and
went back to copying that essay. I was just starting the last paragraph when she started fretting again. “Are you watching the clock?”

“I'll be done in a minute, Momma.”

“You still have animals to tend to. Breakfast is ready.” Momma set a bowl of hot grits beside me and when she did they splashed onto my paper. I jumped up. “Look what you did!” I yelled. “Miss Hinkle will make me do it all over again. And when am I supposed to do that? Between all the firewood and tending animals and doing whatever else Pop left for me to do, it's a wonder I have time to go to the outhouse.”

I didn't look at Momma, but I could tell she'd gone still as a statue.

“I'll go milk.” I grabbed the bucket and my coat and escaped out the back door.

It was warmer in the barn with the animals. I fed Grover first and leaned against his neck for comfort. “I'm sorry I haven't been paying you any mind,” I said. “But my life is plumb crazy. I can hardly find time to feed my own face. Maybe I should skip school today. Then you and me—we could take a ride up the mountain.”

Of course I couldn't skip school. That would just provoke Momma even more. After milking Eleanor, I carried the bucket inside. “I don't have time to strain it.”

“I'll do that for you,” said Momma. “I wrote a note to Miss Pauline, explaining about your paper and all you have on your shoulders right now. Eat your breakfast.”

Ten minutes later, I started out the door with her pushing my arms into my jacket sleeves. “I'm sorry, son,” she said. “I don't mean to weigh you down. But there's work to be done and
your pop
isn't here to do it.”

There was a bitterness to the way she said
your pop
. I had this feeling she wasn't claiming him just then. That somehow I deserved all the work he went off and left for me to pick up. Maybe it was true. Because, as far as I could remember, he never drank before my eleventh birthday. It must have been my fault he started drinking.

Momma handed me my lunch bag and then my books, and when she did, a tear splashed onto my hand. “Go on,” she said, “before you miss your bus.”

November 1941

I was sound asleep when all of a sudden I heard a commotion under the house. Jesse and Butch were making the awfullest racket, which meant someone had to be coming in on our property.

“Tell them dogs to shut up!” yelled Granddaddy.

I sat up and saluted in his direction. “Yes, sir!” I reached for my overalls and pulled them on over my long handles. After stuffing my feet into my shoes, I headed for the living room and looked out the window. I couldn't see much for all the cedar trees between our house and the road, but I saw movement out there, and I declare, from all the vehicle noises it sounded like the United States Army was moving in.

Jesse and Butch were by the cedars, fixing to bark their own ears off. I headed out there, hollering for them to hush, but they didn't pay me any mind. They probably didn't hear me for all the noise.

When I rounded the bend by the cedars I almost fell over. Going right past our yard was one army jeep
after another. And not just jeeps but tanks and even motorcycles. It was like the war had come right there to our front yard.

The soldiers riding by were grinning. Some of them, anyway. Others looked serious as a storm. One saluted as he rattled past on an army tank. Another laughed and elbowed his buddy. They lifted their caps and ran their fingers through their hair, and I realized they were poking fun at me. I must have looked a sight with my hair going every which way and my eyes barely open.

I wondered if I was even awake. Maybe I was dreaming. Because what in the world were soldiers doing here, heading toward Bakers Mountain?

Right behind me I heard a voice. Granddaddy's voice. And boy did he sound happy. “Yee haw! The United States Army has come to town.”

The old man had barely left the house since he moved in. And now, there he was standing by the road, straight as a light pole with his hand at his forehead, saluting. He had his right stub over his heart.

A soldier jumped off one of the tanks and ran up to Granddaddy. “Sir,” he said, “I should be saluting you. I believe you served in the Great War.” His eyes fastened on Granddaddy's stub.

Something happened to Granddaddy's face then. It went from being serious and proud to just kind of slack and sad. But only for a second, until he caught himself. Then he cussed and shook the soldier off. His arms
dropped to his sides, and he turned and stalked back toward the house.

The soldier looked confused. “I offended him. I didn't intend to. I wanted to thank him.”

“Never mind him,” I said. “He's cantankerous that way. What's happening? Am I dreaming?”

The soldier laughed. “Having a nightmare, more likely. We're practicing for war. Didn't you hear? Someone should have informed you the army was moving in.” He nodded toward Bakers Mountain. “Looks like you and me'll be neighbors for a few days.” He offered his hand. “Private Frank Jenkins. Call me Frank.”

“Yes, sir. I'm Junior. Bledsoe. We're mighty proud to have you, sir. Are you really practicing for war?”

He nodded. “I'm on the Blue Team. We represent one country. Our enemy, the Red Team, is heading up the other side of the mountain. We'll be practicing our skills and testing our equipment, which is pitiful. Some of those boys are carrying wooden guns. I had a real one, but one of the Reds stole it in a maneuver in Davidson County.”

I thought I was starting to get the picture. These boys were playing war, like I used to on the playground at school. Or all by myself with my BB gun and imaginary enemies stalking the woods behind our barn. It hit me then how I could help. “You need a gun?” I asked. “Wait a minute and I'll bring you one.”

I ran to the house. “We're being invaded by the United States Army,” I said.

Momma was shoving firewood into the stove. She pushed the door shut and straightened up in a cloud of smoke. “Junior, what
are
you talking about? And why is Hammer fit to be tied?”

“Army maneuvers, right here on Bakers Mountain. I talked to one of the fellas, and he needs a gun.”

“The army doesn't supply their own weapons? Why do they need guns? They can't be shooting each other.”

“They're not loaded, Momma. Some of them have wooden guns. Toys. I'll give him my BB gun.”

Momma stared. “Your pop gave that to you.”

I realized that. And big as I was, I wasn't excited about losing that gun. But this was the war we were talking about. Real soldiers were practicing outside my door, and they needed equipment. Seemed like the least I could do was hand over a toy I should've outgrown by now. I reached for my box of BBs on the shelf.

I turned away before Momma could get me all sentimental. The shotgun and the rifle were there too. Maybe I should take them.

“Better hurry,” said Momma, “or they'll be gone.”

I could still hear the motorcycles out there. And Jesse and Butch barking to beat the band. Howling, actually. I ran out the front door, and by the time I reached the cedars the dogs had settled down. No wonder—Ann Fay was there with Jesse under one arm and Butch under the other. Leroy stood just behind her with his hands on her shoulders.

Up the road, other neighbors were lining up to watch the excitement. Frank Jenkins was by the mailbox watching for me. “Sir,” I said, “it's not much, but maybe it's better than no gun at all.” I fished the box of BBs from my pocket.

His eyes lit up like he was a young'un being handed an RC Cola. “I shall be the envy of my entire outfit,” he said. “I have a buddy who's played one too many pranks on me, and he's about to be bit in the butt.” Frank winked and tucked the BBs in his pocket. “After hours, of course.”

November 1941

War maneuvers on Bakers Mountain lasted over the weekend. We'd hear shouting and vehicle noises coming from the mountain, and at night we'd see the glow of campfires.

People came from miles around delivering hand-knitted socks and gloves and even cakes to the fellows—the ones on patrol, that is. The ones who weren't involved in combat up on the mountain.

The colored church next door to us made a big bonfire. Curiosity seekers warmed themselves by it and chatted with some of the army men. And the choir stood on the steps of the church and sang,
“It's me, O Lord, standing in the need of prayer.”

The army men left on Sunday evening. I headed out to the road to watch them go, but first Momma pushed some cookies and two pairs of knit socks into my hands. “Take these,” she said.

I met Frank coming up our lane. “Here's your gun,”
he said. “I haven't had so much fun since I signed up. I'm afraid I used all the BBs, though.”

“You aren't keeping the gun?”

“We just got word our supplies are in, so I won't be needing it. But you sure boosted troop morale.” Frank pounded my back. “Now you can say you did your bit for the war.”

The next morning at school, the only thing people wanted to talk about was army maneuvers. Miss Hinkle even skipped handwriting exercises to discuss our experiences. Marilyn Overcash and other students who lived on the back side of the mountain had talked with soldiers from the Red Team. According to them, the Reds had won the “Battle of Bakers Mountain.”

It hadn't even crossed my mind to ask who won. “I loaned my BB gun to a soldier,” I said.

“BB gun?” Dudley snorted, and everybody else in the room seemed to think it was a big joke too.

I tried to defend myself. “The army is short on supplies. Some of those fellows were using toy guns. And the soldier I gave the gun to was thrilled. Said it boosted troop morale.”

“Isn't that sweet?” said Dudley.

A few other people snickered. And for some reason all the good feelings I had about troop morale just crumbled like dry cornbread.

“Junior makes a good point,” said Miss Hinkle.
“Supplying the army is a massive undertaking. I hope your families have contributed unused metals and empty tin cans to the scrap drives.”

This led to a discussion about the economic depression our country had been in. And not just America, but the world. According to Miss Hinkle, the depression led Germany to follow a maniac like Adolf Hitler. The German people were desperate for a leader who could turn their economy around.

Miss Hinkle asked us to compare and contrast Adolf Hitler's methods with President Roosevelt's.

Dudley said he didn't care much for the president. He didn't have any good reason except that Franklin Roosevelt was a Democrat. Evidently that meant he was like the devil himself.