Apron Strings (15 page)

Now I looked at the face of a boy in a small gray photograph. The picture was old and cloudy and hard to see, but the boy’s face was handsome. I cradled the image in my hands and found myself thinking of Lil’ Early. Thoughts rolled like clouds through my head; each one dark with guilt.

I wondered where Gordy and Lil’ Early had gone, and what they were doing. I thought about the strange car we’d seen with the mean men inside. For a moment I felt frightened again. I prayed Lil’ Early and Gordy were OK. Then thinking I was being silly I let the whole thing go. I thought about them playing catch, about how strong Lil’ Early could throw. I thought about him tying the knot for me and how warm his skin felt when I hugged him in the kitchen. I felt myself flush with shame. Why was I thinking these things? Did I love Lil’ Early? I wanted to ask someone if that could even be possible. I tried to sort out my emotions. Why did I feel I couldn’t even tell Ethel how I felt? Why the shame? What was wrong with loving someone? I didn’t feel this way when I loved other boys at school. What was different now? Lil’ Early was nicer than any of those boys at school could even hope to be. He was good to look at with those big brown eyes and his beautiful long, dark eyelashes. He was fun. What was it about him that made me want to run and hide? I thought how nice it would be to get a tiny picture of Early and keep it in the locket, hidden from everyone but me. Lance flounced his big head up, and then lolled back down. Clutching the locket, I shifted to my side and pulled my knees up, tucked my hands up under the big dog’s warm flank, and fell lightly to sleep.

My head bumped the ground as Lance sat up, surveyed his domain for a moment, and then trotted off. As I became conscious of my surroundings again, I looked for Helen. She was nowhere in sight.

“Great,” I muttered. “Where did she go? Helen! Helen, where are you?” I scanned the yard. The swings were empty and still. A quick glance at the sandbox turned up nothing. Lance was nowhere to be seen. Maybe he’s with her. I thought I’d better check the house. She might have gone into the bathroom or up to our room, even though Ethel probably would have put a stop to that. No Helen in the bathroom. I heard voices in the kitchen..

Roberta’s oldest daughter, Leola, often stopped by to wait while her husband, Johnson, ran errands in town. Ethel kept right on working when Leola came. Her visits were usually on Saturday moroning while Ethel was cleaning up the breakfast dishes. Leola, a squat, curly headed woman dressed like she was visiting. She wore a hat and kept her coat on as she sat in the chair talking to Ethel. Clutching her purse up close in her lap, she looked like she thought someone was going to take it. Her black, too shiny hair hung in loose curls, quite a contrast to her Aunt Ethel’s four symmetrically arranged knots. Even though Leola was Ethel’s niece, she didn’t call her “Aunt Ethel” like we would have. She called her “Miz Ethel.” Leola was a maid, too, but she didn’t wear a uniform. She asked me when I walked in “How you like that school you going to?” and didn’t even pretend to wait for an answer before she said to Ethel in a sort of conspiratorial whisper like I wasn’t even there, “Johnson saw Miz Sadie de other day. You don’t even wanta know who wit’.”

I thought about butting in and asking Leola why she’d tell her if she didn’t want to know. But I thought better of it, besides, Ethel and I were all ears.

“Who she wit’?” she asked, as she turned from the sink hands dripping, looking like Leola was going tell her she had won
Queen for a Day
, Ethel’s and my favorite television game show.

“Ham Bone.”

“You don’ mean it! Johnson’s ain’t teasin’ ya, is he?”

“I axt. I said, ‘Johnson, you ain’t pullin’ my leg, is ya?’ He say to me, ‘Sho’ as you born, I seen out wit’ Miz Sadie.’ That no-count ol’ dog!”

I didn’t know Miz Sadie, and I didn’t know why it was such a big deal that Mr. Ham Bone was out with her, but it didn’t surprise me one bit
that he was up to no good. I was right there with Johnson: Ham Bone was a no-account ol’ dog since I was pretty sure he brought Ethel gin.

Ham Bone usually showed up just before Ethel would get sick. He was a creepy, baldheaded, funny looking man. I didn’t entirely trust him, though he was always pleasant in that sort of syrupy way that made you think right off he was up to something. I didn’t like to stay around if he decided to spend some time. He talked in a hoarse whisper that made my skin crawl. He wore an old-fashioned, baggy suit that looked mussed and dirty, a tie, and a light-colored felt hat, except when my mother happened into the kitchen. That’s why I knew he was baldheaded. He’d sweep his hat from his head and almost bow when he said, “How da do, Miz Mackey?” He’d flash a big wide grin. “Fine day, ain’t it?” he’d ask even if it was raining like cats and dogs. His gold, wire rimmed glasses made him look owlish. I didn’t like listening to him. I didn’t like anything about him. He and Ethel must have been doing some sort of business because she always went to her purse and got something out to give him. She wasn’t friendly like she was when her insurance man stopped by; she was sneakier, like she was embarrassed. When she acted like that I knew enough not to ask why.

“Speakin’ bout no-counts,” Leola leaned in like she was telling a state secret. “Yo nevah say that CL was de next-door neighbor over dere. Mama told me he r-a-p-e-d,” she spelled, “a colored, a boy, mind you, when was young and never even saw one day in the jailhouse.” Ethel looked like she had been hit in the head with a brick as she stole a quick look my way. I didn’t need that look to tell me something was up. When grownups started spelling, I knew it was time to pay attention. I pretended like I was leaving anyway, as if I hadn’t heard a thing. I positioned myself just out of site in the hall with my ear as close as I could get to the opened door while spelling r-a-p-e-d over and over to myself to make sure I didn’t forget how to spell it before I could get to a dictionary.

I heard Ethel demand of Leola, “How you know he CL? You ain’t old ‘nough ta had knowned ‘em. How Roberta know Dabney’s CL?

“Mama say she saw him one time when she sat for Miz Ginny. She say she surpised yo nevah say nothing. She say she see ‘em from time to time.”

I hear Ethel mutter, “I couldn’t place his face, but he sho looked famliar.” Her voice sounded like it was coming closer so I ducked around the corner just missing being seen as Ethel stuck her head out of the kitchen door and looked up and down the hall. I walked out of the powder room like I had been there the whole time.

“Git on outside wit yo’self an’ keep an eye on yo’ sister like I’s told ya’ll to.” She turned back into the kitchen. I waited long enough to hear the conversation pick up before I crept passed the open kitchen door and up the stairs. I checked Stuart’s room though I knew she’d never let Helen hang around there. The room was empty. A little frantic now, I trotted downstairs and outside, banging the back door behind me. I tried to take in the whole yard at once. Helen was nowhere I could see. I called for Lance. Maybe he had found her and was bringing her home; after all, he was a bloodhound. I rushed behind the garage, around the front of the house, and into the rose garden. No Helen, no Lance.

The cold November air was beginning to sear my throat. Tears stung my eyes. “Helen!” I called, even though it hurt. “Helen, where are you?”

Lance was stretched out by the kitchen steps, but no Helen. The only place she could be was the street. She must have tried to follow Gordy and Early. I started to run down the drive when Mr. Dabney spoke up from his porch. “Hi there, missy! Where you off to in such a hurry?”

I remembered my mother saying that Mr. Dabney was not a nice man and I should stay away from his house. But maybe he had seen Helen. I stopped running. “I’m, umm…You haven’t seen Helen, have you?” I asked.

“Well, let me see,” he said, trying to draw me in. “I think I saw her. Was it yesterday? Or maybe this morning. I’m not quite sure.”

“So, she didn’t come through your yard?” I asked. That man could talk, and I didn’t have time for it.

“Now, let me think. She might have. I mighta seen her this morning with your brother and that nigger boy. Or maybe it was…”

“When?” I shouted. I was becoming impatient.

“Now, look here, missy, don’t you take that tone me with me,” he snapped.

My face grew hot with embarrassment and frustration. “I’m just looking for my sister Helen and I can’t find her and I’m supposed to be watching her and I’m going to get in big trouble and…” I started to blubber.

“Now, now, you calm down,” he shushed. “She’s right inside the house with Miz Dabney eating some of her blueberry muffins, I reckon. I suspect a muffin might taste pretty good right about now, wouldn’t it? Why don’t you go on in? Mabel!” he shouted.

Mrs. Dabney yelled back from inside the house, “Yeah, Luther.”

“Got any more of them little men?”

Mrs. Dabney came to the door and broke out in a wide smile. She wiped her hands on the little yellow, frilly apron she always wore. It seemed so out of place on her stocky, country frame. “Well, hi there, Sallee,” she said. “Helen and I were just making the beds. Then we’re going to sit down and have some little men; blueberry. You want one?”

I was so relieved I burst out crying. “What’s the matter, sweetie? Come here. Let ol’ Miz Dabney make it all better. Come on in here with me. Don’t you cry now.” She cooed and clucked like an old hen. Helen emerged from the pantry, her mouth stuffed with raisins. I couldn’t decide whether to hug her or hit her.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming over here?” I yelled. “You scared me half to death. I’ve been looking everywhere!”

“You were asleep,” she said. She climbed up on the stool Mrs. Dabney had set by the counter. “We’re going to make some more little men; with raisins this time,” she said. She looked up at Mrs. Dabney and smiled. “Aren’t we?”

“Yes, sugar, we are,” Mrs. Dabney said. “And Sallee can help, too.” Helen scowled at that information, but shrugged it off. She stuck her thumb squarely in her mouth.

“Angel, don’t suck your thumb. It’ll give you buck teeth and then you won’t be pretty. A girl wants to be pretty so she can get married and have a family,” Mrs. Dabney said. “That’s a good girl.” She eased Helen’s thumb from her lips.

Helen’s hand hovered in the air in front of her face, thumb at the ready. Three fingers curled around her upper lip and the fourth was cocked, ready to wrap around her nose in an instant. She looked as if
she were contemplating which pleasure she would rather forego: her thumb or the raisin muffins. I could see it was complicated. She touched her thumb to her lip, nibbled at it, then pulled it away. But the prospect of never tasting the thumb again seemed to overwhelm her. A big tear welled up in her eye, then another, and another.

“Miz Dabney, I can’t just stop,” she whined. “I don’t want to be ugly, but I just can’t help it. Please, can I suck my thumb a little, just a little?”

Mrs. Dabney’s bewilderment melted into a smile. “Oh well, I don’t s’pose a little would hurt. But honey, you are going to have to try to stop. Promise me?”

Helen’s thumb was back in her mouth before Mrs. Dabney said “s’pose.” Helen nodded her promise. It was clear that she had no intention of keeping it.

We spent the rest of the morning making muffins, some with raisins and some with blueberries. Helen’s thumb left her mouth only long enough for her to lick a spoon or eat an errant raisin. Mrs. Dabney seemed to give up on worrying about Helen’s buckteeth and marriage prospects.

While we waited for Mrs. Dabney’s blueberry “little men” to finish baking, Helen fell asleep. She had eaten three or four raisin muffins and countless raisins. Mr. Dabney had gone down into the basement. Mrs. Dabney and I sat in her musty parlor waiting for the oven to ding. She wanted to talk about Ethel.

“Do you like having her tell you what to do?”

“Well, no, but she’s supposed to. I mean, that’s what she does. My mother tells her some things, yes. No, she doesn’t tell her everything. She does what she wants sometimes…” The more Mrs. Dabney plied me with questions, the more confusing our household seemed. Frustrated, I began to answer, “I don’t know.” Mrs. Dabney soon changed the subject to school.

“What’s your favorite subject?” she asked.

“I like writing stories,” I said proudly. “I can write a story quick as anything. Why, just the other day Gordy forgot he was supposed to write a story and asked me to write one for him before school and I did too.”

“Honey, I don’t think you should be doing your brother’s school work for him.”

“Oh, it’s OK. He isn’t very good at school. When I help him he gets better grades. That makes him feel better. He gets really sad when he gets bad grades. Then my mother and Daddy get mad at him, so I help him out sometimes.”

Mrs. Dabney gave my hand a little squeeze and sighed.

I decided to take the gesture as an invitation. I couldn’t talk to my mother about love. Stuart was never around, and talking to Ethel was completely out of the question. Mrs. Dabney was old but she had to have been in love at some point in her life because she married Mr. Dabney. In a serious voice I asked, “Miz Dabney, does being in love hurt?”

She laughed. “Now, what in the world would make you ask such a question? Of course it doesn’t.” She sank back into her chair, crossed her arms over her bosom, and got a faraway look in her eyes as if she were remembering something. “Well, maybe sometimes it does; but not at your age. Why? Is some little boyfriend being mean to you? I know they don’t ignore you, you’re too pretty.”

“No, ma’am, I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“I wouldn’t think so. You’re a little young yet. Is there something I can help with? Something about your momma and daddy?”

I decided she was too fast with her questions. “No, no, I was just wondering. Thanks, though.”

“You know you can tell me anything any old time. There! I think that was the timer. Let’s go check the little men, shall we?”

I skipped ahead into the kitchen. Mr. Dabney was sitting at the breakfast nook smoking a cigar. He had on shorts, and his legs were as white and skinny as the pipe cleaners Daddy used to dig around in the bowl of his pipe. As he sat splayed on the bench, Mr. Dabney looked a lot like a white rat with his pasty skin, tufts of hair, and pink face.