Apron Strings (20 page)

“Yeah, you’re right. Gosh.” Gordy pursed his lips but moved on.

The wooden garage doors were slightly ajar. I raced inside without a second thought, glad to be out of sight and away from that car. It took a minute or two for my eyes to adjust to the dim light. In front of me was a huge, rusted, blue barrel overflowing with trash. Old oilcans littered the dirt floor. Gordy stumbled in after me just as the door overhead creaked open.

“Who’s there?” A man growled from above. The voice sounded like Mr. Dabney’s. “Who’s down there? I’m going to call the police.” The door slammed and we heard the lock bolt shut.

Our snooping around was beginning to make me uncomfortable. “Gordy, why don’t we just knock on the door?” I thought about Miz Dabney’s muffins and how she’d talked to me about being in love. “I’m sure they’d let us in. Besides, I don’t think they killed ol’ Lance anyway…”

“Shut up! We’ve got to get out of here,” Gordy whispered. “Come on, run. Go back the way we came. I’ll be right behind you.” He pushed me out of the door. I started running in the direction Gordy indicated, but my feet got tangled in the ivy. I nearly fell. I realized the best way out was the driveway. I turned around and ran, with little care of being seen, past the house and up the drive. When I got to the street, I hesitated for a second before darting up the sidewalk to our driveway. I sprinted to our house as if the yucky old Mr. Dabney was on my heels, stopping only to catch my breath behind the hemlock tree at the kitchen steps. No Gordy. Creeping around to the back door seemed logical. I rarely used the kitchen steps, and I certainly didn’t want to give Ethel something to wonder about. She was putting the last touches on dinner as I casually walked into the kitchen.

“I’s jest ‘bout ta call ya. Where’s Gordy and Helen?”

“I don’t know. I think Gordy’s outside. You better call him. I’ll go see if I can find Helen,” I said, darting from the kitchen before she could ask me where I’d been. Although it had become easy to do, I didn’t like lying about what I’d been doing or where I had been. Lying seemed like a necessary survival skill—one I preferred to use sparingly.

“Gor—don!” Ethel’s hog call rang out the kitchen door. It made me feel better. Ethel’s bellow was as sure as the five o’clock whistle. I knew Gordy would be home any minute. All the mothers in the neighborhood would check to see if Gordy were about when Ethel’s call rang out.

But Gordy didn’t come home for supper. I volunteered to stay with Helen so Ethel could go out to look for him. I was unsure if I should tell where I last saw him. I was not so afraid of getting into trouble as I was worried that I might betray Gordy. Ethel came in the house puffing and blowing. “He ain’t out in the yard. None of the neighbors has seen him,” she reported to no one. “You know anything?” She glared at me. “Lord a mercy, we don’ need no mo’ trouble in this house,” she muttered as she fidgeted with her rag, wiped clean counters, and straightened already straight chairs. My mother was out. Ethel’s agitation increased with every passing moment. When the doorbell rang, she practically jumped in the air. I ran to the window and noticed funny lights in the driveway. Gordy stood on the porch between two policemen. Instead of opening the door,
I turned back to the kitchen, running smack into Ethel who had followed me.

“What the matter wit’ you, girl? Go’n, open the do’!”

“Ethel, there’s policemen out there.”

“Lord a mercy.” She hustled to the door and opened it, revealing a tear-and-grease-streaked Gordy sporting a shiner. His clothes were a filthy mess of oil and dirt; his hair sprouting broom bristles. He was accompanied by a mismatched pair of policemen. “Thank ya, Lord!” Ethel said, her hands lifted upward and her eyes rolled up a little, so I guess she was talking to God. “Chile, where you been?” she asked, ignoring the policemen altogether. “Git on in here right dis minute. I oughtta tan yo’ hide.”

The taller policeman cleared his throat. “Is Mr. Mackey home?”

“No, sir, he ain’t,” she said, a little taken aback. “Miz Mackey ain’t here, neither.”

“Is this their son, Gordon Mackey?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where can we git in touch with Mr. Mackey?”

“I don’ rightly know. Miz Mackey’ll be back soon.” Ethel attempted to reach out to Gordy, but the fat little policeman put himself in the way.

“We found him in the Dabneys’ garage.”

Ethel stood in the doorway with her hands on her hips, glaring at Gordy as if she were Superman and her x-ray vision was going to melt him into a puddle right there on the porch. “Boy, what done got into you? I know one thang: when I git my hands on ya, Imma make it so ya cain’ sit fo’ a week, hear me?”

“We need to talk to the person responsible for this kid.”

“I’s responsible fo’ des here chil’ren. I raised ever’ las’ one a ‘em.”

“The parents, girl. Where are they?” The fat little policeman barked. He reminded me of the big kid down the street who bullied everybody, always hitching up his pants, and strutting around like a pigeon.

“Day’s out. I’s in charge. What ya’ll gotta say ya’ll kin says ta me.” Ethel puffed up like she was going to take a swing at the mean little policeman. I was pretty sure, judging by the fuzziness of her hairdo, that she had taken a “nip” or two. Gordy had worked it out that you could
get a good estimation of Ethel’s sobriety by how tightly her hair was arranged. She tended to get cranky when she was drinking, so her hair became our mood barometer. I prayed in this situation that she hadn’t launched a full-scale attack on the gin bottle she always seemed to have stashed somewhere these days.

“I ain’t telling no nigger nothing ‘bout a white boy,” the short policeman spat out. “You better get somebody quick, or we’re taking him downtown.” The tall policeman looked like he was going to say something, but didn’t.

I could see anger flash in Ethel’s eyes, but she hid it from the policemen by looking down at the floor. She was thinking what to do. “I’m gonna call Mista Joe,” she finally said, looking at the short policeman. “Don’ be standin’ here wit the do’ wide open letten’ in da cold. I’ll go an’ call ‘im. You stay right here jest a minute.” She pointed at the hallway floor.

When the policemen stepped in, she shut the door after them and lumbered down the hall to the phone. She looked back every few steps like she thought they might steal something if she didn’t keep an eye out. Gordy looked pale and worried, but he smiled as he watched Ethel’s bustling waddle. The mean policeman inched his way farther into the hall, looking after Ethel as she made her way to the phone; the taller one stood by the door with his hat in his hand.

The mean one sort of whistled and said, “Anybody dumb enough that would let a nigger in here by themselves with all this and leave nothin’ but a bunch of kids to watch ‘em…Shit, that nigger could steal ‘em blind and they’d deserve it.” I scowled at the little policeman from the dining room. I was too afraid to come out into the hall. Daddy said people who talked like that were ignorant.
Ignorant and stupid must be the same thing
, I thought. I found myself hating this man. Gordy looked like he wanted to kick him.

“Hello, Mista Joe, dis here Ethel,” she boomed into the phone. “Day’s some po’lease mens here. Day’s got Gordy. Day say day found ‘em in de Dabneys’ garage an’ if’in ya’ll don’ come an’ talks ta ‘em, day is gonna puts him in da jail house. Yes, sir. Jest a minute.”

Ethel bustled back. She said with some pride, “Mista Joe want ta talk to ya’ll.”

The tall policeman followed her back to the telephone. We weren’t able to hear what he said, but when he came back he said to his partner, “Come on, let’s go.” His partner grunted, leered at us, and left without a word. The tall policeman said to Ethel, “Sorry about all that.”

It was lucky for Gordy that the mean little policeman had called Ethel a nigger. That had made her madder than what Gordy had done. I thought she would give him a tongue-lashing hot enough to peel his hide. She huffed and puffed like the big bad wolf, pacing the hall. I think she was so mad she didn’t know
what
to do. Finally she said, “Gordy, go’n up to yo’ room righ’ now. Don’ you sit down and get nothin’ dirty. You gots oil all over ya. Yo’ Daddy comin’ over an’ he gon’ give you a piece a his min’.”

I started up the stairs after Gordy. “You git right back he’ah, missy. Don’ lemme catch ya anywhere near yo’ brother this evenin’, hear? Go’n upstairs wit’ Helen and take a bath and git ready fo’ bed.”

The green splatterwear tin cup Ethel used to hide the gin she drank appeared from under the kitchen sink a few days later (never a good sign) from where it had been hidden behind the Joy and Comet. Sometimes she’d conceal a beer in the cabinet where the pots and pans were stored—an oversized Pabst Blue Ribbon bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag. Before a binge really got underway, Ethel would attempt to be discreet. But as time wore on, and her nips turned to gulps, she became as sloppy with her concealment as she was with her person.

Helen and I were sprawled on the floor in the sitting room watching
The Wild, Wild West
. Ethel stormed into the room. One of her buns had come loose and the other three buns were in varying stages of disarray. We had learned from our rapidly accumulating experience that the best approach to Ethel in that condition was to pretend she was not there. We continued to watch the television. Ethel stood just inside the door, swaying menacingly and glaring at us with unfocused eyes. As if someone had turned a switch, she started ranting, “Tha word is ‘negro,’ not nigger.”

Helen and I looked up, bewildered.

“Don’ you ever call me a nigger. Look it up in tha dictionary, it’ll tell ya.” She lunged toward the bookcase, found a dictionary, and fumbled
around with it. Then, giving up the search, she began flailing it around like a preacher on Sunday. Three more times she said, “Tha word is negro.” Then she left the room.

It was two days before I could get Gordy alone since he was grounded and I was expressly forbidden to go into his room. From a downstairs window I watched him riding his bike up and down the drive. When I could see nobody was around, I scurried outside and got on my bike.

“What happened?” I yelled as I came alongside him. We rolled along in silence. I squinted at him, trying to nudge a response. “Well, what?” He skidded his bike to a stop, dropped it in the dirt, and climbed up to a favorite perch in his tree. I followed silently and sat on the branch below his; my back against the trunk, legs swinging. I waited. He still didn’t say anything. “Gordy,” I bleated. “What happened?” He just sat there, looking off in the distance.

Then he looked at me. “Just after you left I saw a bowl full of some greenish-looking stuff,” he said. “You know how antifreeze is that kinda electricy-yellowish-green? Like that. There was a piece of butcher’s paper next to that bowl. I think Mr. Dabney put some meat in it and Lance ate it. I figured that I’d wait until the police came and show them. So they could arrest him.”

“Where was Miz Dabney?”

“I don’t know. Will you shut up and listen! He called down the steps a couple of times. At first he was trying to sound sorta nice. He said, ‘Who’s there? I’m going to call the police. You leave or I’m calling the police.’

“‘You poisoned my dog, didn’t you?’ I yelled. I couldn’t believe I was talking to him like that, but I knew he did it, I just knew it.

“He said, ‘Who’s there? You come out right now or I’m calling the police.’ I told him, ‘Call the police. I’m going to wait. I’m not leaving until they come and take me outta here.’ I was sure they would be takin’ him out, not me. It was getting dark. I decided the best thing I could do was to just sit down and wait. I didn’t want to get into any trouble, but I was pretty sure that when they came and saw the poison in the bowl and the paper, he’d have to go to jail. The garage was all creepy in the dark.
There wasn’t any place on the floor not covered in junk and trash. I went to move some stuff so I could sit down. I must have sat on the end of a board or something because the other end went up in the air, knocking a bunch of cans over. Ol’ Dabney turned on the light upstairs and started creeping down the stairs. He was carrying a broom. ‘I called the police,’ he said. ‘You’re going to be sorry now, buster.’

“When he saw me, he started whaling on me with that broom. ‘I know who you are,’ he said. ‘You’re one of them Mackey brats. Go on home to your nigger-loving parents. Get the hell outta my house.’”

My eyebrows shot up. “He hit you with a broom?”

Gordy nodded solemnly. “I screamed at him, ‘You killed Lance. You killed my dog.’ I tried to get away from that broom, but I tripped and knocked over the bowl of antifreeze. I couldn’t get up; there was so much grease and muck. He kept hitting me and yelling, ‘All you Mackeys think you’re so high and mighty just like your Ma. You ain’t nothing but a nigger loving lowlife—breaking into my house.’

“Sallee, I never heard a grown-up talk like he did, except for those men in that car. I’ll bet he was one of ‘em, ya know?” Gordy shivered, like he was cold. “He just kept banging on me with that broom, yelling all kinds of stuff. When the police finally came, he quit hitting me. ‘I found this kid sneaking around,’ he said. ‘Had his foot on the step going up to our bedroom like he was goin’ to rob us. I chased him down here. Probably learned his thieving from that nigger woman next door and that bully father a his.’

“The tall policeman asked me, ‘Son, what were you doing in these folks’ house?’ So I told him, ‘He poisoned my dog. Look, there’s a bowl of antifreeze and some meat paper right there where he did it.’ I pointed. But all the stuff was scattered and the bowl was turned over. ‘He’s a lying little burglar,’ Mr. Dabney screamed, ‘And I’m going to press charges. Just like I did on his no count daddy’ The tall policeman took me to the car while the fat one talked to Mr. Dabney some more.

“‘He killed my dog. I know he did,’ I said to the tall one. He started to say something, but the fat guy opened the door and got into the car. He turned and looked at me over the seat. ‘Nobody killed your dog, kid,’ he said. ‘And you’re in a powerful lot of trouble. If you know what’s
good for you, I better not ever find you near this house again. Breaking and entering is a felony. That’s what we’re talking about there. You could spend a lot of time in jail. It don’t make any difference who your parents are.’”