Gone Crazy in Alabama (6 page)

I couldn't, wouldn't waste another minute dreading wash day and ironing the white sheets. Maybe it was the short time I had spent with Cecile and the Black Panthers last summer. It was harder to do what I was asked without speaking up when I didn't want to do it at all. Maybe it was how Mrs. half-jokingly said, “The slaves have been freed, Delphine,” whenever she saw me doing things the long, hard way. The way Big Ma had taught me. Maybe it was three years' worth of dread. I could feel things bubbling up inside of me. Besides, I saw no reason why anyone should have to starch and iron white or any other colored sheets when there were such things as wrinkle-free permanent-press sheets. I remembered how Big Ma's
face turned to wet marble, her lips grim and pursed as she starched and pressed, one iron working hard up and down a sheet while the second iron sat in flames atop the stove, waiting.

I loved Ma Charles as much as I could love her without having been around her much, but I couldn't slave over those white sheets. There was something about those sheets that made me grown enough to take the whipping I had coming to me for the disrespect I was about to show my grandmother and great-grandmother.

The sun was at its highest point, which meant the sheets were dry. I made up my mind. I didn't have to be told to go and pull the sheets down off of the line. I took them down, folded them in tight rectangular squares, and brought them inside, where my grandmother, the ironing board, and two flaming irons waited for me.

I didn't have a “Free Huey!” chant to keep me brave and moving forward. Just
This is the last whipping. The last whipping
. I imagined a mob of Black Panthers saying it with me.

Deep inside I knew it wasn't the whipping I dreaded. Big Ma couldn't really hurt me with a switch or a belt. I had already felt the sting of a belt-whipping and carried each blow in my memory. And then, that was it. Once I knew how bad each blow could be I felt my skin toughen. I could take it and maybe not even sniffle. It was how Big Ma would look at me afterward that made me queasy and
feel the regret. I had to speak up for myself.

“I got you started with the starch and both irons are hot. Only way to press cotton is with a hot iron.” She was already sweating.

“Big Ma . . .” Everything sounded good and strong in my head. But my mouth struggled to open.

“Not too much lavender and don't let it burn. Go on.”

“Big Ma . . .”

“What, child?”

“Ma'am.”

“A mercy, Delphine. What is it?”

“I don't iron sheets at home. Not even Pa's shirts.”

Big Ma stopped what she was doing. “Is that so?”

The last whipping. This is the last whipping
.

I still couldn't look her in the eye.

Big Ma's right hand found her hip.

The last whipping. The last, last one
.

“You might as well speak up. Your mouth is already open.”

“Yes, Big Ma.”

“The ruination of all things. The collapse and ruin of all things civil. I blame your mother. And your father. And that women's-libber. And what they're teaching and not teaching in school. I tell you, it's all falling apart. Mark my words. Children will stop minding grown people and worse. Much worse. You'd be different if you grew up here like your cousin, and not up there.”

Instead of feeling the victory of standing up for myself, I felt tall, stupid, and worthless. Even worse when my grandmother shook the box of cornstarch into the spray bottle, spilling clumps of white powder on the floor. I bent to scoop some up but she stopped me.

“You had your say, now go on,” she told me. “Take your sisters and git.”

“We don't have nowhere—”

“One don't eat chicken or ham. One don't forgive. The other don't iron. Just git, Delphine. Take your sisters and git.”

Big Ma said “Git,” but there was no place to go. It wasn't as if we were in Brooklyn, where the candy store, the record shop, and my best friend were around the corner. We were in deeply wooded nowheresville, and Uncle Darnell, our only hope of getting a ride, was long gone to work and then to school. We didn't have a bike to pedal the nearly three miles to the nearest store, and even if we did, only Vonetta and I could ride a bicycle well enough. The pecan tree could hold one, maybe two of us, but only I'd be unafraid to climb it. To boot, our nearest neighbor was an older man without any kids or kids' games. I didn't know how we would stay out of Big Ma's sight. But when Ma Charles said, “That boy must have girls on his mind.
He left his great-granny's denture rinse,” I said, “We'll take it over!”

“See if I care if she gets it or not,” Ma Charles said, which was as good as permission to cross the creek and hike over to Miss Trotter's.

We were glad to leave Ma Charles's house, and Big Ma was especially glad to see us go. I took the canning jar filled with water, mint leaves, baking soda, and whatever else swam in it, and my sisters and I set out in the direction of the creek that separated Ma Charles from Miss Trotter.

I knew the way to Miss Trotter's but my sisters had never been. I'd crossed the wooden walkway over the creek with Pa when we last came down for the Trotter funerals. Vonetta and Fern weren't up to walking that far so it was only Pa and me, and I wanted to show him I could keep up with him.

Now that they were older and bored, Vonetta and Fern were glad to take the short hike. We walked across the dried grass field dotted with purple flowers until there were none. Just bugs that kept us slapping our legs and arms. Then we continued on through the skinny pines, more open fields, a little less than half a mile before we crossed the old wooden planks. Pa said his great-grandfather, Slim Jim Trotter, built that old crossing, which turned out to be part of his undoing. I had asked him what he meant by that and he said, “Nothing
you need to know right now.”

Once over the walkway we took a path too small for a car, but perfect for a horse, a bicycle, or for walking.

I recognized Miss Trotter instantly when we approached the house made of wood. She sat spine-straight like Ma Charles on the porch, in her chair—the same handmade wooden chair as Ma Charles had. Her eyes seemed to be closed so we approached carefully, to not startle her. When she did open her eyes we wanted to give her a hug or say, “Hi, Auntie!” but she didn't smile or hold out her arms. If she didn't mirror Ma Charles so much, we would have kept walking.

She inhaled deeply, lifted her pointer finger to the air, and said, “Feel that? The warm and the cool?”

“It's hot to me, Miss Trotter,” I said, smiling. I was sweating to prove it.

“Burning hot,” Fern added.

Somehow we disappointed our great-aunt, Miss Trotter. She was already shaking her head no. “You're talking about the sun. I'm talking about the air.”

“Doesn't the sun heat the air?” I asked.

“The sun isn't the wind,” she said.

Fern and I shrugged, but good old mouthy Vonetta spoke up. “What's the difference?”

“The difference? If you have to ask I might as well not tell you the difference.”

What do you say to that? I held out the jar with green mint leaves. “For your dentures, from Ma Charles.”

“Dentures? Dentures?” She bared her teeth to show them but not to smile. “Go on. Run your finger 'longside the uppers and lowers. You can go all the way back if you want to.”

“No, thank you, Miss Trotter,” I said. I didn't mean to be rude but “No, thank you” was better than what I kept from coming out of my mouth. After all, she was an elder and the second-oldest Trotter—according to Ma Charles.

“You tell her . . .”
Her
was Ma Charles—our great-grandmother, Miss Trotter's half sister. “Tell her my teeth are just fine. Why would a wolf need more teeth than the ones she already has?” She peered suspiciously at the greenish mixture, and I couldn't blame her for making a face. “Denture rinse. I got something for her. You wait.”

She talked on and on while we stared. Miss Trotter and our great-grandmother were crowned by the same gray-and-black hair, but it was styled differently to suit them. Miss Trotter's hair was loosely parted and braided in pigtails. Ma Charles's hair was finely parted down the middle and pooled in a bun and hairnet. Their cheekbones made their faces seem long, although Ma Charles's face was slightly rounder, a feature both she and Big Ma inherited from Great-great-grandmother Livonia Trotter. I knew this from the brownish faded photograph of Livonia and Slim Jim Trotter that sat on the china cabinet
next to an all-watchful Jesus. When I had come over with Pa to deliver our condolences personally I had seen what I thought was the same picture as the one that sat on the china cabinet in Ma Charles's house. I'd been fooled because my great-great-grandfather wore the same suit and the same grim face in both photographs, his hair thick and long. The only difference in both pictures was the bride standing next to him. I didn't think too much of it back then, but now I could see how the wooden crossing over the creek might have led to my great-great-grandfather's undoing.

Except for the funerals I can't say I remember my great-aunt and great-grandmother being under the same roof or together under the same piece of sky. Their resemblance was closer than that of my sisters and me, and we looked alike. It didn't seem right that Miss Trotter and Ma Charles didn't visit or speak directly to each other when they were half sisters.

Pa had told me their relationship had always been strained. He'd said that when it was time to take care of the funeral arrangements and the repast three years ago, Ma Charles had to step in and handle everything because Miss Trotter wasn't able. After that, instead of things getting better between the half sisters, they only grew worse.

JimmyTrotter must have heard us, and he came out of his room and onto the porch to greet us. His hands smelled like strong glue. Fern coughed, and he brushed
his hands against his pants and said by way of apology and explanation, “Model-airplane glue.”

Miss Trotter couldn't understand how we couldn't feel the cool moisture in the air. She passed her thumb over her fingertips. “Feel it, JimmyTrotter?”

“Yes'm. Sure do.” But he said it so quick and plain I was sure he didn't feel a thing.

Miss Trotter was satisfied with his answer. “Good.” She clunked her head the way Fern does when she's proud of herself or when she knows she's right. “Good. At least you won't get caught in the storm.”

“The weatherman didn't say storm,” I said.

She said, “The president didn't say higher taxes, but anyone with eyes can see what's coming around the corner.”

Vonetta seemed too awestruck by Miss Trotter to cheer my being put in my place by our elder. She gazed at Miss Trotter and kept her smart Vonetta sass to herself. I knew that look on her face. She gave the same hungry and hopeful gaze to new kids moving into the neighborhood, hoping to find a friend among them.

Fern wasn't impressed by our great-aunt. She said, “We want to see the cows, Aunt Miss Trotter. Now.”

“Miss Trotter,” our great-aunt stated.

“You're our aunt,” Fern said.

“Great-aunt,” I whispered.

“Miss Trotter,” our great-aunt insisted. “That'll do. But
I might answer to Great Miss Trotter if you want to be respectful.”

Vonetta finally showed signs of life. “Yes, Great Miss Trotter.”

Fern wasn't satisfied. “We want an aunt,” she said, one fist balled. “JimmyTrotter has an Auntie Naomi and an Aunt Ophelia. Two aunties. We want one Aunt Miss Trotter.”

“I thought you wanted to see a cow,” Miss Trotter said.

“Surely do.”

“Then go on.” Miss Trotter pointed her chin to the field past the barn. “Go see your cow.”

“Come on,” JimmyTrotter said, smiling. He was amused that Fern annoyed and confounded his great-grandmother. “Butter and Sophie are over there.” He pointed to where the cows were resting. Fern took off running toward the black-and-white cows and so did Vonetta, but not before she curtsied and said, “See you later, Great Miss Trotter!”

I followed JimmyTrotter inside, where he washed the glue smell off his hands. Then we went out to the patch of grass where Sophie and Butter lay, and he got Sophie up and led her to the barn. I didn't know if it was a good idea to have Vonetta and Fern see where milk came from since they drank it every day, but they were excited to watch JimmyTrotter milk Sophie.

He walked her to a post with a rope and tied the rope loosely around her neck. “My dad rigged this harness when Auggie and me . . .” He didn't finish. He didn't have to. I could see that JimmyTrotter didn't talk about his brother, mother, father, or grandmother or the accident caused by the oncoming trucker who had fallen asleep at
the wheel while driving a tractor-trailer carrying lumber. Every Trotter in the car had been killed, all at once. A stomach virus had kept JimmyTrotter at home with Miss Trotter that day. Now he was the only one left to carry the Trotter name—and he carried it with him, all right. Well, he and Miss Trotter.

I didn't know what to say.

I pointed to the leather hanging from the post. “And that makes it easier?”

He loosened the strap. “Safer,” he said. “I don't normally use it. Sophie stands easy for me. But she's not used to an audience.”

“That's hurting her,” Fern said.

“I wouldn't do it if it was,” JimmyTrotter said. He placed his stool at Sophie's right side, put two metal pails beneath her, and sat down. The first pail was half-filled with warm water and a little soap. He took a rag, dipped it into the soap water, and washed Sophie's udder. The girls started to giggle.

“You don't want dirty milk, do you?”

They only giggled more.

When he was sure Sophie was clean enough, he rubbed his hands together and then grabbed two of the hanging parts and left the other two dangling. We made faces as he pulled down and squeezed. Pulled and squeezed.

“Poor Sophie,” Fern said.

“She'd kick me right now if we weren't friends,” JimmyTrotter said.

“Ewwww,” Vonetta said when the thin white stream shot out into the pail. I could have said it along with her but didn't.

“This won't take too long. I only have to milk Sophie for now.”

“Why?” Fern asked. She told him it was unfair that one cow got milked and the other just sat out in the sun chewing grass.

“Sophie's on and Butter's off—but not for long!”

Fern laughed and repeated after him, “Sophie's on and Butter's off.”

“Sophie's a champion milking cow, although I think she's getting ready to taper off. Don't worry.” He smiled a warm JimmyTrotter smile. “Today's a good day. Sophie girl's set to show off for you. About three gallons' worth.” He lowered his voice and added, “She only calved a few months back,” as if he said something the cow shouldn't hear. “I'm hoping she'll be good for another couple of months, but I don't know.”

“Calved?” Fern asked.

“It means she had a cow,” Vonetta snapped.

JimmyTrotter turned his head away from Sophie to shoot Vonetta a look. “Don't say it like that. Fern doesn't know and neither do you.”

“Surely don't,” Fern said.

Vonetta turned up her nose.

“So where's the baby cow?” Fern asked.

“Calf,” Vonetta corrected. “Calf.”

“He's on a special farm,” JimmyTrotter said fast and plain, like when he “Yes'm-ed” Miss Trotter about the cool in the air. “A special farm for tender, young cows.”

Fern thought that was swell. Summer camp for baby cows. Vonetta rolled her eyes. Somewhere in it all, Vonetta and I suspected that JimmyTrotter hadn't told the whole truth, which Fern was better off not knowing.

“I milk Sophie every morning. About four thirty. Sometimes five. I milk her again around four when I get home from school. Well, school's out for now, so I don't have to worry about rushing.”

“Twice every day?” I asked.

“That's what I said.”

“Yeah,” Vonetta said. “Didn't you catch that?”

I paid Vonetta no mind. I couldn't believe my cousin had to milk a cow twice a day, every day.

I bent down and touched one of Sophie's fat udders. The low-hanging balloon looked like it could burst any minute, it was so full. Vonetta and Fern went, “Eww.”

“What if you miss a day?” I asked.

“Can't miss a day.”

“What do you mean, you can't miss a day? What would happen if you did?”

“Why do you have to know?” Vonetta asked. “If he can't miss a day of milking that cow, he can't miss a day.”

“I asked him, not you.”

JimmyTrotter shook his head like he was beyond our
squabbling. “I can't miss a day. Cow's gotta get milked. I gotta be here to milk her. Just think about storing up all that milk. How much that'd hurt. She can't milk herself, Delphine.”

“Oh,” Fern said. “Poor Sophie.”

Vonetta rolled her eyes and sighed.

“So you can't go out for track or baseball?” I asked.

“It's football around here, cuz,” he said. “Or for me, the sky club. And no.”

“Sky club?” Vonetta asked. “What's that?”

“For kids who want to fly. Or like airplanes.” He tried to be cool but he smiled too much to be cool.

“But what happens if you're not here to milk Sophie?” I asked.

“Miss Trotter milks her.”

“Isn't she too old?” I asked. “No offense.”

“No offense to me,” he said. “Just don't let Miss Trotter hear you.”

Fern asked, “What about Butter?”

“Butter's getting her milking gears in order. She'll be dropping that calf in a month. By then, Sophie'll start to really taper off and Butter'll be on, milking up a storm. We try to time it just right so no one's without milk. A lot of our neighbors still like it fresh, and we're a lot closer than the McDaniels' farm. But if you want cream or butter you go to the store or to McDaniels'.”

“Butter? Oh, nuts!” Fern cried. She loved buttered
bread, and probably felt bad about taking one more thing from a cow.

When I watched JimmyTrotter milk Sophie three years ago, he didn't seem to like milking any more than I liked ironing white sheets in the heat. Now he'd talked himself into liking it and washed Sophie's udders and hanging milk bag like it was nothing. I didn't care what Big Ma said about being raised down here. One day he'd speak up for himself when he saw everyone else flying an airplane except him. Then we'd see how fast and plain he'd “Yes'm” Miss Trotter.

Vonetta and Fern had had enough of watching milk shoot out of Sophie. They wanted to talk to Miss Trotter, although neither could settle on what they'd call her—Aunt Miss Trotter or Great Miss Trotter.

“Holler when the milking's done and it's in a bottle,” Vonetta said.

“Holler when you're done hurting poor Sophie.”

“It doesn't hurt her,” Vonetta said.

“That's what you think,” Fern said.

JimmyTrotter looked up to see that my sisters were gone. “We don't have use for bulls but once every other year for mating.” He kept his voice low. “We were hoping Sophie was carrying a female. We could sure use a young milking cow, especially with Sophie getting older. No such luck.”

While JimmyTrotter milked Sophie, I told him what happened earlier with Big Ma and why she was anxious to get rid of us for the day.

“I don't see the big deal over ironing sheets,” he said.

“I know you don't and I can't explain it. I just didn't want to be ironing and sweating. You know what ironing and sweating is?”

“Tell me.” I knew he found me silly even before I said another word.

“Ironing and sweating when you don't have to be ironing and sweating is oppression. And I won't be oppressed.”

I was going for a “Right on, cuz!” but JimmyTrotter laughed. “That's oppression to you? Ironing a bedsheet and perspiring?”

“Sometimes you have to stand up for yourself.”

“Sometimes you have to know when to stand up and when to iron.”

“Like milking cows?” I asked.

“I don't mind milking. I don't,” he said. But we didn't speak for a while. I was about to leave him with Sophie, when he said, “Delphine.” There was too long a pause after he said my name. “You have a boyfriend?”

My skin must have darkened. My face certainly got warm. “I did.”

“What happened? Started feeling oppressed and broke it off?”

I hated it when he laughed at me so I played it off with a shrug. “We're going to junior high in September.”

“And?”

“And I might as well have broken it off. You know how it is,” I said as cool as I could muster. “You get to your new school with all new people and suddenly you don't want to be stuck with the same people you've known since the third grade. It's like not growing up.”

“Oh.” He was smiling at me like he'd seen through me. Smiling but silently laughing, I was sure.

“So do you have a girlfriend?” I asked.

He smiled and kept milking. He intended to make me wait. Finally he said, “I had a girlfriend. Reddish-gold hair. What do they call that? Strawberry blond? Brown eyes. Freckles right here.” He pointed to the bridge of my nose. “And pretty? Boy, she was pretty.” He whistled. Then Sophie mooed. He took the pails of milk and set them to the side away from Sophie.

“We kept it secret and at first she understood—even said it was romantic and star-crossed. Yeah. Star-crossed. Then one day she said, ‘Let's make a statement. To everyone in Autauga County. Let's hold hands so everyone can see.' I said, ‘You crazy? You want to get me killed?' But she kept talking about the ‘Age of Aquarius' and how we're not our parents and such. And I said no. I wouldn't walk up the school steps holding her hand for the world to see. Know what she said? She said, ‘James Trotter, if you don't
hold my hand I'll scream so loud I'll wake your dead kin and mine.'”

“What did you do?”

“I left her there.”

He was probably waiting for me to say something but I was still taking it all in. I'd never heard a story like that.

His eyes became bright in place of a smile. “Know what scorn is, cuz?”

I nodded a cool yes but I was searching my brain for the word
scorn
. I knew it wasn't good. It sounded like
scorched
. Like something burnt.

“No one wants to be made a fool of,” JimmyTrotter said. “'Specially a girl. That's where scorn comes in.”

I said nothing.

He laughed a little bit, although I knew he didn't think it was funny. “I locked myself in my room when I got home, waited for a knock on the door and for her family to be on the other side.”

“Did they ever come?”

He shook his head. “No.”