Some Sweet Day (11 page)

He didn't speak all the way back to town. He just hunched over the steering wheel, trying to keep the tires in the ruts and out of the soft mud. We'd left the windows down while we were at the farm, and the seat stank and felt clammy against my wet clothes and warm skin. I wiped the fog from my window sometimes, trying to see out, but there was nothing worth seeing, so I quit and laid my head back.

He turned at Pearly White's and parked in front of the little white telephone office behind the drugstore.

“You wait here,” he said. “I'm going in here and call your Uncle Oscar.”

Daddy had broken down his shotgun on the kitchen table and was cleaning and oiling the parts the next day when Uncle Oscar and Uncle Toy knocked. I was sitting with him, watching. He'd said I could if I wouldn't ask him any questions. Daddy paused and cocked his head when he heard the knock and Gran going to answer the door. When he heard Uncle Toy saying hello, he started wiping the piece he held in his hand again.

Gran came to the kitchen door and said, “I think you'd better come out, Gate, so the men can talk privately.”

“He's all right, Gloria,” Daddy said. “Let him be.”

Gran pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows, then disappeared.

Uncle Toy was mad from the start. “What do you mean calling us down here like this, Will? What's the emergency?”

Daddy didn't look up from his work. “Afternoon, Toy,” he said, “Pull up a chair. You, too, Oscar.”

Uncle Oscar's sad eyes shifted nervously around the room. He raised his hand in a little wave to me and formed “Hi” with his lips but didn't say it. He saw the two chairs over by the cabinet, moved them over by the table, motioned Uncle Toy toward one and sat down in the other with a sigh. His face was gray and haggard.

Uncle Toy was flushed and splotchy, and the yellow curls that ringed his head seemed to stand out like little springs. They jiggled when he moved. He had on his blue funeral suit with the flag on the lapel, but his collar was unbuttoned, and his red tie hung loose at the throat. He folded his arms on the table and glared across at Daddy.

“All right, Will,” he said. “Let's get to it right now. You told Oscar there's an emergency. What is it?”

Daddy swung the shotgun barrel up toward the window over the sink and peered through it like a telescope. “It's amazing how dirty a gun can get just sitting in the closet for a year,” he said. “Rust and moth do corrupt, don't they, Oscar?”

Uncle Oscar smiled faintly. “Yeah, Will, I reckon they do,” he said. “Leastways, that's what the Good Book says.”

“Did Toy tell you that?” Daddy asked. “He knows all about the Good Book, don't you, Toy? Couldn't hardly run your business without it, could you, Toy?”

“Never mind
my
business!” Uncle Toy yelled. “I want to know why you called us down here!”

“My
business,” Daddy said, laying the gun barrel on the table.

“Your
business?”

“Stop playing like you're a goddamned idiot, Toy. I need to talk to you about the farm.”

Uncle Oscar's hand started shaking. He took an Eversharp pencil out of his shirt pocket and twisted the eraser, running the lead up and down. Uncle Toy calmed down a little.

“All right,” he said. “The farm. What about it?”

“Me and Gate took a ride out there yesterday.”

“What for?”

“To see how things looked. And to tell Shipp to get off.”

“Why?”

“Things ain't too good out there, you know. That son of a bitch don't even know how to crank a tractor right.”

“Why do you want him off, Will?” Uncle Toy was quieter now.

Daddy picked up the trigger mechanism and squirted some solvent into it with an eyedropper. “I want to move back,” he said quietly.

“You…” A wave of Uncle Oscar's hand cut Uncle Toy off.

Daddy looked up at Uncle Toy. “I want to be back on that farm by Christmas,” he said. He glanced at me with a very slight smile. “Shipp was very polite. He told me I should talk to you about it.”

Uncle Toy's pink hands flew into the air. “Impossible!” he yelled. He jumped up and walked to the other end of the table and leaned over Daddy, shaking his finger. “You talk about me being a goddamned idiot! What do you think of talk like that? You don't know how hard it is to get help these days! We're damned lucky Shipp is out there! No, Will, you ain't going back!”

Uncle Oscar waved his pencil back and forth, like he was trying to erase Uncle Toy's words. “Now, take it easy, Toy,” he said. “Will just wants to talk, that's all.”

“No, it
ain't
all!” Daddy yelled. “I want to go back!”

Daddy's sticks were leaning against the table beside him. Uncle Toy grabbed them up like a bouquet of funeral flowers and shook them in Daddy's face. “What are these?” he asked. “Are they planters? Are they harrows? Are they even shovels? No, by God! They're walking sticks! They're your walking tools, Will! You couldn't get across this room without them!”

“I ain't always going to be this way!” Daddy yelled. He started to try to get up, then didn't. “I'm getting better! I'm not going to be using those things always!”

“By Christmas?” Uncle Toy asked quietly. He smiled sadly, shaking his head.

“I wouldn't have any field work to do before spring,” Daddy said. “Gate and Lacy could help me with the animals.”

“We got no guarantee that you'll be ready to work even by spring.”

“You got my promise.”

“You can't make promises for your legs, Will.”

“Couldn't you take that much of a risk?”

Uncle Toy shook his head.

“What's a man supposed to do, then? I got a family to support, you know.”

“You can work for me,” Uncle Toy said.

“Doing what? I couldn't carry your carcasses for you.”

Uncle Toy shrugged. “We could think of something. Driving the hearse, maybe. Times being what they are, I don't think it would hurt none to have a veteran in the organization. Especially if he's…”

“A cripple?”

“I wasn't going to say that, Will.”

“It don't matter. You were thinking it. Oscar?”

“Huh?”

“What do you think, brother?”

He shrugged. “I ain't got a job for you, Will. Lifting those feed sacks and all…”

“That ain't what I'm talking about. Me and you own most of that farm. If you say so, I can go back.”

Uncle Oscar twisted the eraser, carefully watching the lead slide out of his Eversharp. “There's nothing I'd rather do, Will. You know that. I'd give anything in the world if I could…”

“Get out.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

Uncle Oscar slid the lead back into his Eversharp and stuck it in his shirt pocket. The chair scraped the bare wooden floor as he scooted it from the table and stood up.

Uncle Toy smiled, buttoned his collar and pulled his tie knot taut. “Let's go, Oscar,” he said. “I got some work to do.”

Uncle Oscar paused at the door. “I'm sorry, Will,” he said. “You've got your disability pay coming, anyway.”

I felt the yank on my arm and woke up. Rick was standing by my bed, stark raving naked, yelling, “Up! Up!” and jerking my arm every time he yelled.

“Cut it out. Rick! What do you think you're doing?”

“Up! Up!”

“Rick, now, stop it! Get out of here!”

He grinned, his brown eyes twinkling behind the row of tiny freckles across his nose. I laughed, and leaned over and grabbed him under the arms and yanked him onto the bed. I straddled him and played like I was socking him again and again in the face.

“Pow! Pow! Take that, and that, and that!”

He started giggling and wiggling around, and I rolled over like he'd knocked me off of him, and he climbed on me and started pounding me on the chest. Then he stopped, breathing hard, and looked down at me like he was wondering what to do next. I tickled him in the ribs, and he fell over on the bed, squealing and wiggling.

“Gate!” Mother called from the kitchen. I smelled coffee and bacon.

“What?”

“Leave that kid alone and get up. Breakfast is nearly ready.”

“Okay.” Rick was lying on his belly, his white rump gleaming in the sunshine. “Get up and get some clothes on,” I said.

“Can't.”

“Why not?”

“Got to potty.”

“Well, go on.”

“Come with me.”

“Oh, all right. I'll sure be glad when you learn to wipe yourself.”

“Me, too.”

I got up and put on my shirt and overalls. Rick grabbed my finger, and we walked to the back porch, where the pot was, and he sat down.

“Gate, come on! Breakfast is ready!” Mother yelled.

“I can't. Rick's on the pot, and I'm helping him.”

“Well, tell him to hurry.”

Rick was grunting and red in the face. “Aren't you through yet?” I asked.

“No.”

“Well, hurry. I can't stand here all day.”

I heard a footstep behind me and turned. Daddy was standing in the doorway. He looked like he'd just gotten up. His hair was all messed up, and black whiskers were standing out on his face. He had his pants on, but just the top button was buttoned. The fly was open, and his belt wasn't buckled. He wasn't wearing a shirt, and I could see his ribs sticking out, even under his undershirt. He leaned into his sticks. His eyes looked small and very black behind his glasses, and I felt like they were boring two holes right through me.

“What's the trouble?” he asked. His voice sounded funny, like he needed to clear his throat.

“Nothing. Rick's on the pot, and I'm going to wipe him when he gets up.”

“Breakfast is ready. Can't you hear?”

I didn't say anything.

“Can't you hear?”

“Yes.” Rick was still grunting behind me.

“Well, why don't you come, then?”

“Rick's not through.”

Daddy moved past me and stood looking down at Rick. Rick glanced up, then lowered his head again and looked at Daddy's knees. He was still grunting. His face was still red.

“Get off the pot, Rick,” Daddy said.

“I'm not through,” Rick said.

“Get up anyway.”

“No.”

“What did you say?”

“No.”

Daddy's right hand dropped a stick, and his belt came out of the belt loops like a black snake. It whistled and smacked down hard across Rick's small shoulders. Rick screamed, and he and the pot turned like they were about to topple over, but they didn't. Rick stuck to the pot like he was glued to it. Daddy hit him again, and this time Rick fell forward, and the pot flew into the air and spilled. Daddy hit again and again. I was crying now, and I turned to run into the house, but Mother was coming through the door.

“Will, stop it!” she screamed, but he acted like he didn't hear her.

“Will!”

Daddy dropped his belt and shifted his stick to his right hand.

“Will.”

The stick came down hard across Rick's neck. His head hit the floor, and he was quiet. Daddy raised the stick again, then everything stopped. He stood there, his stick poised like a saber. Mother's eyes were big. Her hands were cupped over her mouth, like she was drinking from them. Rick was wet with pee. His face looked like he was crying, but he wasn't. It was very quiet. I thought we were going to stay that way forever. Then Mother ran and snatched Rick up and shook him.

“Breathe, damn you! Breathe!” she screamed. Then she hugged him to her and broke down and cried. Rick's back and legs were crisscrossed with long welts that were getting redder and redder. I ran to Mother and grabbed her leg and cried into her skirt. She stepped toward Daddy, and I moved back. He was still standing there with the stick above his head. Mother moved right up to him, until she was standing right under the stick. Tears were streaming down her face, and she was gritting her teeth so hard that I could hear them grinding together.

“God
damn
you, Will Turnbolt!” she screamed. “God
damn
you!”

“‘O Lord, rebuke me not in thine anger, neither chasten me in thy hot displeasure. Have mercy upon me, O Lord, for I am weak. O Lord, heal me, for my bones are vexed. My soul is also sore vexed. But thou, O Lord, how long? Return, O Lord, deliver my soul. Oh, save me for thy mercies' sake. For in death there is no remembrance of thee. In the grave who shall give thee thanks? I am weary with my groaning. All the night make I my bed to swim. I water my couch with my tears. Mine eye is consumed because of grief. It waxeth old because of all mine enemies. Depart from me, all ye workers of iniquity, for the Lord hath heard the voice of my weeping…'”

Brother Haskell wept as he read the psalm. He stumbled over the words, pausing again and again to wipe the tears from his eyes. Once he pulled the white handkerchief from his breast pocket and blew his nose. There was weeping all around me. Gran had taken off her glasses and was crying into a flowered handkerchief. Mother was sobbing softly. Her tears glided down her face and dropped on Cherry Ann's frilly pink dress, but Cherry Ann still slept soundly on Mother's lap. Belinda stood in the space between the pews, peering over the back of the pew in front of her. She would look around at me, tears and questions in her eyes, but I couldn't look back at her. The small gray casket and the spray of red roses were a watery blur before me. The casket top was open. I couldn't see Rick, but I knew he was in there.

Harley and Ellen sat at one end of our pew, and Jim Bob, Virgie and Joe George at the other. In the row behind us were the Allisons. Bill Allison sat behind me, and the odor of the mothballs he'd taken his suit out of was even stronger than the sickeningly sweet scent of all the flowers that were arranged on tall stands at each end of the casket.