Such Sweet Thunder (34 page)

“How’m I gonna do
my
shoppin’?” he asked. “I don’t want nobody to see what they gittin’!”

“Call Aunt Rose an’ ask her if you kin go with her when she goes Sad’dy, why don’t you?” said Viola.

“You wrote your letter to Santa yet?” asked Aunt Rose. A rich aroma seemed to rise with each little burst of steam that escaped from the pot cooking on the stove.

“Yes, ma’am!” Warming up to the smell, he noticed at the same time that the frost had etched beautiful patterns upon the window. He thought they looked like leaves; thinner than toilet paper. Autumn leaves came to mind. He tried to remember autumn, the first leaf that fell, the last, and then he saw them all, lying in a heap around the trees.

Next year they gonna tear the schoolhouse down, he heard Rutherford saying
.

Last year? The leaves swirled up in bevies of color, yelling loudly, wildly, all at once.

“What’d you ask ’im to bring you?” Aunt Rose asked. “Chris’mas’ll be here before you know it.”

“A little horse an’ —”

“A what?”

“A horse, a
real
one, an’ a wagon, an’ a bicycle. But Mom says I need a pair a pants and a pair a boots — an’-an’-an’ Dad got real mad ’cause they was all wore out an’ he had to sell papers when he wasn’ no more’n — no older’n — me an’ he didn’ have no new ones — to buy no new ones ’cause Mister Mac didn’t pay ’im yet after he’s asked ’im three times already. An’-an’ then the telephone rung an’ didn’t nobody answer it an’ Dad got real mad! An’-an’ Mom said she didn’t know what she was gonna do, but we was gonna do somethin’. An’ then Dad said that Chris’mas ain’ nothin’ but just another day, no way … an’ —”

“B-o-y! You kin talk longer’n a eight-day clock! What kind a wagon you want Santa Claus to bring you?”

“A red ’un. A Western Flyer! With white rubber tires. They got a lot of ’um where Mr. Tom works ’cause Tommy said so. Tommy said it ain’ no Sanie Claus.”

“How does he know?”

“He said ’cause we ain’ got no chimney!”

“Aw — I don’t think a little thing like that’d bother
him
none, do you?”

“No’m, but …”

“You hungry?”

“No’m.”

“You mean you couldn’ eat a li’l teenie-weenie piece a sweet patada pie?”

She set the pie before him and poured out a glass of milk.

“If you don’t want it, just let it set there. I’ll be back in a minute.” With that she raised herself slowly from her chair and shuffled heavily into the other room with a painful groan.

Meanwhile he ate the pie, drank the milk, and studied the patterns of frost on the windows. He was about to conclude that they looked like the tangled branches of trees when she came back into the kitchen with a secret twinkle in her eyes, like when she had asked him if he couldn’t eat a “teenie-weenie” piece of sweet potato pie. Baby talk.

“You through?”

“Yes’m.”

“Come on in here with me, then.”

They entered the front room. She stopped in front of the trunk next to the piano and lifted the lid. It was filled with a lot of clothes and little boxes and things.

“See that bakin’ powder can?” she said.

He discovered a large can with writing on it. It had a slit in the top, like the top of the box you put your money into on the streetcar.

“I went to the Plaza!” he shouted excitedly, “all by myself! I got on an’ put the nickel in an’ got a transfer an’ rode all the way to the end of the line — an’ got off an’ walked around an’ looked at e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g! Reeeel pretty trees, an’-an’ b-i-g big big buildin’ with a lot of pictures inside! An’ we saw a ghost — An’ we run an’ run! Gittin’ out a there! Man oh man! An’ when I got back home it was twelve o’clock! Old Tommy said it ain’ no ghosts.”

“Can’t say there is an’ can’t say there ain’,” she said, faintly smiling. “An’ I don’ know nobody you kin rightly ask. Them that says it is is prob’ly crazy, an’ them that says it ain’ is prob’ly lyin’. Never seen a dead man yet that’d come back an’ tell you what happened. But let me tell you a little secret: They’s a lot a folks walkin’ ’round who oughtta done been in the graveyard a long time ago!” Her eyes danced and her nostrils expanded slightly, and then the faint trace of a sad smile appeared upon her face.

He picked up another photograph, in a wooden frame, about the size of a postcard. It had lain near the back of the tray, facedown. A tall thin man with a laughing face. His legs were crossed and his right arm was casually thrown around the waist of a guitar. His long strong fingers were stretched out over the keys.

“That’s a ghost,” she said softly.

“Who’s that?”

“Don’t you know who that is, boy? That’s your Uncle Billy.”

“But he ain’ dead!”

“Naw, he ain’ dead.”

She carefully placed the photograph in its old position, facedown.

“Don’t you wanna see what’s in the can?”

Her voice trembled and her bosom shook a little. He took the can up from the corner of the tray and twisted the top off. It was full of nickels.

“Look!”

“I been savin’ ’um for you the whole year. Every time I found a nickel in the corner of my handkerchief that wasn’ doin’ nothin’, I put it in.”

“Kin I have ’um a-l-l?”

“If you kin count ’um.”

“He picked out one: One —”

“Ain’t you forgot somethin’?”

“What?”

“Don’t you know?”

He grinned ashamedly, and then threw his arms around her neck: “Thank you, ma’am.” He kissed her on the cheek.

“You better git out a here, boy! It’s gittin’ late. You kin count ’um at home — an’ call up an’ tell me how many it is.”

They had finished supper when he arrived. He burst excitedly into the kitchen: “Look what I got! An’ it’s a-l-l mine! Aunt Rose
said
so! But I have to count ’um an’ call ’er up an’ tell ’er how many it is!”

“What on earth are you talkin’ about?” said Viola. “Did she give you somethin’ to eat?”

He held up the baking powder can, screwed off the top, and poured the nickels out on the table.

“Unh!” Rutherford exclaimed, dropping his paper, “Don’t forgit your pappy, boy!”

“Ain’ that sweet!” said Viola.

“She’s been savin’ ’um all year — just for
me!
”

“She’s so thoughtful!” said Viola. “Why — I remember she usta have a bakin’ powder can for me, too. You remember, Rutherford? Momma’d let ’er take me town on Sad’dy, an’ she’d point to the trunk an’ say: Don’t you wanna know what’s in the can?”

“That’s what she said to me, too!”

“How much you got?” Rutherford asked.

“One … two … three …”

Viola unconsciously tapped the can against the table as he counted, while Rutherford counted behind him. Presently, she felt something rattling in the can and looked inside, and then she stole a quick glance at them.

“Fourteen,” Rutherford was saying.

“Fourteen,” he repeated, looking at Rutherford with a broad smile. “Sixteen, seven-teen, eighteen.”

Viola tucked the can under her apron and stole quietly into the front room. With trembling hands she shook out the folded piece of paper, unfolded it, and withdrew a stiff neatly folded bill. She clamped her
hand over her mouth to keep from crying out. Then she withdrew her handkerchief from her apron pocket and blew her nose in the middle of it and wiped her eyes with a corner. She tiptoed to the middle room, eased the bureau drawer open, opened her handbag, and put the bill in her coin purse. Then she closed the bag carefully and quietly closed the drawer.

“Unh!” Rutherford exclaimed as she entered the kitchen, “this cat’s got six dollars and thirty cents, Babe! Kin you beat that? Five years old with six dollars all to hisself! Boy, you sure is lucky, you hear me?” He smiled mischieveously: “You gonna loan your daddy enough for a haircut an’ a package a cigarettes?”

“Here!” pushing the pile of coins toward his father.

“Naw, that’s all right, I was just kiddin’.”

Viola’s eyes got wet again. She reached for her handkerchief.

“I’ll loan you some, too!” he said very seriously. “How much you want? Here!” pushing the money toward her.

“You keep your money, babe,” said Viola, “you gonna need it to buy all the Chris’mas presents you wanna buy. You finished your list, yet?”

“Yes’m!”

“Let’s see.”

Rutherford took up his paper and resumed reading while he fetched the list from his drawer in the vanity dresser.

“Eh, you an’ Dad,” mumbling “Dad an’ you” under his breath. “An’ Aunt Rose, Aunt Lily, Miss Sadie, Miss Allie Mae, Tommy, Toodle-lum, Uncle Billy, Mrs. Derby, Chris’mas tree, Ardella, T. C., Miss Chapman, Mr. Derby, Turner an’ Carl an’ Eddie, an’ I ain’ gonna give Sammy nothin’ … an’ Wi’yum an’ Lem an’ —”

“Ain’t you gonna give Unc nothin’?” Viola asked.

“An’ Unc!”

“What about your Aunt Nadine an’ ’em, Amerigo?” said Rutherford, smiling over the edge of his paper.

“I guess so,” he said worriedly. “Aunt Nadine, Uncle Charlie, an’,”

“Aw, I was jus’ kiddin’, Amerigo,” Rutherford broke in. “You can’t give all those people nothin’ with no six dollars! Besides, you don’t wanna spend
all
your money. Keep some — to have some fun with, yourself. All ’em jokers ain’ givin’ you nothin’.”

“It ain’ the gift, it’s the spirit that counts ’cause the Lord is good to people that’s good to other people that gives ’um some a what they got!”

“He’s got you, Rutherford!” Viola laughed.

“Well — it’s your money. But I’d be damned if I’d give it
all
away like that!”

“Yes, he would,” said Viola.

“Who —
me?
Woman, you crazy? Never!”

“Yes, he would, Amerigo, your daddy’s just talkin’.”

Just after supper the rain froze into driving sleet. Sounds like sand, he thought. He went to the window and watched the tiny crystalline pellets bounce against the ground and scatter in all directions, as if they were alive. And then he heard the sound of the toilet flushing, followed by the swish of a woman’s underwear.
Always flush the toilet when you about to do somethin’
he heard Rutherford say, as the door on Miss Sadie’s side whined quietly to and the bolt slid gently home.
Then the people in the kitchen can’t hear you
.

Seven dollars an’ thirty cents! he thought suddenly, and at the same time reflected that Miss Sadie always flushed, but Mr. Nickles never did.

“I got
seven
dollars an’ thirty cents!” he said, turning to Viola who was clearing away the dishes. “Miss Sadie’s gonna give me a dollar!”

“Yeah, but you ain’ got it yet, don’ count your chickens before they hatch!”

He imaginatively removed the promised dollar from the six dollars and thirty cents and pushed it into the corner of his mind where Miss McMahon’s milk bottles and Mrs. Fox’s dime were. Then he turned to the window again and tried to decide whether or not he ought to buy Santa a present.

Meanwhile the sleet on the ground and on the roofs began to glisten within the wide circle of light thrown by the street lamp. The alley gradually came to look as though it were covered by a thin layer of polished glass. Long thin icicles hung from the lamp’s undulated rim. The electric wires glittered brightly, while fine points of shimmering light shone upon the grated surface of the sewer’s iron lid. The steps and the banister railings became dangerously slippery. And now, here and there, slanting streaks of yellowish light glided across the alley’s icy surface and burst into powdery explosions and dust settled over thin stretches of cobblestone in front of the houses. Ashes, he thought.

At his back Rutherford dozed in the comfortable chair, while Viola sat on the sofa opposite the Spanish lady who still placidly ate her red
apple upon the silver veranda, and impatiently knit a ball of wine-red wool into an afghan for Aunt Rose.

Presently she glanced at the star-spangled sky above the veranda, cast a thoughtful glance at Rutherford, who happened to look up from his dozing with a startled air, and smiled warmly, almost apologetically at him.

“It’s about your bedtime, ain’ it, babe?”

He let the curtain fall between him and the falling sleet and got ready for bed. Rutherford stirred sleepily, and when Amerigo wasn’t looking, Viola beckoned Rutherford into the kitchen. When the front room light went out and he was settled in bed, he heard them speaking in hushed, excited voices.

“Hey-hey!” Rutherford shouted.

“Ssssssh!” Viola whispered.

And the dark front room was suddenly filled with bright silvery secret hissing whispers.

“Ummm,” Miss Chapman hummed the pitch note.

“Ummm,” the class repeated.

Her hands swooped upward and fell:

“Si-i-lunt night, Ho-o-ly night, All is calm, all is bright!”

“Ssssh,”
whispered Miss Chapman, pressing down the obtrusive sound with the opened palm of her outstretched hands.

“Round young Vur-ur-gin, Mo-theran’Chil’, Hoooo-ly En-funt, so ten-deran’ mild. Sleeeeeep — in Hea-vun-ly pe-eee-ce! Slee-ee-ep in Hea-vun-ly peeeeace.”

“Now once again — softly!” she whispered sweetly. “Ssssh!” cutting her thin silver whisper in two with her sharp vertically poised forefinger.

“Si-i-lunt night,”

Big moons of light hung from the ceiling, diffusing a soft glow throughout the room, while the deep amber light of December, with much blue, much silver in it, filtered through the window, silhouetting the wreaths that hung before the panes, each with a big red bow-ribbon at the top, and within each wreath a little white candle whose flames licked the hoarfrost from the windows and made it glisten like rain.

“Sleeee-eee-ep in Heaaaa-vun-ly peeeee-eace!”

“Shall we turn off the lights?” asked Miss Chapman.

“Yeah!” they cried in chorus.

“Zenobia, you may turn off the lights!”

Zenobia, the chosen one, proudly marched up to the light switch:

Click!

Candlelight flared up! Each child looked into the mysterious face of his neighbor with a “Oh!” and a “Ah!”

“O, little town of Bethlehem —” Miss Chapman began to sing. The children joined in, and the candle flames twittered, as if for joy. They flickered through the eyes of the faces buried beneath the thin layer of ice beneath the silver trees. And now the hoar-blue houses beyond the window took on the air of dark faces wrapped in cellophane; their windows were eyes flooded with soft yellow light: