The Best Bad Luck I Ever Had (2 page)

“You play baseball?” I asked as we walked.

“No,” Emma said. She shook her feet as she walked, trying to keep the dust off her fancy shoes.

“I got a real glove.” I tugged at the wagon. “The only one in town.”

“Maybe down south girls play baseball,” she answered, “but we’re from Boston.”

I didn’t say nothing.

She pulled at the ribbon in her hair. “You probably don’t even know where that is.”

“Kentucky,” I answered. “I ain’t stupid.”

Emma slowed down to walk beside her mama. “Mama,” Emma said, loud enough for me to hear. “Why’d we have to come down south?”

“Emma,” Mrs. Walker said softly. “I’ve already told you. Daddy can’t protest where they send him. There aren’t many Negroes in the postal service.”

Emma glanced at me, then back at her mama. “I don’t think I’m going to like it here.”

“It’s only for a year,” Mrs. Walker continued. “Then Daddy can ask for a transfer.”

A whole year, I thought. That was a long time to wait for another postmaster. But maybe then we’d finally get a boy.

Next morning at breakfast, I sat down next to Ulman. He’s four years older than me and real smart. I leaned over to him and asked, “Boston’s in Kentucky, ain’t it?”

“No,” he said. “It’s in Massachusetts.”

“Oh,” I answered. I was suddenly mighty interested in my scrambled eggs.

3

 

 

 

AFTER BREAKFAST, I DID MY CHORES. ALL of us kids have jobs ’cept little Robert and Lois, who are only four and two. Mine are to bring coal into the house, chop wood, drive the cows to pasture in the morning and bring them home in the evening. We always have at least three cows so we’ll have enough milk and butter. Our main pasture is across the railroad tracks, and those stupid cows always stop right over the iron rails. I have to beat the cows with a switch to get them to move on. Raymond is our main milker. He’s fourteen, and everybody says I look just like him ’cept my hair is red and his is brown. He’s a bit taller and his nose is bigger and I’m much better looking, but other than that, we could be twins.

The morning after Emma came, I had finished my chores and was getting ready to go off hunting when Mama asked me to come help with the washing. Course it wasn’t a request, it was an order, but grown-ups like to pretend they are being all reasonable even when they ain’t. Washing was usually Della and Ollie’s job. They’re nineteen and seventeen and just about all grown up. Mama said they were both in bed ’cause their friend had come to visit. Now, I don’t get to stay in bed when my friends come over, but when I told Mama that, she told me to stop being fresh and go outside.

Ten-year-old Earl and Pearl had been drafted into helping too. They really are twins, but are as alike as a chicken and a chipmunk. Earl’s the chipmunk, quiet and watching everything, while Pearl’s the one poking her beak into everybody’s business. I felt a little better when I saw them helping because I hate doing the washing. Stirring that stupid old pot till your hands go numb. Rubbing all the water out on the wringer till your fingers are as wrinkled as the wet sheets. It’s almost as bad as churning butter, and even Mama agrees that is the worst chore of all.

The wash pot is huge, and we have to pull up every bucket of water from our well. Pearl was pulling as fast as she could, but it would take forever if I let her do it. I grabbed the rope and began to yank it like the halter of a stubborn mule. The bucket came up over the lip of the well and sloshed a mouthful of water all over Pearl. I laughed as she wiped at her face with her skirt.

Earl was trying to keep the huge fire going under the big black pot. It took a lot of heat to boil all that water. It seemed like I had pulled up about a hundred buckets (and spilled two more of them on Pearl) by the time Mama came out of the house. She was balancing a huge load of sheets on her hip. Even after ten kids, Mama’s long hair was still brown—mostly—and though her hands were wrinkled, her eyes were sharp. I thought she was real pretty, even if she wasn’t skinny like Mrs. Walker.

While we were working, Emma was sitting on her front porch, lazing about. This irked me no end. So I came up with a plan. “Traveling, you sure do get dusty,” I said in a loud voice.

Mama ignored me.

“Remember how you used to share the washing with the last postmaster’s wife? Be nice to do that again.” I admit, I was sassing her a little. But I didn’t care who helped, long as it wasn’t me. “Bet the new neighbors have a whole mess of clothes to wash.”

Mama glared at me and threw the sheets into the pot. Earl stirred them with an old broom handle. Pearl whispered, “They is Negras, Dit.”

Mama glanced over at the cabin. Emma sat in her rocking chair, watching us.

“Your mama home?” Mama called over to Emma.

“Yes.” Emma glided back and forth in her chair like she was bored.

“Tell her I’d like to speak to her.”

Took Emma a minute to get up, as if she was thinking of disobeying Mama, but finally she disappeared into the house. Pearl’s eyes got as big as a hoot owl’s. “Our clothes are gonna end up all black and dirty,” she said.

“Hush, child,” said Mama.

Mrs. Walker came out of the house, drying her hands on a white starched apron. “Did you want something, Mrs. Sims?”

Mama rubbed her hands on the front of her own dirty dress. Earl forgot to stir. Mama said, “I was wondering, Mrs. Walker, if you wanted to do some laundry.”

“Excuse me?” Mrs. Walker arched her eyebrows.

“Thursday’s wash day around here,” Mama explained.

“Mrs. Sims, I am not your maid.”

“What?” asked Mama.

“Just because we’re renting this house from you does not mean you can order me around.” Mrs. Walker sounded like she was talking to a small child.

Mama rubbed a soapy hand across her forehead. “But . . .”

“Why’s this so hard for you to understand? I’m not doing your wash!”

I started to laugh. “My mama ain’t asking you to do the washing,” I said.

Mama turned as red as one of the tomatoes in the garden. “Hush, Dit! If Mrs. Walker don’t want to wash her clothes with ours, that’s fine. Just more work for her.”

Mama walked back toward the pot, grabbed the broom handle from Earl and began stirring furiously.

Emma took a step forward. “You mean, you wanted to do it together?” she asked.

“That’s what I said, ain’t it?” Mama answered. She continued to stir.

Mrs. Walker pursed her lips. “Our clothes are rather dusty from the trip,” she admitted.

Mama gave a weak smile. “Dit, you can go now.”

I grinned. My plan had worked.

“But why don’t you show Emma around while me and Mrs. Walker wash the clothes.”

Not quite as I had expected. “But Pearl . . .”

“Pearl’s got to change her clothes,” Mama said without looking at me. “Someone got her all wet filling the laundry tub.”

Now Mama looked at me, and I knew I was stuck with Emma.

Emma didn’t seem too pleased either. She folded her arms across her chest. “I didn’t play with white boys in Boston.”

“Well, darling,” Mama said, “things is a little bit different down here.”

4

 

 

 

WHEN MAMA TOLD ME TO GO PLAY WITH Emma, I decided to take her to the top of my favorite mound. See, Moundville gets its name from the huge mounds of dirt that are spread out among the trees, twenty-six mounds in all. Pa says they were built by Indians carrying baskets of dirt and dumping them out, one on top of the other. Some of our mounds are over sixty feet high, so that’s a lot of dirt.

Don’t know why the Indians built them mounds. Ulman said something about a temple for heathen gods; Elman claimed they needed a lookout. But if you ask me, I say it was a scheme come up with by some old woman to punish naughty children. Ain’t nothing worse than hauling dirt.

Only took a couple of minutes for me to lead Emma through a field and a bit of wood to my mound. This was the place I went when I wanted to be alone. It wasn’t the tallest mound, but it had the best view when you climbed to the top. The mound was steep and covered with pricker bushes too, which made it a hard climb. I figured Emma wouldn’t like getting sweaty and dirty and that climbing the mound would be the best way to get rid of her.

Sure enough, Emma took one look up the steep grassy hill and shook her head. “No thank you,” she said.

“No thank you, what?” I said, playing dumb.

“I’m not really that interested in climbing your mound after all. Please take me home.”

“I’m going up,” I said, “but you’re free to go back on your own.”

Emma turned on her heel and marched back toward the woods. When she reached the edge, she paused and glanced at me again. “I’m not sure I know the way.”

“Then I guess you’d better come with me.”

Emma took one last longing look at the woods, then trudged back over to where I was standing.

“Okay, then,” I said. “Now as you may see, this mound is kind of steep. So what you need to do is hold on to the base of these shrubs and use them to pull yourself up.”

I demonstrated, scrambling a few feet up the mound.

Emma grabbed a couple of leaves and pulled. The branch she was clutching broke off and she tumbled to the ground.

“The base,” I said. “You grab the leaves, they’ll fall right off.”

Emma nodded and tried again. This time she got a pricker bush. She screamed and let go, falling down in the dirt again.

I shook my head.

Tears formed in her eyes as she held her hand up as if it were broken. “I don’t think I can do this.”

“Shoot, you haven’t even given it a try.” This girl was more a baby than I expected. “But if you’re gonna cry about it, forget it. You can wait here and I’ll pick you up on my way home.”

“No,” said Emma. She stuck her finger in her mouth and pulled out the thorn with her teeth. “I’m not a crybaby.”

I started on up the hill, and Emma followed as best she could. By the time we got to the top, Emma only had a couple more scratches on her hands, but she was complaining like she was taking a bath with bees.

“If this is what you do for fun around here,” Emma said as she tried to brush a smudge of dirt off her dress, “I’m never going to leave my front porch.”

Fine with me, I thought. But all I said was, “Quit your whining,” and led Emma to the edge of the mound to see the view.

The tops of the trees were as bushy and soft as green-dyed cotton. The Black Warrior River wound lazily through the forest. The fields of corn spread out in shades of brown and beige. Between the fields, a train chugged along, tooting its horn and letting off a stream of smoke. The sun shone down through hazy clouds and caused everything to shimmer.

“Wow,” Emma breathed.

I knew what she meant. I’d seen this view a thousand times, but it still made me feel big and small at the same time.

Emma shook her head. Her mama had plaited her hair into little braids and tied the ends with bits of ribbon. “I take it back,” Emma said. “This view is worth the scolding I’m going to get when my mama sees my dress.”

I frowned. She wasn’t supposed to like it that much. This was my place, and I didn’t need no company. “Want to see something else?” I asked.

“Sure.”

I took my flip-it out of my back pocket. This was a slingshot I had made by whittling down an old stick till it had two strong prongs and a comfortable handle. This particular one I had made out of a piece of driftwood from the Black Warrior. I cut a strip of rubber from an old automobile tire and a little piece of leather from the tongue of an old shoe and tied them together. With my flip-it, I could hit just about anything.

“Find me a little stone,” I said to Emma.

She picked one up and handed it to me. “See that bird?” I said, pointing to a yellowhammer picking ants off a nearby tree. The yellowhammer is actually a kind of woodpecker, with bright yellow feathers under its wings that are only visible when it flies. They are as common as ants in Moundville.