Whistling Past the Graveyard (5 page)

5

b

ack when I was in second grade, I come home from school and caught Mamie stuffing something in the trash barrel back by the alley. Usually I used the front door and heard Mamie call, “Go change your clothes,” even before the door closed behind me. I hated changing my clothes after school. Not so much the changing. It was more setting away shoes and putting my dress on a hanger, which was a real pain in the behind. That day I’d got a brilliant idea. If I just went straight to the backyard, I might be able to get dirty before Mamie saw me. And if I was already dirty, there wouldn’t be a reason to make me change.

I walked along the side of the house, crouched low in case she was looking out the windows. It was cold so they were closed and I didn’t have to worry about noise givin’ me away. Once I got to the back corner of the house, I made a run for the tire swing Daddy’d hung when I was fi v e .

That’s when I saw her by the trash barrel.
Well, she looked as surprised as I was. She jumped and squeaked, grabbin’ her chest like he heart was gonna leap right out. She hurried toward me and, with a hand on my shoulder, moved me toward the back door. She said I’d startled her, but she looked for all the world like she was doing something sneaky, something she didn’t want me to see. It was my job to take the trash out and Mamie never did my job, even when I had tonsillitis. I got even more suspicious when she sat me down in the kitchen before I’d changed my clothes, poured my glass of milk for me, and let me have two cookies—and they were the good ones Mamie bought for bridge club that I wasn’t allowed to eat.
As I ate my cookies, I got to thinking. If Mamie didn’t want me to see what she’d put in the trash, I was gonna have to be crafty like a fox in finding out what it was. If she knew I was suspicious and looking, she’d just make up something I was doing wrong and send me to my room—believe me, she’d done it before. She’d send me to my room all right, and then hustle right out there and either burn the trash (which wasn’t supposed to be done until the next day) or move whatever it was she’d been hiding. Either way, I’d never know.
I needed a plan.
For the rest of the afternoon I went around the house gathering up every scrap of trash I could find. There was a good stockpile underneath my bed. I took a grocery bag to my room and stuffed it with broken crayons, filled-up coloring books, two socks with holes in the toes, and wadded up Kleenexes. I even pulled out all of my gold-star papers from school; I’d been keeping them in one of my drawers so I could show Daddy when he came home to visit. All of the sudden it was more important to find out what was in that trash barrel than it was to show Daddy I could spell
bakery
and
away,
match a chicken to an egg, and tell the number of stripes on the American flag. There weren’t any arithmetic papers, ’cause arithmetic gave me fits.
I blew my nose ten times, just to make more Kleenexes. Mamie heard and told me to wash my hands if I was getting sick. In the living room, I found two old church bulletins and threw them in the bag. I sure hoped Mamie was done with them.
By the time we’d finished dinner, the trash can in the kitchen was filled to the top. I picked it up and headed out the door while Mamie was busy putting bonnets on the leftovers and finding a place in the refrigerator for them.
It almost seemed too easy. I couldn’t let myself be fooled; I’d been caught plenty of times when I’d thought the coast was clear.
On the path to the trash barrel, I glanced back at the closed door; no Mamie peekin’ out.
I checked again when I got to the alley.
Coast clear.
Real quick, I set down the trash can and stepped up on the cinder block Mamie had put there so I could dump the trash. The barrel was half-full. At the top, there was a lot of newspaper, all loose and crumply, not folded like newspaper is supposed to be.
I had to hurry. I held my breath, hoping there wasn’t any maggoty garbage in there and stuck my hands in the newspapers. Nothing squishy or squirmy got against my skin. Instead I found a brown cardboard box, a little smaller than the box Mamie had sent some cookies to Daddy in. On the outside of the box, under a long row of stamps, was my name and our address. The brown mailing tape had been slit.
Mamie had opened a box that had been sent to me! I only once got a box parcel post; it had been from Daddy on my birthday when he hadn’t been able to get home.
After another look at the house to make sure Mamie wasn’t stickin’ her nosy nose through the crack in the curtains, I opened the flaps on the box. At first I thought it was empty, then I saw the envelope—a big manila one like Mrs. Jacobi used at school to keep flash cards in. It had my name on it, with big
x
’s and
o
’s, and I knew it was from Momma.
I felt my red rage coming on, but did like Daddy told me and took deep breaths until it passed. I couldn’t let Mamie know I’d found what she’d hid.
The envelope was stiff, not bendy. The flap on it had already been torn.
I heard the rattle of the back-door knob; thank goodness that door sticks. I stuck the envelope up under my shirt and grabbed the trash can. By the time Mamie had the door open and was asking what was taking me so long, I had the trash dumped and was on my way back to the house.
She looked at me real suspicious as she opened the screen and waited for me to come in.
“I saw a raccoon and chased it off,” I said before she could ask me more questions. Mamie hated raccoons in the trash. I just kept walking, afraid if I looked at her sneaky, package-opening face, my red rage would come barrelin’ back. “If it’s all right, Mamie,” I said real sweet, “I’m gonna go take my bath now. I don’t feel good.”
She reached out and put a hand on my forehead. “No fever. What’s ailing you?”
I had to think fast. What does Mamie hate as much as raccoons in the trash?
Me throwing up!
I grabbed my belly. “Uh-oh.” I ran straight for the stairs. “Oh,” Mamie called. “Let me know if you need me.”
Whenever I threw up, Mamie got all gaggy. I’d been throwing up on my own since I was three. It was just easier that way. Besides, wasn’t nothing Mamie could do but stand there and hold a cold cloth on the back of my neck—and gag. I could do both of those things myself. I went into the bathroom and locked the door. I pulled the envelope out from under my shirt and stood there just staring at it, at the way Momma made a big loopy
S
at the beginning of my name and surrounded it with stars, like it was special. I wanted to open it, but I didn’t want it to be over too fast. So I sat on the edge of the tub and held it against my heart.
Just to make sure Mamie stayed away I made some retching sounds and flushed the toilet.
Then I slipped my fingers under the torn flap and unfolded it. My stomach felt fluttery and my heart was beating fast and loud—maybe I
was
getting sick.
Pulling the envelope open, I looked inside.There was only one thing in there, a little record, one of them with the big hole in the center that only plays one song on each side. Patti Lynn’s sister, Cathy—we called her Fatty Cathy when we was mad at her—had a lot of them. Fatty Cathy’s records sat under her record-player stand in a wire rack that held them on their edges. They looked like a big, black Slinky. Patti Lynn and I wasn’t supposed to touch them. But we did.
If a record was scratched, it bounced the same word over and over until you went over and picked up the needle. I didn’t want to take a chance of scratching this one, so I reached in and hooked my finger through the hole and slid it out, slow and easy. The label was bright yellow and had a rooster on it. The word
SUN
was a rainbow over the rooster. Course I was only seven back then and couldn’t read all of the words, but I knew. I knew what it was. Momma had made a record, just like she’d said she was going to! “Baby Mine” was the song. Under the song was
Lucinda L-a-n-g-s-d-o-n
. Under that it said
D-E-M-O
.
“Baby Mine.” Momma had only one baby. Me!
I got so excited I nearly threw up for real. Momma had a record. She was getting famous. Pretty soon she’d be coming to get me and Daddy.
We didn’t have a record player at our house. I was gonna have to wait until I could take it to Patti Lynn’s to hear it.
That night, I wanted to put the record under my pillow, just to be close to it and make sure it was safe, but records scratched and broke too easy—Patti Lynn and I had found that out. We’d told Cathy one of the brothers had done it. Easy enough—those brothers of Patti Lynn’s was always breaking stuff. Instead of under my pillow, I put Momma’s record back in the envelope and hid it in the very bottom of the very back of my summer-shorts and T-shirt drawer. Mamie wouldn’t have any reason to get in there ’cause it was February.
The next day, I went to school like normal, even though nothing was normal anymore. Momma was famous. She was coming to get me.
Mamie just seemed happy that I wasn’t still throwing up.
All day long, I felt like I had bees in my belly. That afternoon Patti Lynn had her momma call Mamie and invite me specially to come over. Mamie thought Patti Lynn’s momma was the most “cultured” woman in Cayuga Springs—whatever that was, it was good, I can tell you that. Patti Lynn’s momma and Mamie played bridge together with a bunch of other ladies. When Mamie hosted, we had to just about clean the whole house with a toothbrush and buy only brand-name snacks from the Piggly Wiggly. I can’t remember one single time that Mamie said no when Patti Lynn’s momma invited me to do something.
At four o’clock, Patti Lynn and I sat in the purple bedroom she shared with Cathy and played the record. It was Momma all right. I closed my eyes and listened, pretending she was in the room, not just coming from a scratchy-sounding speaker. It was the most beautiful song I ever heard.
I’d had Patti Lynn hide the record at her house so no one would find it. From that day, every time I went to Patti Lynn’s and we could get the bedroom to ourselves, I played that record. One day that song stopped being on the outside of me and moved deep inside. It was there all of the time, especially when I was feeling particular lonely.
That night, locked up in the little room in Eula’s house, I fell asleep humming that song to myself.

Me and Wallace and Eula had breakfast, grits and eggs. I even got to go out with Eula and get the eggs right out from under the chickens. It was fun until one of the hens got mad and pecked me good on the hand. I told Eula I liked the grocery store better, where the farmers brought in the eggs and did all of the chicken fightin’ for me. Eula found that particular funny for some reason.

Those chickens, flappin’ and peckin’ to keep their eggs before they even turned into baby chicks, told me that every momma wants her baby. Eula’s story ’bout finding James like that just seemed wrong. Could it be true? Or was she just a little crazy, too? The more I thought about it, the more confused I got.

As we finished breakfast and Eula and I cleaned up the dishes, I studied her. She didn’t act like she had a screw loose. In fact, we had a right nice breakfast, even with Wallace at the table. But that big, new bruise on Eula’s upper arm and the way she was careful not to look at him told me I was right. He wasn’t a nice man at all.

I really liked Eula and didn’t want to get her in trouble for taking James. Once I got to Nashville, Momma would help me sort out what to do. Momma would know a way to find out who James’ s mother was, then figure out how we could get her baby back to her without sending Eula to jail for kidnapping.
But that was all for later. Now it was time to go.
I folded my dish towel and set it on the drain board. “Thank you

for helpin’ me out and feedin’ me.” I stood tall as I could and headed toward the front door.

“Stop right there!” Wallace’s voice was extra grumbly this morning, making him sound even more like a bear.
I kept walking out the front door and climbed into the passenger seat of the truck. My mouth was dry and I all the sudden needed to pee—that always happened when I got real nervous.
The screen door squeaked open and Wallace thundered across the wooden porch. I paid no mind; I just slammed the truck’s door and sat looking out the windshield.
To keep from peeing my pants, I counted my breaths. One. Two.
Wallace yanked open the passenger door so hard I was surprised it didn’t come off in his hand. “Get out.”
“My momma is waitin’. You only need to take me to the highway. I’ll get a ride from there.” My insides was wobbling like Jell-O, but I didn’t look at him.
The front door squeaked again. “Wallace,” Eula called, her voice meek as a mouse. Even I knew that wasn’t gonna get the bear’s attention.
“Get. Out. The. Truck.” I could tell he was gritting his teeth, but I didn’t look at him.
“Wallace.” Eula’s voice was sweet, like she was singing to baby James. “I told you it was gonna be all right, now. She goin’ to Nashville. She ain’t coming back round here. Right, Starla?”
I am white. I am the boss of what happens here. “That’s right. I’m moving to Nashville permanent. I got no reason to come back.” That didn’t sound quite forever enough, so I added, “I won’t never be back.” I didn’t tell them that I couldn’t never come back.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the big hulk of Wallace step back from my door.
He’s getting in. He’s takin’ me to the highway.
But instead of walking around the truck, he went toward Eula. I chanced a peek as he grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her.
“You done it. If ’n you didn’t take that baby, that girl could go on her way to her momma and everything be fine. But you done stole that baby. This is on you! You hear me? On you!” With his last words he shoved her hard, flinging her away from him. It was everything I could do not to jump out of the truck and onto his back, scratch his angry bear eyes out. But I knew if I did, I’d never get away from here. And he’d be even madder at Eula.
Eula stumbled, but kept her feet.
Wallace started to turn toward me. I snapped my eyes back to the windshield. I had to blink twice ’cause tears kept wanting to get out.
Breathe. One.Two. “It’s time to go. I don’t want my momma sendin’ the police lookin’ for me.”
If he was worried about somebody finding out Eula took James, it stood reason that he wouldn’t want the police nosing around searching for a little girl.
Wallace moved surprising quick. He grabbed my arm and yanked me from the truck so fast I didn’t have a chance to get my feet under me. I ended up on my knees, my arm up by my ear, pinched in his big hand. It hurt, but I wasn’t gonna let him know that.
Eula’s soft steps came closer, hesitant, like a deer checking if it was safe to come from the woods.
He pointed at her. “Stay away! You know what needs be done.”
“No, Wallace! Please!”
“Get back, woman!” He shook me a little, and I hung there like a rag doll at the end of his arm. “Sometimes I think you’s dropped on your head as a baby! There ain’t but one way out of this now.”
“She just a little girl, nobody goin’ pay her no attention.” Eula’s hands clasped beneath her chin.
“She a white girl. You know they don’ ask a colored if a white girl tellin’ the truth afore they strike. They be all over us. Even if they ask, you done stole that baby.” He shook his finger toward the house with the hand that wasn’t digging into my arm.
“She won’t tell!” Eula cried, her hands out, palms up, pleading.
“I won’t!” I shouted. “I won’t tell! I don’t care ’bout no baby!” “I keep her! Keep her in secret!”
He breathed deep; his whole body shuddered when he let it out. He swung his free hand and landed Eula in the dirt. “This on you.”
He started to drag me toward the woods.
“No!” Eula screamed from down on the ground. Her arms reached toward me.
“I won’t tell! I won’t!” I twisted, but Wallace held firm. My feet dragged in the dirt. “Let me go! I just wanna go to Nashville!”
Eula crawled after us. Crying. Begging.
My insides turned to water. I shoulda broken that window and run last night while I had the chance.