I started shaking my head halfway through her little solution and now I have to speak my mind.
“It’s one thing to kill a can, it’s another altogether to kill a man, no matter how much he needs killing,” I tell her. Sometimes little sisters don’t think things through, so it’s up to big sisters to help them with that. That’s what I think, anyway.
“Just think,” she says, happily pointing to my forehead that’s got a blue-brown welt on it from Richard’s slapping, “that could be your last bruising.”
* * *
With Gammy and Aunt Lillibit gone the house is quiet again. Momma’s stopped cleaning the clothes and I’m happy ’cause that means I don’t have to help her pin them up to the line to dry. One less chore to think about. Me and Emma decide we got to have two piles of clothes in our room: one for clothes that’re dirty beyond wearing, the other for reusables. Reusables are clothes that might have a stain or two, but can pass off as clean if you wear things like undergarments inside out. That’s our system.
The notice of eviction stays tacked to the door and pretty soon I don’t even see it when I come and go. It just blends in with everything else.
Momma comes out of her room sometimes, but I almost wish she wouldn’t ’cause all she does is cry or yell. I haven’t seen Richard in a couple of days, but I can tell from the empty beer bottles he’s been here, probably when we’re fast asleep. Maybe he’s back working again.
Things could have kept on like this, I guess, but that wasn’t the way it was s’posed to be.
Chapter Twelve
“One, two, three,” she calls out.
“Eyes on me!” we answer her.
“Two, three, four,” Miss Ueland says.
“Close the door!”
“I have some exciting news to tell you about,” Miss Ueland says, walking to the front of the room. “Quiet down, everybody. I’ve got something I need to tell you.”
Ellie Frenden whispers across to me, “I know what she’s gonna say,” but then clamps up and looks real pleased with herself.
“Now, class,” Miss Ueland starts. “I want to tell you that I’m about to become a mother.”
The class is dead quiet. All except for Ellie, who is trying to catch my eye so she can nod like the know-it-all she is. Her uncle’s the town doctor so I guess that’s how she knows about Miss Ueland.
“This is all very unexpected but very exciting for me,” she continues, “and for Mr. Ueland. But we are moving to the next county over so we can be in a bigger home that has room for a baby. I know babies are small but they do grow, you know, and soon we’ll need the larger space.”
“Does this mean you won’t be our teacher anymore?” Orla Mae asks while her arm is still raised to be called on.
“Mr. Tyler will be taking over for me—don’t make that face, Buddy Lee. Mr. Tyler is a fine teacher. But I’m afraid I will be leaving y’all, Orla Mae,” Miss Ueland says. “And that makes me sad, because I’ve loved teaching y’all.”
Her eyes rest on me when she says this last part, but I look away. Guess I won’t be coming to her about Richard after all. I knew I wouldn’t. I was just thinking.
* * *
I wish I could stay in my room like Momma does. Sure would be easier. I wouldn’t have to think about what all we’re gonna eat, how to get more food in the Frigidaire, getting homework done and then doing it all over again, day after day. Yeah, I wish I could stay in bed all day, too.
School just isn’t the same without Miss Ueland and sometimes I feel like I don’t even know my baby sister anymore, either. Since learning how to shoot she’s on a mission. It’s like she doesn’t need me anymore, really. She’s taken to going off to the river on her own, working things out in her mind, I guess.
Instead of going to the river, I go with Mr. Wilson to Zebulon’s a lot these days, so I guess I’m doing the same thing Emma is, just in a different way.
“Come on over here, girl,” Walles calls over to me from the barrel he’s setting on. “Lemme show you a lick I bet you could do real good. You hold on to the neck with yer left hand—you right-handed, right? Good. Them lefties got bats up in their heads, they so empty. So you take the neck and hold you’ finger—that’s right, the first finger, curl it around—on the top string and then with yer right hand you’re gonna pick out a tune. Use yer first finger and yer thumb for it and hit these strings—that’s right! I’ll be damned. See? You got yerself a melody there. Sounds good. Sonny, play me a G, will ya? Let’s lay that underneath the tune you just picked, Culver.”
“My name’s Parker,” I have to tell him. Even though I’d rather be called Culver after my daddy.
“I thought you were a Culver.”
“I was, but Momma got married after my daddy died and his last name’s Parker so it’s mine, too, now.”
“Not Parker for that fella worked over at the mill? That the one?”
“Yes, sir.”
Walles looks over at Sonny Zebulon, whose head has come up for air from the guitar he’s always bent over. They look at each other for a spell.
“How’d a little girl like you end up with a—”
“Walles,” Mr. Wilson says with a sharpness like if his voice was a knife Walles’d be bleeding. Walles knows it, too, ’cause he stops talking altogether. “Let’s play ourselves a tune,” Mr. Wilson says, placing his own guitar across his lap. “Let’s git down to it. I’ve had ’bout enough’a this jawin’.”
The music trickles over me like the water moves over and around the rocks dotting the Diamond River.
Hey, Carrie? Want to come over to my house after school? Check witch box on wether you can or cant.
Orla Mae
I look over at her to smile that I can but she’s looking to the front of the room real hard, so we won’t get caught passing notes.
I check yes and then fold it back up real tiny-like and drop my pencil on the floor so when I go down to pick it up I can slide it across the aisle to her desk.
Mr. Tyler’s writing up on the board so he doesn’t see her bend down to pick it up. She unfolds it one square at a time so it doesn’t make a rustling-paper noise that tells teachers kids aren’t paying attention.
After class we stack our books and wait for each other so we can walk out together.
“Wait on me a sec,” I tell her out in the yard. “I got to go tell my sister to get home on her own.”
“Hey, Em,” my breath taking a second to catch up to my feet, finally reaching her. “You go on ahead home. I’ll be there later.”
Emma looks past me to Orla Mae, who’s biting her nails like they’re supper.
“You goin’ over to Orla Mae’s?” she asks, like it’s against the law.
“What’s it to you? Just go on home without me. I won’t be late.” I know she’s wanting for me to invite her but I’ve gotten too used to being on my own lately.
She shrugs and turns away and all of a sudden I feel a pang like I wish I’d handled it all different.
“You wanna come?” I holler to her, knowing the answer and feeling terrible about it.
The answer is no answer. Just a little sister walking away.
* * *
Orla Mae’s house is not much bigger than ours, but there aren’t so many trees crowding around hers, so sunlight can make its way into the rooms.
We drop our books on a table that waits just inside the door.
“Hey, Momma,” Orla Mae calls out.
“Hey, honey,” the voice answers from the back of th
e house. “How was school?”
“Fine. Carrie Parker’s here.”
“That’s good.”
“Can she stay for supper?” Orla Mae hasn’t asked me if that’s okay, but I reckon Momma won’t even know I’m not at home.
“W’sure,” Mrs. Bickett answers. “We’ll eat in a bit. Why don’t y’all go on and do your homework ’fore it gets too late.”
Orla Mae rolls her eyes at me. “C’mon.”
She motions me to follow her out a side door that’s off their front room, which has pictures scattered on every flat top—pictures of babies, weddings, and sour-looking people who don’t look used to standing for a photograph.
“Who’s that?” I ask, pointing to a man with a tall black hat and round glasses.
“That’s my grandpappy, he’s my daddy’s daddy. Grew up on the east shore, Outer Banks. Back before anyone even knew they were there. He was all alone there with his parents, my great-grandparents. Never had any schooling or other kids to play with. Daddy says he right near lost his mind when he got old. C’mon.”
Out to the side of the house is a littler shack that looks like it’s built to copy the big one. Chickens go up and down a ramp, instead of stairs, in and out of the house, pecking as they go.
“They’re the stupidest things alive,” Orla Mae says. “Watch. I’ll feed ’em pebbles. Ha! Lookit that one—she don’t even know it ain’t food she’s eatin’. One time I fed them a piece of scrambled eggs Momma made for breakfast, and they ate them! You know what that makes ’em? Calenbles.”
“You mean cannibals,” I say.
“Why you gotta always be smarter than everyone else?” She throws a wood chip to the hungry birds. “Y’always doin’ that.”
“No, I’m not,” I say.
“Yes, y’are. In class you always get the right answer.”
“You do. I figure you’re the brainiest one there.”
“Yeah.” But she says it like she doesn’t believe what I’m saying.
“Y’all even cracked a book open?” Mrs. Bickett calls out the upstairs window.
“We will, Momma!” Orla Mae calls over her shoulder.
“What did I tell you? Do yer homework! No supper till you finish.”
“C’mon,” I say. The thought of going without a bite to eat makes me weak. “Let’s go on and do it.”
“All right, smarty-pants.”
“I am not a smarty-pants.”
“Are, too.”
We both sigh hard on our way back into the house.
Homework’s easy on account of Mr. Tyler being fooled by Freddie Sprague, who told him we hadn’t yet started our English workbook when we really had so the homework he assigns us is already done. I guess Miss Ueland left in such a hurry she forgot to fill him in on what we know and what we don’t know.
It’s been a long time since I heard the sound of pots and pans clanging around in a faraway room. I love knowing someone else has to figure out what we can chew on. I wonder what Emma’s gonna eat.
“We finished, Momma.” Orla Mae gets up and goes to the kitchen so I follow. Past the Bickett faces staring out at me, reminding me I’m a stranger here.
“Good. Now, come put out the salt and pepper. And Carrie, will you—oh. What happened to yer hand, honey?”
I put the forks she’d been handing me back down and quickly put my hand back in my pocket, where it’s been staying till it heals.
“Nothing, ma’am,” I lie. “Had an accident, is all.”
“Let me see that,” she says.
“It’s fine, ma’am. Really.”
She cocks her head to the side and says, “All right then. You okay to put these forks out?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say. “I sure am.”
I gulp back the spit that’s been collecting in my cheeks once the smell of home cooking reached my nose.
“Now, go wash up for supper, girls. And, Carrie, take care of that hand! That cut looks like it’ll loosen up real easy. Don’t git it too wet.”
I tried boiling the last of our eggs the other day ’cause Momma once said eggs that’re old got only one use: being boiled. I tried holding the pot of boiling water real steady on my way to carrying it over to the sink for emptying but I’m not as strong as I thought I was so when it got heavy it started dropping and I had to catch hold of it on the side opposite the handle and gave myself a nasty burn. Momma always said I’s clumsy.
“Orla Mae?” Mrs. Bickett says, settling into her chair at the kitchen table. “Will you say grace tonight?”
They unfold wash towels across their laps so I do the same.
“God bless this food, our friends—” she squeezes my hand across the table when she says this “—and our family,” I reckon she’s squeezing her momma when she says that, “and our home. Thank you for our blessings one and all. Amen.”
“Amen,” Mrs. Bickett says, her head still bowed.
“Amen,” I mutter, just to fit in.
“Pass the butter fat, will you?” Mrs. Bickett asks Orla Mae. “My, I guess some of us are mighty hungry!” she says, looking at me. I already have a mouthful of the roast chicken that’s so hot it’s scalding the inside of my mouth. But I don’t care. I never tasted chicken so good.
Orla Mae’s still buttering her first roll when I reach for my second, popping the whole thing into my mouth while I scoop corn onto my fork with the other hand.
I don’t know why Mrs. Bickett keeps staring at me.
“How’s that Mr. Tyler working out, girls?” she asks, after looking back down to her plate and delicately fixing a bite that’s half the size of the ones I been taking.
“He’s fine,” Orla Mae answers.
“Orla Mae, do not talk with yer mouth open,” her mother tells her. “You were not raised by wolves.”
When she looks over to correct Orla Mae’s eating, I grab a biscuit and drop it onto the towel across my lap. When I have another free second, I’ll stick it into the pocket in my sweater for Emma. By the end of the meal I have three biscuits stored away. Emma’s stomach’s not so big as mine so three’ll do her just fine. As for me, I’m stuffed fatter than a Christmas goose.
We clear away all the dishes, and when Mrs. Bickett scrapes off the plates I steal a drumstick, the only one not eaten, for Emma. It’s a might greasy and will surely make my sweater not reusable, but that’s okay. A big sister has to look out for a baby sister.
“Thank you for supper, ma’am,” I say to Mrs. Bickett, after Orla Mae and me finish drying the pots and pans she hands over.
“You’re welcome, Carrie,” she says. “You can come on back anytime you feel the urge, honey.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Tell your mother howdy for me!” she calls after me.
“Yes, ma’am,” I holler back. “Bye, Orla Mae.”
“Bye, smarty-pants.”
My cheeks flush red but it goes away when I look at her smiling face and realize she’s not laughing at me.
The way home feels much shorter on a full belly. I even skip some, knowing how happy Emma will be with the dinner I brought her.
But there’s a weird light coming from the front window. Like a candle, only not. Other times when I’ve come home in the dark the full window’s lit up, but tonight only half is.
The closer I get, the weirder I feel.
“Momma?” I say. I don’t call out too loud ’cause I don’t know what’s waiting for me inside.
When I
open the door I cain’t believe my eyes. Everything’s a mess, almost like it was when we got here in the first beginning.
“Oh, my dear Lord in heaven.” I say it just like Momma does when she walks into something me and Emma’ve done.
A chair is lying on its side. There’s broken glass crunching under my shoes. And now I see why the light looked strange coming through the window—the lamp’s been knocked over, its shade with it so it looks like it’s taking a nap on the floor. Crossing the room to put it right, since I figure that’s as good a place as any to start cleaning up, I have to step over a pillow from the couch and pieces of the china plates Gammy gave us to keep in the family.
“Momma?” I say it a littler louder this time.
The one picture we have—in a store-bought frame and everything—is lying facedown on the ground. It’s a picture of Momma and me on the beach when I was little bitty. Daddy’s the one who took it so he’s not in the picture, which I guess is a good thing since if he was we’d never have it setting out like we’ve done. Richard wouldn’t stand for it any.
I lean down to pick up the lamp and that’s when I see her.
“Momma!”
The blood’s spreading out from her head like a spilled coffee cup. One arm is bent like it’s been pulled out of the socket. Her housedress—the one she’s worn so long the roses have faded to where they look pink, not red, like they started out—is pulled up almost to her underpants.
“Momma?” I whisper to her, bending down over her head, trying to keep my tears from falling straight into her bloody mouth.
She moves her head slightly, so the one eye that’s not swollen shut can fix on me. Her lips are moving over her teeth.