I thought back over my Prom Night encounter with Red and Larry in the men’s room off the lobby at the Holiday Inn, searching for something that might account for this sudden, all-out campaign of harassment. I couldn’t come up with anything.
“Red hardly ever noticed me before, and suddenly he’s my worst enemy,” I told Tim. “I don’t get it. Maybe he did see us that night. Maybe he knows what we did.”
“Look, he’s in deep trouble,” said Tim. “Twisting slowly in the wind. Everybody turns against him, he starts looking around for a target, and the first person he sees is you. Tomorrow, you watch — it’ll be somebody else.”
He was right. The next day, it was Tim. Red decided Tim should be known as Stinky in honor of his fondness for English Leather cologne. All morning Red made comments about Stinky’s hair, Stinky’s dorky black high-tops, Stinky’s embarrassing wide-wale bell-bottom corduroys. He made kissy sounds when Stinky got called to the blackboard in chemistry. By lunchtime all of Red’s cronies were crooning “Hey, Stink-ayyy” when Tim walked by.
“Maybe he does know,” Tim said. “Why else would he go after the two of us?”
“We’ve gone from being nobodies to the world-famous Five Spot and Stinky.”
“Yeah, what is he talking about, anyway — Five Spot?”
“These little places on my head,” I said.
“What? Let me see —”
I turned my head so he could see.
“Look at that.” He touched one spot with his finger. “What happened?”
“Nothing. My hair won’t grow there anymore. No reason.”
But there was a reason.
Last December in Alabama, our first visit to Granny and Jacko since we moved to Mississippi. Granny asked me to ride along in her old Rambler wagon to buy worms for an afternoon of fishing.
We were driving to town, talking. From nowhere a huge truck roared up behind us, blasting its horn, whipping around in a storm of flying gravel. Granny cried, “Whoo, honey! Where did he come from?”
The truck dwindled quickly in our windshield, flinging rocks that pecked at our glass.
Granny’s fingers fluttered around the rim of the wheel. “Daniel, if it’s all right with you, I think I’ll pull over for a minute.”
“You okay, Granny?”
“Oh yes, I’m just . . . a little shaky, I reckon. That truck was going so fast!” She eased the Rambler to the shoulder and switched off the engine.
All the color left her face. Her hand came over her mouth.
“Granny? What is it?”
A mysterious flicker in her expression — a wince. Or a smile. “Oh my!” she said, then slumped against her door and died.
Just like that. That’s how fast she died in the seat beside me, with cars whizzing past. The sweep-second hand on the dashboard clock ticked off the seconds. Traffic rushed by whoom whoom like the Indy 500. Oh God, Granny, please!
I opened the door. A string of blackbirds flew up from the field by the highway. The word Help rose in my throat. Somebody Help.
I started waving my arms at oncoming traffic. Many cars flashed by before a white pickup slowed and crunched onto the gravel shoulder. I ran up as he was getting out, a tall slender man in a cowboy hat, a glint of gold in his smile. “What’s the trouble?”
“It’s my — my grandmother, she’s — sick or something!” I couldn’t bring myself to say dead. “You gotta help us, please! Hurry!”
The man peered into the Rambler. I hung back, squeezing my arms to my sides, fighting the urge to take off into that field of weeds and keep running.
He pushed Granny out of the driver’s seat, started the engine, and barked at me to get in back. He drove the Rambler faster than I knew it could go. In a few minutes Granny lay on a stretcher in the emergency room in Pigeon Creek, with a doctor pounding her chest.
I waited in the hallway with the tall man, and listened to her dying all over again.
“It’s my fault,” I said.
“Don’t go blaming yourself. Wasn’t for you, she’da been out there all alone with nobody to help her. She’s lucky to have you.” He ruffled my hair. “Poor kid.”
And then he did something I still can’t believe, something so swift and unexpected that it was over almost before I knew he was doing it. His hand slid around, cupping the back of my head. He bent down and pressed his mouth to mine, kissing me hard on the lips, gripping my head to hold me there.
I shoved him hard with both hands. “Get away from me!”
He leaped back as if I’d bitten him. “Sorry,” he said, with a strange, painful smile. He lunged for the door, nearly running over a pair of nurses.
I never told anybody what he did. The only sign of it was those five little spots on the back of my head where his fingertips touched me. Where the hair wouldn’t grow.
And now Red Martin had pointed them out to the world.
Tim said, “Listen Dumwood, I’m getting really sick of being tortured by him. We need to start up a counterinsurgency.” He aimed his index finger and squeezed off a shot. “Hey, isn’t that your mother’s car?”
Indeed it was. “That’s strange,” I said. “I’ll give you a call — later, gator.” I loped over to the green Country Squire wagon. “Hey Mom, what’s up?”
“Hey honey, get in but don’t put your feet on the cake.”
I breathed in the warm sugar smell. “Who’s it for?”
“I’m taking you to the Beechams’ house, remember?”
“What? Mom. No.”
“I managed to get that mower in the back of the car all by myself, so you can unload it. Mrs. Beecham said she’d be delighted for you to cut their grass.”
“You called her?”
“Just as nice as she could be. She and her husband have been at the hospital day and night, they’ve had to just let their yard go. I told her how much you wanted to help.”
“Mom, I didn’t say that.”
“Well, I said it for you.” She turned right on Bridge Street. “So you might as well smile and be gracious about it.”
“Mom —”
“No backtalk. I’m dropping you off and taking Janie to the doctor. We’ll pick you up around five.”
Our tires roared crossing the iron bridge above the Yatchee, a sluggish little river with steep weedy banks. A passel of East Minor kids hung out at the railing, throwing rocks in the water.
I said, “Where’d you get the idea I’m this big friend of Arnita’s? I barely know her.”
“Doesn’t matter. You can still do her mother a favor,” said Mom. “I’m surprised at you, Daniel. I thought you’d be eager to help.”
“Okay! Sheesh!” I glared at the falling-down houses and house trailers of East Minor, the barbecue sheds, mangy dogs, half-naked kids running through sprinklers.
“Your brother finally called this morning. He broke his foot a second time, so at least they can’t send him . . . overseas. I told him he’s a fool to keep riding that motorcycle, but he won’t listen to his old mother.” She glanced at the paper in her hand. “Help me look for it. Three twenty-two Forrest Street. Why can’t they get some street signs on this side of town?”
I spotted an aging frame house, peeling paint, a large weedy yard, and a chain-link fence. “There’s 322,” I said. “Nobody home. Can we go, please?”
“She said let ourselves in the gate if they’re not there.”
“Mom, if they’re not home I don’t wanna —”
“Daniel?” Her sharp gaze pinned me in place. “Take this cake to the porch before you get your hands all greasy taking the mower out of the back. Ring the bell. She’s home. I’m sure they don’t have a car.”
I carried the plastic-wrapped cake, still warm from the oven, across the yard and up two steps to the porch. I placed it on a little table beside the front door. There was no doorbell. I knocked.
The porch floor shifted under approaching footsteps. A large brown woman peered out.
“Mrs. Beecham?”
“Mm-
hmm.”
“I’m Daniel Musgrove. I think my mom called you. To come cut your grass?”
“Hullo, Musgrove. I been waiting for you.” Mrs. Beecham must have been beautiful like her daughter once, the same delicate line to her face. Time and a lot of food appeared to have widened her out. She filled the doorway in her crisp white uniform.
“My mom baked you a cake,” I said.
“Well here, give it to me.” She opened the door with her elbow, reaching for the platter as she squinted past me. “Does she want to come in?”
“She’s gotta take my sister to the doctor,” I said, but Mrs. Beecham was already waving to Mom to crank down her window.
“Don’t you want to come in?” she called. “I can make coffee.”
“Oh, no, thank you so much, I’ve got a million things to do,” Mom said. “Daniel, come get this mower.” She was glad to bring me over, but she couldn’t wait to get out of there.
After she was gone, Mrs. Beecham stayed on the porch to watch me gas up the mower. “So this is the famous Musgrove,” she said. “How do you know my Arnita?”
“We’re in the band. And we’ve got a couple classes together.”
“Because after your mother called, I asked Arnita about you,” she said. “She’s never even heard of you.”
“She’s awake? That’s great! I mean, the last I knew she was in a coma.”
“No.” Her eyes never left my face. “So if she doesn’t know you, what are you doing over here wanting to cut my grass for me?”
“It was my mom’s idea. When she heard about the accident, she wanted to make you a cake. And she thought I could give you a hand with the yard.”
“You look like somebody who knows something, Musgrove. Like maybe you know what happened to her that night. She has a hard time recalling exactly.”
“Oh, no ma’am,” I said, “I don’t know anything about it.”
“Maybe you had something to do with it,” she went on, gently mocking. “You got to feeling guilty, came around here thinking you could do me a favor, that would help you feel better about the whole thing.”
I had expected Arnita might nail us. I was not prepared for her mother. “I’m sorry. That’s not how it is. I just came to help. If you want me to go, I will.”
“Aw Musgrove, try and look a little bit indignant when you are wrongly accused. Unless you just want everybody to know you’re guilty.”
“But I’m not!”
“Tell you what.” She swept an arm across her unruly yard. “You cut all that grass. Rake up what you cut and put it in them bags yonder — see that roll of yard bags where I’m pointing? Don’t be leaving grass clippings all over my yard.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“And then I’ll let you know what else.” She opened the door and went in.
“Yes ma’am!” I held off saluting until she shut the door.
I yanked the mower to life. The big Yazoo roar drowned out everything.
I threw myself into cutting that yard, sending up a green fog of pulverized grass. My heart pounded, not just from the effort of pushing the mower. Mrs. Beecham was onto me even before I set foot on her porch. More psychic than Jacko! Jumps to conclusions faster than a speeding jackrabbit!
But the news was wonderful: Arnita was not in a coma. She was not going to die. She didn’t know who I was, had never even heard of me. She wouldn’t accuse me or Tim. Our Lie would not be found out. I felt a great selfish flood of relief. I could already hear Tim saying I told you so.
Mrs. Beecham stepped outside as I mowed the last slice of grass. She had changed from her maid uniform to a blue flowered housedress and flip-flops.
She held a beautiful glass of lemonade with sweat-beads rolling down the side. I wondered if this might be evidence that she was softening to my presence. I killed the engine.
“Hot day,” she said. She put her lips to the glass and drank deeply.
“Yes ma’am.”
“If you’re thirsty, there’s a hose out there by the shed. I’d offer you some lemonade, but this is the last of it.” She eased herself to the porch swing.
“Thanks. I’m not thirsty.” I started raking. The cut grass was quickly whitening in the afternoon heat. I thought I might die of thirst watching Mrs. Beecham sip from her tall, frosty glass, but I refused to drink a drop from the garden hose while she sat there with her lemonade.
It took a long time to fill a dozen large bags with cut grass and stack them at the curb.
A beat-up orange taxi pulled up. Mrs. Beecham stepped back in the house for her purse and keys. “I’m going to spell Beecham at the hospital,” she said, locking the door. “He’s been there since last night. Is your mother coming back for you?”
“I hope so.”
“All right then, I’ll see you tomorrow at four-thirty.”
“Ma’am?”
“You get out of band practice at four, correct? So you can be here by four-thirty. Don’t be late. Do you have a ladder at your house?”
“Yes, but —”
“Bring it. We’ve got work to do.” She climbed in the taxi and rode away.
She might have said thanks, Daniel, nice job, thank you for mowing the yard from the goodness of your heart — but no! Come back tomorrow! Bring a ladder!
I carried the last rakeful of grass clippings to the garbage can by the back door. I lifted the lid to find my mother’s lemon pound cake, still in its plastic wrapping, sitting atop the smelly garbage.
I put the lid back on the can and dumped the clippings on the ground beside the can.
Mom and Janie drove up soon after. “Oh look how nice it looks!” Mom said. “You did a good job, sweetie. I bet Miz Beecham was thrilled.”
“Not exactly. She says I’m supposed to come back tomorrow.”
“Get in, Danny,” said Janie. “We’re gonna go buy the stuff to make a volcano.”
I hoisted the mower onto the tailgate. “Mom, I cut her whole yard for free. Do I really have to come back and do more tomorrow?”
“She must really need you,” she said. “I think it would be very sweet of you to do that.”
“For free?”
“Of course for free,” Mom said. “Look at their house, you think she can afford to pay you? Imagine their hospital bills, that child has already been in there a long time.”
“But Mom —”
“Did she say anything about the cake?”
I looked out the window. “She said she loved it.”
“I knew she would. Everybody loves that cake.”
The next day after band I trudged across the Yatchee bridge, past the usual gang of boys throwing rocks into the river, up the long hill to the stoop where Mrs. Beecham sat waiting for me. “Hullo, Musgrove.”
“How’s Arnita today?”
“Better. They’ve got her using a walker. Beecham said she made it down the hall and back by herself this morning.”
“Mrs. Beecham, how bad is she hurt? I mean, is she getting better?”
“Sure she is. She’s not exactly her old self yet, but every day a little more. Hey now, didn’t I tell you to bring a ladder?”
“Yeah, but how am I supposed to carry a ladder? I take the bus to school, then I have to walk all the way over here.”
“Well, we’ll just have to borrow you one,” she said. “How you expect to paint the house without a ladder?”
“I’m not painting the house,” I said.
“Sure you are! Look at that house! Don’t you think it needs painting? Who do you think is gonna do it?”
“You expect me to paint this whole house by myself? I’ve never painted anything.”
“Let me tell you, the best painter who ever lived had to start somewhere. And I bought you the good kind of paint too, look here. Not the kind that comes flaking off in the first rain. Got you a big scrub brush and some Clorox so you can get off all that mildew before you go putting good paint on there.”
“Mrs. Beecham, listen.”
 
; She folded her arms. “What?”
“I’ve got homework, you know. And I’m in the band . . . and we have this huge yard I have to cut by myself since my brother went off to — Vietnam.” With my luck Bud would now be sent to Vietnam and that would be my fault too. “I don’t have time to paint your house.”
“I don’t expect you to finish it this week,” she said. “You just work on it nice and steady, couple hours a day. You’ll be done before you know it.”
“Mrs. Beecham. We live eleven miles out in the country. I ride the bus to school. How am I supposed to get home from here?”
“You got a bike?” she said.
I nodded.
“Ride it. You could stand to lose a few. That’s how Arnita stays so slender, she rides that bike of hers everywhere. Or she did, before this happened.”
I heard the message: Arnita is not riding her bike now.
I believed that I understood what she was offering me: a chance to work off my guilt without having to confess. Instead of trying to explain anything, I could come here every afternoon and pay down the balance of what I owed.
Tim got mad on the phone. “Why are you getting mixed up with those people? Are you trying to get us caught?”
It was my mom’s big idea, I explained. I was trapped. “This Beecham woman has got our number, Timmy. She had us all figured out before I even got there.”
“That’s impossible,” Tim said. “I think you just look naturally guilty. You go around radiating guilt. To me, what looks the most suspicious is you showing up wanting to do favors for her, while Arnita’s still in the hospital.”
“Tim. The woman knows.”
“Oh come on. You’re so paranoid you’re gonna get us caught. Cut it out, Skippy. Quit thinking about it.”
“I can’t, Tim. I’m not like you. I can’t just forget what we did.”
“You could at least try,” he said.
Every morning I got up an hour early to ride my bike to town, so I could spend the afternoons painting the Beecham house a soft minty green with white trim. At first it was hard waking up to my lonely bowl of Rice Krispies, pedaling off down the road at dawn, but actually I began to enjoy it. Dad was around the house more these days, with his smaller territory, so it was good to be out of there before he got up. The open road was better than the smelly old school bus anyway — bugs humming in the weeds, the whir of my skinny tires on pavement. I learned every wrinkle in the road between our house and town. I whizzed along fast enough to startle quail from the weeds.