More Sweet Tea Page 8

  “Mmmm,” we all said, though most of us weren’t sure what she was talking about.

  “Cucumber sandwiches?” one of the boys said, laughing loudly. “Heck, who’d want to eat a cucumber sandwich?”

  “Why everyone loves cucumber sandwiches,” she said. “Boys are silly aren’t they girls?” Mrs. Callaway said, turning to go back to the kitchen.

  “Boys are silly—boys are silly,” the girls chanted. What with dainty cucumber sandwiches and watercress with cream cheese I’m sure the boys were ready to go home.

  “What’s a glutton?” Kay whispered to me.

  After everyone left, and after I made sure they all knew I got to stay, Mary Ann and I went to the kitchen. We sat at a small table while Mrs. Callaway and the colored lady cleaned up. We nibbled on sandwiches and cookies and listened to them talk, rolling our eyes sometimes when we didn’t understand.

  I hadn’t seen much of Mr. Callaway during the party. But that evening in Mary Ann’s upstairs bedroom we dressed for bed, then Mary Ann took my hand and pulled me toward the stairway. Her little sister Patsy was with us but her other sister was away visiting relatives.

  “Patsy and I always go down and say goodnight to Mama and Papa,” she said.

  I loved the long curving stairway with its gleaming white banister and spindles. The steps were carpeted and felt good to my bare feet.

  Mr. and Mrs. Callaway sat in the living room; she was sewing and he was reading the newspaper in the glow of a green shaded lamp, the ever-present cigar still clamped in his teeth.

  “Well,” he said when he saw us.

  “Look at these three beautiful young ladies Mama. Where do you think they came from?”

  “Why I suspect they came straight from heaven,” she said, smiling at us.

  Patsy and Mary Ann laughed and ran to jump in their father’s lap. I stood back shyly, hardly knowing what to do and feeling a little awkward standing there in my nightgown.

  The girls kissed their father and then their mother and Mr. Callaway rose from his chair.

  “Who’s first?” he asked.

  “Me, me,” Patsy said.

  “All right, the baby is first,” he said. He picked her up and carried her up the stairs and into her bedroom. Then he came down and Mary Ann stood back, nodding toward me.

  “Take Caroline next Papa,” she said.

  “Would you like me to carry you upstairs?” Mr. Callaway asked. He seemed very tall as he stood looking down at me.

  I shrugged my shoulders, feeling very shy. How could I tell him I was afraid I was too big for him to carry?

  But he scooped me up in his arms and carried me up the stairs as if I was as small as Patsy. He put me down at the top of the stairs.

  “Wait here while I get Mary Ann.”

  He carried Mary Ann up, giving her a kiss on the cheek before putting her down beside me.

  “Are you tired Papa?” Mary Ann asked. “Carrying three girls up?”

  “Not one bit,” he said, smiling at her.

  “How long do you think you’ll carry me?” she asked.

  “Until you’re a married lady and I’m a very old man,” he said.

  Mary Ann took my hand, pulling me to her bedroom. She giggled and said; “He says the very same thing every night.”

  Before going to sleep, I lay in bed thinking I’d never had a day quite like that one.

  A few weeks later I went home with my friend Kay. Her environment was entirely different. They lived in a four-room house, not much more than a shack really. A little ramshackle white frame house, with floors that were not quite level. The walls were paper-thin and in winter the house was freezing cold with only a large pot-bellied stove in the middle of the living room. I have seen the stove so hot that the metals sides glowed red. Still the heat only permeated the cold in a small circular area. The rest of the house remained frigid.

  Kay’s mother was one of the dearest women I ever met. I often called her my second mother. Our treats after school, so different from the Callaways, were plain country food—sometimes in odd combinations. I remember that their refrigerator was practically empty except for a jug of milk (straight from the cow at the barn), a cardboard container of lard and a carton of R.C. Colas.

  I was shocked when I met Kay Dean’s Dad. He was a sort of jack of all trades, a self-proclaimed religious man, who worked with junk cars and often came in with grease caked on his overalls and hands. He had a little half smile on his face, but I had an uneasy feeling it was not genuine. He frightened me and I knew immediately that if my Dad ever learned what kind of man Kay’s Dad was, he’d never let me come back.

  This particular day her Dad asked Kay Dean if she was wearing lipstick. Of course we weren’t wearing lipstick, we were only 9 years old. But he didn’t believe her and drew back his hand as if to hit her across the face.

  I gasped and took a step backwards and then Kay’s mother came in from the kitchen.

  “Joe!” she said. “What are you doing? If Kay Dean says she wasn’t wearing lipstick, then she wasn’t.”

  The family attended an evangelical church. Makeup and short hair on women were strictly forbidden. As was showing one’s shoulders, arms or legs. Wearing a bathing suit, dancing or swimming with a boy was also strictly forbidden.

  But we were young and none of these things had entered our minds yet. We just wanted to have fun.

  Mrs. Jones hurried us away to the kitchen then sent us out to the garden for lettuce, an onion and a tomato. Our after school treat that day was a cold biscuit with mustard, lettuce, onion and tomato. Then she handed each of us a Mason jar filled with hot cocoa.

  “Run along girls and play on the hillside behind the house. Have a picnic,” she said, smiling. “Enjoy yourselves.”

  She was a dear, sweet woman and I loved her. I thought it was wonderful that she did everything she could to help us have fun. But somehow I couldn’t get the image of Kay’s Dad out of my mind. The way he smiled as he drew back to hit her and the look of hurt and humiliation on my friend’s face. She was afraid of him and sometimes I think she hated him.

  I’d never known what it was to fear anyone. Certainly not my own Daddy. And I knew that Mary Ann had never experienced that either.

  I wished more and more that the Sun and Moon, my two best friends, could one day be friends. But it didn’t seem likely.

  We were out for summer vacation and I didn’t see as much of my school friends. But Mary Ann lived just down the road from me and we saw each other more often.

  One day I realized I hadn’t seen her in couple of weeks. And we hadn’t seen Sheriff Callaway driving by in his old blue pickup.

  “Maybe they’re on vacation,” Mama said.

  I saw Daddy drive in from work and get out of his truck. He looked worried about something.

  I ran out on the back porch; he was on the ground and lifted his water jug up to me on the porch.

  “Bad news honey,” he said, looking up at me.

  “What?”

  Mama came out onto the porch, drying her hands on her apron.

  “The Callaway girl is sick,” he said. “They think she has Polio.”

  I heard Mama gasp as she came and put her hands on my shoulders.

  “Mary Ann?” I asked. “Are you sure it’s Mary Ann?”

  “I’m sure honey,” he said.

  “Polio,” I whispered. I remembered the frightening movie newsreels showing all the people with polio. It was the scariest word a family could hear. There were sometimes pictures in the paper of children in huge iron lung machines—horrible silver machines that looked suffocating. “But isn’t that…she won’t die will she Daddy?”

  Daddy’s brown eyes were sad when he looked at me.

  “I don’t know honey. It’s bad. They’re
in Hot Springs, Georgia trying to get the best treatment they can.”

  “Hot Springs…”Mama said. “That’s where President Roosevelt went. It must be very expensive.”

  I remembered seeing President Roosevelt in the newsreels too. He looked perfectly healthy to me. I had no idea at the time how he had kept his illness from the public.

  “Yes, he had a house there—remember? It’s the best Polio treatment center in the country,” Daddy said.

  In the next few days as the news spread, the community was in turmoil. People felt deep sympathy for the Callaways and for Mary Ann. But they were also afraid. At that time polio seemed to come from out of the blue. No one knew where or how it was contracted. For awhile the yards were empty of children as parents kept them inside, even in the hot days of summer. I knew my parents were afraid too.

  “I want to go see her,” I said.

  “Honey, that’s a long, long way from here,” Daddy said. “We can’t go there and besides I doubt they’d let you see her if we could.”

  I went to my room and sat on my bed. I felt too sad to cry.

  Mama came to the door, smiling at me sympathetically.

  “Why don’t we send her a card?” she asked.

  “Can we?”

  “Of course we can. We’ll go with Daddy into town and find a real nice card for her. You can even write a letter to enclose with it if you like.”

  After we mailed the card I watched the mailbox for days. The mailman came around noon and every day I’d run out, hoping to find a card from Mary Ann. But nothing came. I sent another card and then another.

  A few days later, Sheriff Callaway’s truck pulled into our driveway. Mrs. Callaway and Mary Ann’s sister Patsy were in the truck. Mr. Callaway got out, walked around and shook hands with Daddy. Mama came out and we went to the truck.

  “Hello Cara-line,” Mrs. Callaway said. “I just wanted to tell you how very much Mary Ann appreciates your cards and letters. She wants very much to answer them, but unfortunately she isn’t able to write at the moment.” Her voice caught and she looked down at her hands in her lap.

  I looked at Mama and she shook her head, warning me silently.

  “We’re all so sorry,” Mama said, stepping to the truck window and touching Mrs. Callaway’s arm.

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Callaway said, still not looking up. I saw that her face was wet with tears. “We hope…we hope that soon she’ll be able to use her hands.”

  “She’s completely paralyzed?” Mama asked, almost whispering.

  “Her right side,” Mrs. Callaway said. “Her left side is not as bad, and we’re hoping she will be able to learn to write with her left hand.” Mrs. Callaway’s lips trembled and I saw Patsy looking at her mother. Her eyes were filled with tears too.

  I’d never felt such excruciating pain as I did that day when I realized what having Polio really meant. This was Mary Ann we were talking about! A girl I knew so well. The calm, serene Moon. The smartest, prettiest girl in our class. To think of her helpless and paralyzed seemed impossible.

  How could this be happening?

  “Oh, I wanted to tell you Cara-line,” Mrs. Callaway said. “Your friend Kay’s mother sent Mary Ann a box of divinity fudge. Mary Ann said it was the first thing she’s enjoyed since she got sick.”

  “Kay’s Mother is a good cook,” I said.

  “Yes, she is, “Mrs. Callaway said. “And a good woman. She sent the nicest card and said their prayer group at church were praying for our little girl.” She sniffed again, and bit her lips to keep from crying.

  “People here are so good…so kind. So many of them I don’t even know. And yet they are praying for us and for our daughter. I believe those prayers will bring her home soon.”

  The Sheriff got back in the truck.

  “We just came home to get clean clothes,” he said. “We’ll be going back down tomorrow. I wanted to ask if you’d keep an eye on the house for us.”

  “Be glad to,” Daddy said.

  Mr. Callaway waved over toward me, his smile sweet and sad. I remembered the night he had carried us all up the stairs at their big house.

  As I watched them drive away I knew that we would never experience days like that again. I ran to my room and cried until I couldn’t cry any more.

  In a few weeks I did receive a card from Mary Ann. The writing was odd and almost illegible but she was proud to be writing with her left hand.

  “The therapy hurts terribly but everyone here is so nice,” Her letter said. “The nurses help us swim in the warm water of the springs every day. That’s my favorite time of day, except for mail time,” she said. “So keep writing to me.”

  By now my friend Kay had begun writing to Mary Ann as well. And in each letter I received from Mary Ann she was sure to mention Kay and how funny her letters were. I even told her about how my mother and I compared them to the Moon and the Sun. We all laughed about that and they decided if they had to have such nicknames I would have to be a Star.

  At last it seemed I had my wish about all of us being friends.

  We knew that Mary Ann would be coming home in the fall just in time for school. But unfortunately she would not be able to attend regular school because of the braces she wore on both legs and the metal walking aids she used.

  Kay and I both went to visit her at the big white antebellum house as soon as she came home.

  Mrs. Callaway stood smiling at the bottom of the stairs, as we walked up, slowly and sedately, neither of us speaking. Kay Dean’s eyes were huge as she gazed around at the beautiful furnishings.

  We went into the bedroom and found Mary Ann sitting up in bed. She didn’t look like the same girl we knew. The polio had pulled the muscles in her eyes to one side and also one side of her mouth. I wanted to cry when I saw what Polio had done to her beautiful face.

  But she smiled at us and Kay and I went forward pretending that nothing was different. Mary Ann and Kay talked and laughed as if they’d always been friends while I sat quietly and listened.

  Mary Ann’s illness had changed us all.

  We couldn’t stay long because she tired easily. But as we were leaving Kay Dean turned back to Mary Ann.

  “My mama said to ask if there is anything we can do for you,” she said.

  Mary Ann thought for awhile, then her eyes brightened.

  “All I could think about the last few weeks at Warm Springs was your mother’s Divinity. I’d love to have some more. If It’s not too much trouble,” she added softly.

  “Shoot no,” Kay Dean said. “She’ll be happy to make you some. I’ll bring it over Sunday after church. How’s that?”

  “Great,” Mary Ann said. “It’ll give me something to look forward to.”

  “Okay. See ya Moon,” Kay said with a wave of her hand.

  “See ya Sun,” Mary Ann said. “See ya Star,” she added giggling.

  We walked quietly out the door, and then Kay elbowed me. She gave me one of those mischievous looks and started running toward the top of the stairs.

  “Kay!” I hissed. “No. We have to be quiet.”

  Mrs. Callaway was sitting at the bottom of the steps, waiting for us. She looked up and smiled.

  Kay stopped in her tracks.

  “No, Kay. Don’t be quiet. You girls can be as noisy and silly and girlish as you wish. The house was so quiet this summer and we were so sad. I prayed every night just to be able to hear laughter in our home again. I think you two just answered my prayers.”

  She stood up and opened her arms and we both went to her and put our arms around each other.

  “I hope you’ll both come back often.”

  “We will,” both of us chimed.

  “Thank you for being such good friends to my little girl when she needed friends most,” she whispered.<
br />
  Dirty Harry, The Mule

  by

  Mike Roberts

  GREG CHASED mischief the way knights of old chased the Holy Grail. He acted like he was on a quest to annoy, frustrate or embarrass as many living things as possible before he turned thirteen. If a boy’s lunch box was stuffed with dirty gym socks, if a girl had an “I’m on my period” sign taped to her back, if a dead opossum was found in the trunk of a car or if a cat had firecrackers tied to its tail, Greg was the prime suspect.

  If things had been different, say if Greg had been just a boy at school or down the block, I could have avoided him. I’d have stayed safe and never, ever had a run-in with that cantankerous mule. I don’t mean Greg, although Grandma always said he was mulish. I mean a real jackass mule.

  But I had three strikes against me. Strike one, Greg was my cousin. Strike two, my mother and her sister, Greg’s mother, were so close it’s a wonder they didn’t wear the same clothes. I don’t mean clothes that looked alike. I mean the same clothes. When the two of them were together, you could hardly fit a piece of paper edgewise between them. Strike three, Greg and his whole family had moved on my grandparents’ farm a little ways from that mountain called Monte Sano in northern Alabama to take care of the old folks and keep the farm going.

  My mamma loved that farm, so at least once a month Greg’s shadow darkened my life. But I was better off than Daryl, who couldn’t get away from Greg at all because he was Greg’s brother. Even worse, Greg was older by a year, heavier by twenty pounds and stronger. When Greg would concoct a new scheme—my English teacher Mrs. Bales likes that word “concoct”—he’d convince Daryl to go along. If talking didn’t win Daryl over, Greg would beat on him the way Moe beat on Larry and Curly in The Three Stooges features.

  Greg never beat on me, though. I’d seen what he did to Daryl, and I decided it was better to go along and maybe get a whipping for causing mischief than to refuse to go along and get pounded for sure.