Читать книгу Miss Hazel and the Rosa Parks League - Jonathan Odell - Страница 16

Chapter Nine

THE TROIS ARTS LEAGUE

Hazel stepped back from the hall mirror and tugged at her skirt, evening the hemline. The dress was the most beautiful thing she had ever bought, an ice-blue shirtwaist made of silk shantung, which the salesman swore set her eyes to dancing like the sunlight on lake water. She took a tissue from the hostess pocket and, leaning in close to the glass, carefully dabbed at the lipstick in the corner of her mouth. Next she fussed expertly with the collar, smoothing the tips down flat.

Well, the clothes and the makeup were certainly up to muster. Everything shaded, highlighted, smoothed down and lined up. However, what Hazel couldn’t see was the person between the lines. Touching her cheek gently, she longed for Floyd and wished he was there to tell her how beautiful she looked. A glimmer in his eye would do. But he wasn’t there, and she needed to do this on her own. Floyd was counting on her to be a team with him.

At his insistence, she had invited some of the neighbor ladies over for punch and to show them what she had done with the house. More than three months had passed since they had moved in, and not a single person had come calling. Floyd had told her, “Hazel, you can’t wait for success to come knocking. You have to find out where it lives and then go hunt it down with a stick.”

“Floyd, I don’t know what to say to women like that. What do they talk about?” Whatever it was, she was sure it wasn’t mules, heel flies, and ringworm.

The women reigning in the houses around her were formidable-looking creatures, skin untouched by the sun and white as alabaster, with rouged cheeks, severe as Delta sunsets, their shoulders pulled back and chests puffed out, dripping with brooches and breastpins and cameos like generals on inspection. They were proper in ways that were foreign to Hazel, having cultivated curious manners that pushed you away rather than pulled you closer. When met on the street they could use a smile like an extended arm as if to say, “OK, that’s near enough.”

Hazel stood there at the mirror waiting for the bourbon to kick in. To make it through more and more days, she had been relying on the Jim Beam in the pretty decanters that Floyd received from the Senator each Christmas and kept lined up on the counter. She knew she shouldn’t, but sometimes it was the only way to muster the hope she needed to keep on going.

She remembered her first drink. As a girl, wandering the outcroppings, she came upon one of the places where her father hid his shine under a rock ledge. When Hazel unscrewed the top and brought the bottle up to her nose, the smell cut her breath and made her eyes burn. Should she? The preacher said it was a sin. Her mother called it a curse. However, that didn’t stop her daddy from devoting a good portion of his life to it.

Hazel took a drink. The clear liquid breathed its fiery breath deep down into her and caused her to tear up and cough. She took another.

The sensation was like nothing she had expected, like two warm hands clasping her face. Her spirits soared higher than the chinquapin oaks before her, higher than the Appalachian foothills that surrounded her. She now understood why her father drank. He missed hope, too. When she couldn’t find hope in Floyd’s eyes, sometimes a sip or two of bourbon would hold her over the dry spells.

Hazel heard Johnny yelling from the backyard. “Momma! She’s here! She’s here!”

At last! The maid Floyd had promised for the day. A day was probably as long as she would last. Maids came and went with such regularity, Hazel barely got to know their names, because usually by the end of their first day on the job Floyd had found some reason to suspect them of stealing from him.

Hazel waited to hear the confirming slap of the back door and then called out, “Bring her on in here!” She quickly drained the bourbon from the tumbler she kept hidden behind the flour sack and popped a peppermint in her mouth.

A husky voice sang out, “Whoo-ee!” When Hazel turned, the first thing that caught her eye was a stretch of white fabric showcasing a prominent rear end. At that moment the colored woman it was attached to was gazing into the parlor, her hands planted on her well-rounded hips.

“Look at all them pretty colors,” the woman said, apparently to the boys who stood on either flank. “More tints than One Wing Hannah’s jukebox.”

Davie yelped and then took off in the direction of the green vinyl sectional, undoubtedly with the aim of scaling up the back of the couch and jumping off. A split second later, Johnny was in hot pursuit.

The woman turned again toward Hazel. She was wearing the snuggest maid’s uniform Hazel had ever seen. Her breasts pooched out the top of her dress, reaching for daylight. Her smile involved at least two gold teeth. “Hidey. My name’s Sweet Pea. You Miss Hazel?”

“Glad to know you,” Hazel said hesitantly. Where did Floyd find this one? she wondered. He was surely scraping the bottom of the barrel now.

Sweet Pea turned back around and surveyed the room again. “Where you get all them nice things, Miss Hazel? I never seen nothing like it in Delphi.”

That definitely tipped the scales in the maid’s favor. She gave Sweet Pea a big grin and crossed the hall to stand next to the woman. “And you won’t see nothing like it in the whole state of Mississippi, neither,” she said excitedly. She had been wanting so badly to brag on herself. “I had to order all the way to Chicago. The salesman says this stuff is just catching on. Colors nobody ever heard of before. Just invented. Parakeet green. Flamingo pink. Peacock blue. I tried to get some of each.”

Sweet Pea laughed. “Um-hum! I can see that. Look like a big flock of zoo birds done shedded all over your company room.” She took a moment to admire the yellow Formica coffee table in the shape of a prize banana, the plastic end tables with gleaming enameled metal legs, and the aluminum pole lamp with pink, blue, and green bullet shades. “Yo furniture shinier than the front end of a Cadillac. And not a stick of wood to be seen.”

“You’re mighty gracious to say so,” Hazel said delightedly. “When that salesman showed me all those pretty pictures, I said to myself, why be old-fashioned when nowadays you can get everything in plastic, chrome, and vinyl?”

Sweet Pea waggled her head appreciatively. “Must be a joy to sit here in this room when the morning sun hits it. You probably need to put you on some sunglasses to do your dusting.”

The maid’s opinion, even though it was a colored one, was doing wonders to boost Hazel’s confidence. For the first time since Floyd suggested the party, she almost looked forward to the ladies coming over. If they were only half as struck as Sweet Pea, Hazel would do Floyd proud.

After Johnny had successfully fussed his brother down from the couch, Hazel told him, “Take Davie outside and finish that quiet game y’all were playing, OK honey? We got to get things ready for company.”

Sweet Pea asked, “What we going to feed these womens, Miss Hazel?”

Hazel pulled the newspaper article from her waist pocket. It was titled Entertaining: Elegant and Easy. “Now here’s some new recipes they say everybody just loves. I thought between the two of us we could figure out how to put it together. I bought all the ingredients.”

“What you want me to do?”

“Well, I ain’t much in the kitchen,” Hazel said, “so you do the cooking part and I’ll do the opening and stirring. And you can serve it, if you don’t mind.”

This took Sweet Pea back for a moment. “No’m, I don’t mind,” she said, half smiling, amused at the thought that her minding had something to do with anything.

The doorbell rang as Sweet Pea finished spooning the crushed pineapple around the chunks of ham. “They’s just in time,” she said, looking up at Hazel. When she saw the blood drain from Hazel’s face, she comforted her, “Don’t you fret none, Miss Hazel. Everything going to come off jest fine.” She headed for the door.

Hazel checked herself for a final time in the hall mirror, once more wishing Floyd were there to tell her how pretty she looked. The bourbon didn’t seem to be working. She breathed deeply and tried to act the way she imagined the happy woman in the Lincoln advertisement would if she had to get out of her car and entertain. Straightening her shoulders, she prepared her smile and followed Sweet Pea airily to the door to meet the women.

Sweet Pea flung open the door to see that three women had arrived at once, looking like a posse. “How y’all doin’ today?” Sweet Pea bawled happily. “Come on in out the heat!”

The women stepped into the entryway and Hazel said the words she had practiced. “How good of y’all to visit me today.” Her voice was shaky yet the words clearly enunciated.

Miss Pearl, the Senator’s sister, smiled warmly and brought her handkerchiefed hand up to her delicately wattled neck. In a rush of breath she said, “Hazel, you are so kind to have us over. When Hayes told me about your new home, I felt terrible that I hadn’t stopped by before and properly welcomed you to the neighborhood. And me living across the lane from y’all. Will you forgive me, dear?”

With all those kind words having been spent on Hazel, and with so much feeling backing them up, Hazel felt her stomach settling a bit. “That’s mighty gracious of you to say. I’m just proud y’all could come today’s all.”

“Well, better late than never. Isn’t that what the sage professed, Hazel?” she smiled sweetly again.

Pearl Alcorn was an older woman with kind, misty blue eyes and an understanding smile. Her silver-blue hair looked like it was still warm from the beauty parlor. Hazel thought she was quite lovely, even if she did have a crippled hand. It was said that when Miss Pearl was a little girl living at the Columns, she was out riding and her horse stumbled, threw her off, and then rolled over on her hand, crushing the bones. From that time on, she was never seen without a lace handkerchief carefully arranged among the fingers to make the hand look useful. It gave her an air of tragic elegance Hazel couldn’t help but admire.

Miss Pearl waved her handkerchief at an unpleasant, horsy-looking woman at her side. “Hazel, I want you to meet my nieces. Hertha.” The frightful woman she pointed out emitted a little snort. “She’s your next-door neighbor. You’ve undoubted met her husband, the sheriff.”

“How do you do?” Hazel said, slow and careful. Hazel knew she shouldn’t take comfort in another woman’s ugliness, yet it did boost her confidence a bit. Couldn’t even get a man on her own, Floyd said. The rumor was that the Senator had agreed to make Billy Dean sheriff if he took the eldest daughter off his hands. At least Hazel had fought fair and square to get Floyd.

“And my other niece, Delia.”

Delia was another story entirely. She was a beautiful younger woman with lustrous blond curls and blue eyes that seemed to be laughing at something, Hazel could only wonder what. She had heard the stories from Floyd. Delia married twice before she turned twenty and had boyfriends flung as far as St. Louis.

“So you two is sisters?” Hazel blurted. “I swan, you don’t look nothing like each—”

Pearl coughed once and said, “Isn’t this nice, Hazel? I hope you will consider us your new best friends.”

Realizing she had been saved from something terrible, Hazel nodded. “Best friends. Oh, yes, ma’am. I would love that more than I can say.”

The sisters met the suggestion of friendship with blank expressions, but Pearl seemed sincere. Hazel found herself surprised she hadn’t noticed this kindness when they had occasionally passed on the street. That was back when they lived in the slave cabin, before she had officially moved up the hill into Delphi proper. Maybe now things would be different after all.

Hazel sucked in a deep breath. It was time to show them her new room. Gesturing with a wide sweep of her arm, she said, “Will y’all please come into my company room?”

Miss Pearl led the way and the other two followed dutifully behind, but upon entering the parlor the trio stopped cold, apparently stunned simultaneously. The women put Sweet Pea in mind of a herd of fainting goats her uncle used to have. When startled, their joints locked up and they toppled over, rigid as boards. Sweet Pea smiled, picturing all three white ladies dressed in voile and crinoline, lying about Miss Hazel’s new rubberized floor, stiff as a load of lumber.

As for Hazel, at first she smiled proudly, judging their reaction to be positive, yet as the seconds ticked by without a word, her stomach began to grow queasy again. She didn’t know what to say. She would have fled through the door had she not been in her own home.

“Y’all sit yourselves down,” Sweet Pea said, taking charge. “Miss Hazel done got some fine eating planned.”

“Yes, yes,” Hazel stammered. “Y’all sit down. Anywhere.”

Still standing in a bunch, the women swiveled their heads around the room as if determined to find a place to roost as a group. Finally, Miss Pearl and Miss Hertha chose the Stratoloungers and Delia settled on the vinyl couch. When her guests were seated Hazel eased herself into a plastic shell chair. There was a period of uncomfortable silence when Sweet Pea disappeared into the kitchen.

Hazel’s mind raced furiously, trying to think of something to say. When she looked over at Miss Pearl the woman smiled pleasantly, dismissing any awkwardness from the room. Pearl leaned in toward Hazel. “I’m so sorry. We can’t possibly stay but a few minutes. Our little club meeting went longer than we planned, and the rest of the ladies are at this very moment finishing up without us.”

“What kind of club y’all got?” Hazel blurted, excited that she had thought of something to say.

“Why, we call it the Trois Arts League.”

“It’s French,” Delia explained, her eyes still laughing. “For ‘three arts.’ ”

“I swan.”

“Exactly,” said Miss Pearl. “Every month we consider the life of a painter, a composer, and an author.”

“Ain’t that nice! Sounds so smart of y’all.”

“Why, thank you, Hazel,” Pearl said. “And of course we do our part for the community. Our busiest time is coming up, and we have a host of events to plan for.” Pearl touched her handkerchief to her heart and whispered, “Charity season, you know,” as if the poor people might be listening. “So we can only stay for a chat. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Don’t think nothing of it,” Hazel said to Pearl. “I’m just glad y’all could show.” Hazel knew she should be disappointed, but she wasn’t. These three ladies had only been there under five minutes and they had already overloaded her wagon.

Of course Pearl wasn’t being bad at all. It was Hertha who sent shivers through Hazel. The sheriff’s wife was sitting straight-backed and wooden in her lounger. Hazel couldn’t help noticing that her front teeth bucked worse than a rodeo horse and her brow hung like a fireplace mantel over eyes the color of cold ashes. She may well have been the most disagreeable-looking person Hazel had ever seen. It was she who spoke next. “Well, you certainly have a unique decorating style, Hazel.” There was something about the way the word “unique” splintered in Hertha’s throat that made Hazel judge the observation not at all complimentary. “What do you call it?” she asked. Even though Hertha was asking Hazel, she was looking sidelong at Delia. There was a slight curl to Hertha’s lip.

Thinking of how to answer a question she didn’t understand, Hazel noticed how warm it had become. She heard something that resembled the tinkling bells on a faraway hill. Or maybe, she thought, like laughter right before it breaks out into sound.

She looked again to Miss Pearl, who smiled at her sympathetically, encouraging her on. “Well, I don’t call it nothing by name,” Hazel said haltingly. “Just furniture, I suppose. Things I thought was pretty.”

The woman nodded and the corners of her mouth twitched and her nose scrunched up, as if she could burst into ugly hysterical snorts at any moment. “It’s certainly. . .what’s the word? Intense.”

The tinkling of the bells grew louder, and Hazel checked Miss Pearl’s expression. She was still smiling reassuringly.

Delia spoke up. “It all looks so. . .new.”

“Brand new. Just been bought,” Hazel said hopefully.

“Didn’t you bring any family pieces with you from home?” Hertha asked, wincing as if something hurt.

“No. My folks is still sitting in ’em, I reckon,” Hazel answered.

Little coughs were exchanged between Hertha and Delia, a cold was catching. To keep from crying, Hazel bit her lip and again looked over at Miss Pearl, her eyes pleading.

Pearl nodded agreeably and said, “It must be nice not to have to bother with dusty old hand-me-downs and start fresh.” She raised her lace handkerchief to her creamy throat and lowered her voice, as if she were confessing a deep dark secret. “Why, many a day I want to throw out the old and begin anew. Just because we saved them from the Yankees, we feel we have to display our pieces as if they were monuments. Now, that’s what I call silly. We should all be more sensible like Hazel here.”

The other ladies nodded, agreeing that they were the foolish ones after all. The bells were silenced and Hazel breathed easier.

“Where did your people distinguish themselves during the war, Hazel?” It was Hertha asking.

Hazel was confused. She snatched at the collar of her dress and said timidly, “War?”

“Well, for instance, my great-great-uncle served with Lee. And my great-grandfather was the drummer boy at Chickamauga. In fact, all the Trois Arts women belong to the United Daughters of the Confederacy.”

“Chicka—oh that war!” Hazel said, very relieved to be catching on. “We got a funny story about that.”

“Do tell it, Hazel,” Miss Pearl urged.

“Well, my great-great-granddaddy didn’t own no slaves, so he didn’t figure he should have to fight no war to keep them. He spent the whole time up a sycamore tree hiding from both sides. The only general we got in my family is my daddy, Major General Ishee, and that’s because he got to name hisself.”

The laughter Hazel evoked with her story was different from what she was aiming for. It was sharp and jagged like broken glass. Miss Pearl shot the two women daggers and the laughter ceased.

Then into the deathly silence clattered Sweet Pea with a large serving tray, bellowing, “Y’all surely going to love this here.” She set the tray on the banana table next to the punch bowl and backed away to let the women gaze at the feast of potato chips and onion dip, Vienna sausages smothered in barbecue sauce, and boiled ham bits floating in a bowl of crushed pineapple.

No one moved. Figuring that the women may not have read the Hopalachie Courier and therefore were not up-to-date on their delicacies, Sweet Pea decided to instruct them, bending down so low over the tray that everyone’s eyes went nervously to her tightly bound breasts, which looked ready to discharge themselves into the dip like cannonballs.

Sweet Pea held up a toothpick. “You git you a little stick here and poke yourself one of these little Veener sausages.” She pointed at the dip. “Or you can drag your tater chip through this here mess. Go on now and get you some.” Sweet Pea smiled at them wide, her gold teeth gleaming as brightly as the furniture.

Miss Pearl squirmed a little in her vinyl recliner. “It certainly looks delicious, Hazel. Though I have to confess that the club lunched at my house earlier, and I’m sure I forced too much food on them. Only finger sandwiches and such, nothing as hearty as what you offer.”

Miss Pearl dabbed the corner of her mouth with her handkerchief.

Sweet Pea shrugged as if there was no accounting for taste and ladled the punch, making sure everyone got a marshmallow, except for Hazel, who got two and a sympathetic wink. Then she made her hip-rolling exit from the room.

There followed another long silence. Her face hot with shame, Hazel seized the opportunity to steer the subject away from the food. “What y’all studying in your club?” she asked Miss Pearl desperately. She was the only one Hazel dared to look at now.

“Well, we are presently up to the p’s. Puccini, Proust, and Picasso. Hertha here has been leading us in an animated discussion of Remembrance of Things Past.” When Hazel only stared blankly at Miss Pearl, she asked, “Have you ever read it, Hazel?”

“No. It don’t sound familiar. I know a good book, though,” Hazel ventured. “Have you ever heard of David Copperfield?”

“Why, yes! By Mister Charles Dickens! Are you familiar with that work?” Miss Pearl asked, pleasantly surprised. The other women leaned forward greedily, gawking like customers at a sideshow promising a French-speaking pig.

“I sure do!” Hazel said, relieved to be talking about something she knew. “When I was a girl they playacted that story on the radio. We never had a radio before. Just when it got good, Daddy said I had to go milk the cows. Well, I thought when you turned the thing off and then come back later, you could pick up right where you left it. Lord, was I disappointed to find out my program done went on without me.” Hazel shook her head sadly and then looked up at Miss Pearl. “I never did find out how that boy turned out. Do you happen to know?” Miss Pearl smiled tenderly. “He turned out just fine, Hazel. Just fine.” She began to edge herself out of the recliner. “Hazel, I’m afraid I really must be going. Hayes will be back from the bank anytime now and I’ve still got the meeting to adjourn.”

Hertha and Delia followed suit and began their ascents. They made little sucking sounds as they peeled themselves from the furniture.

After the other two ladies had filed out the front door, Miss Pearl lingered behind for a moment. “Hazel, thank you so much. I think it went fine, don’t you, dear?”

“Well, I hope it did.”

“We’ll do it again real soon, all right? Next time we’ll have you and Floyd over.”

Miss Pearl left, trailing agreeable beauty parlor smells. Though Hazel wasn’t so sure things had gone as well as Miss Pearl said, she was delighted that she had made at least one new friend. Floyd would be proud.

Sweet Pea looked down at the untouched tray. “It’s a shame they done ate. Sure is some purty food. Shoulda sent a plate home with them.”

Hazel beamed. “That’s a good idea!” she said and wrapped up some Fancy Franks and filled an orange Fiestaware bowl with Hula Ham. She headed off for Miss Pearl’s house, thinking maybe she could serve them to Mr. Hayes with his supper.

As she came up the steps, she was met by gales of laughter pouring through the Irish lace curtains and unshuttered windows. The Trois Arts League must not have adjourned yet.

“Thank heavens you didn’t touch the food!” someone was saying. “What did you say she called them? Fancy Franks?”

“And did you see the wallpaper?” That was Miss Hertha’s voice. “Am I wrong or were those actually bird dogs with pheasants in their mouths?”

“You’ve got to hand it to her,” Delia said. “Most people choose their wallpaper as background. Not Hazel. Hers screams out ‘Hey, y’all! We got wallpaper!’ ”

“How could you keep from bursting out laughing?”

“And the colors!” Delia went on. “I couldn’t hear myself think, they were in such a riot.”

Hazel didn’t stand and listen because she wanted to. She stood there because she was too shamed to move.

“Now, that’s enough!” Miss Pearl was speaking. Hazel waited for her new friend to set them straight about her. Miss Pearl knew who Hazel really was. Hazel had seen it in the woman’s kindly eyes.

“You can’t blame her, girls,” she said in the same sad whisper in which she’d spoken earlier about charity. “Now, put yourself in her place for a moment. Being poor and from the hills, you’re probably thankful to get a new spread for the bed. You can’t be terribly concerned if it goes with your curtains. Or if your curtains go with the rug on the floor. It’s only natural that Hazel missed out on the concept of ‘goes with.’ ” That brought on another burst of laughter.

“I wasn’t trying to be humorous. Y’all are being too hard on her, now.” Miss Pearl was sounding flustered. “After all, she has learned to dress nicely. You saw that. Very tasteful. And she’s pretty. Maybe interior decorating is her next conquest. Give her time.”

The women stopped to consider Miss Pearl’s point for a moment and then sped right past it. Hertha said, “And that sassy colored girl she found. Sweet Pea. A real Saturday-night brawler. She might as well have been serving drinks in a barrel house.” Miss Hertha lowered her voice. “Billy Dean has that girl in jail more times than I can say. Why, every time I see my husband, he’s got her in the back of his cruiser. For soliciting, you know.”

There was a chorus of clucks and gasps.

“And speaking of soliciting,” Miss Hertha said, “Hazel seems to have her own route. Have y’all seen her peddling Lincolns for her husband up and down Gallatin? And with those poor children in tow. A sorry spectacle. What will become of them with a mother such as that?”

“Really!” Miss Pearl said. “That’s uncalled-for. You are being much too hard on that poor woman.”

By the time Floyd came home, Hazel had stopped her crying and pulled herself together. When he asked how things had gone, she didn’t answer. She went to the sink and began scrubbing a clean pot.

“Do you think they’ll invite you to join their club?” he asked. “That sure would be good for business.”

“Well, I’m not sure,” she said with her eyes closed, keeping her back to him. “I don’t think they have any openings.”

She dried her hands on her apron. “And besides, I might not be their kind of people, Floyd.” Hazel’s breathing was labored, and she began to feel a little wobbly. It was another one of those sinking spells she had been having lately. She leaned against the counter for a moment and then turned to look at her husband, hoping he might reach out and steady her. That would feel real nice about now.

“Nonsense,” he said. “You’ve got to stop thinking that way. If you want something bad enough, you can have it. Ain’t I proved that to you? Quit dwelling on the negative. Some right thinking would do you wonders,” he said.

Hazel looked up at the man who stood before her. Sure and certain. She really did wish she could think like him, as clear and positive as the slogans he was always spouting. “Winners never quit and quitters never win.” “Can’t never could.” “Failures find excuses and controlled thinkers find a way.” To him it was all a matter of knowing where you want to go, setting your jaw, and moving on in a straight line, without any time-wasting detours. To Floyd, life ought to be the straightest road between birth and death.

But Hazel felt she was living her life in an ever-widening curve, blind at both ends. Not only had she lost sight of where she had come from, she could no longer see where Floyd was taking her. Back in the hills she had had hope. At least she thought it was hope, that vague whispering in her ear that there was something grand up ahead. The whiskey in her daddy’s jug always confirmed it when she had any doubts.

Floyd kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Your attitude determines your altitude,” he said. Then he fixed a plate of Vienna sausages and pineapple ham and took it with him into his den to read the news. A moment later she heard him call out, “I think that colored girl made off with my paper!”

Hazel reached for the Jim Beam bottle in the shape of a pheasant and poured a small bit into her special tumbler. After returning an equivalent amount of tap water to the decanter and grabbing a couple of peppermints from the drawer, she went out to the back porch.

As the shadows lengthened across the yard, she watched two fat mourning doves wobble like a drunken couple under a nearby oak. It was obvious they belonged together. Staggering around in no particular hurry to get anywhere, not caring one bit if they were traveling in a straight line or not. She envied them their tipsy little dance full of stops and starts and unbalanced strides, and how, in all their separate, uncoordinated motions, they remained together.

The doves lifted in flight, breaking her reverie. Davie came toddling around the corner of the house, with Johnny screaming after him.

“Get that rock out of your mouth, Davie. You gonna swallow it and die!”

Should I do something? she wondered. No, Johnny could handle it. Barely five years old and he could do it better than me.

Down below, at the foot of the stairs, Johnny caught up with Davie and grabbed him by the shoulders. Johnny shook Davie firmly, yelling for him to spit. Instead, Davie swallowed hard, then grinned. Did he swallow the rock? Seeing the look of panic on Johnny’s face, Hazel almost cried out.

Before she could utter a sound, Davie, with his face beaming, opened his hand to reveal the rock. He began to laugh. He had fooled his brother, and he was proud of it. Hazel smiled.

Instead of being relieved, Johnny’s face darkened. He reared back and slapped his brother. Hazel could hear the sharp whack from where she sat on the porch, stunned.

She opened her mouth to call out, and again she was checked, this time by the look on Davie’s face. It was one of pure bewilderment, as if he were still trying to connect the sting of the slap with any action on his brother’s part.

Both boys appeared to have suspended their breathing. It was like they were waiting for the weight of what had just occurred to settle, so they would know how it had changed their world.

From Davie’s confused expression, it was obvious that this was the first time his brother had ever hit him. As the younger boy’s eyes brimmed with tears, Hazel could see that reality was slowly setting in. Something inside Davie was beginning to break. She felt it was perhaps a thing so fragile that when it did break, it would crumble into pieces as fine as powder.

She knew she should hurry down the steps and comfort Davie. To hold him. To tell him his brother hadn’t meant it. Tell him it wasn’t important. Lie to him. Anything to keep the pieces together for a little while longer. Yet still she sat there, her limbs heavy, because she knew the truth. Things do break, and there’s nothing a person can do about it.

Davie began to sniffle, and Johnny looked on worriedly, as if he were considering a favorite toy he had thrown in a fit of anger, frantically hoping it would fix itself and go back to the way it was before.

It was Johnny she pitied now. She knew he would never be able to take it back. That some things never could be put like they were before. That you can disappoint people and they really do lose faith in you and there is not a damned thing in the world you could do about it. Before she could decide which one was in need of comforting the most, Johnny did a strange thing. Still with an expression of fear tinged with sorrow, he pushed Davie squarely on the shoulder.

Davie dried his tears. “Stobbit, bubba,” he whined, covering an eye with the back of his hand.

Johnny shoved him again, a little harder this time. “Stobbit!” Davie yelled, angry now.

Johnny shoved Davie harder still. This time Davie pushed back.

Clumsily and purposely, Johnny fell to the ground and his brother climbed on top of him and began flailing away with his tiny fists. Johnny let his brother hit him again and again, on the chest, in the face, refusing to make the slightest gesture to defend himself.