Chapter Five

      Brighten Avenue marked the beginning of Jackson's Hill, a three-street offshoot of Wilmington. Nobody seemed to know how the place got its name being that most of it is below sea level and as flat as a bed sheet. But that didn't stop some folks from guessing.

      “Named for Stonewall Jackson himself,” Mr. Benson told me, as if further discussion was unnecessary. Mr. Benson never talked much so when I heard him say Jackson’s Hill was named after Stonewall Jackson, I was tempted to believe him. Then Kate reminded me that people from South Carolina are always running some confederate general's name up a flagpole and waving it in everybody's face.

      “Stonewall Jackson never set foot in Delaware,” Kate said in a stern voice. “Daddy said his own men killed him for bein’ coward.”

     I took a deep breath and looked around a few times, storing up patience. There was no point mentioning that the killing was accidental and Stonewall’s men never got over the loss. No point at all. My father had convinced Kate that Yankees were better than Confederates and no amount of talking was going to change that. All this seemed a bit odd being that every house in Jackson’s Hill had at least one native born southerner, except us. My father was almost born in Manassas, but his mother held out until she reached Wilmington to give birth.

      Anyway despite all the talk; or, maybe, because of it, no one ever bothered to put up a sign. With only three streets, Jackson’s Hill was an easy place to miss if you didn’t live there or know where you were going. Brighten Avenue was the middle street and the only one with houses on both sides. The other two streets, Jackson and Bancroft, were cut narrow by the same high grasses and high trees that formed the backend of Brighten Avenue. There, every day at noon, hidden by the high grasses and high trees, a train sounded a mournful whistle and Mr. Benson stood at the end of his big horseshoe driveway; and, with right hand squared to his forehead, saluted Stonewall Jackson.

      A few houses down Mrs. Samson, who replaced her dead husband, Jimmy, with a pet monkey named Coco, watched with disgust.

     “Fool whistle.” Mrs. Samson dropped banana peels into the pocket of her apron as she spoke. “Scared Coco so bad one time he ran off an’ the police found him five miles away hidin' up some tree. There was even a write-up about him in the Sunday paper. I told the reporter that came here the same thing I told them train people. Coco would be a good monkey if it weren't for that God-awful whistle blowin’ all hours of the day and night.”

      I nodded, but I was more interested in Coco than listening to her talk. He sure was cute, with big brown eyes and long fingers and a long tail with long black stripes on it.

      “Can I pet him?” I asked, setting my hand on Coco's soft head.

      “Better not,” Mrs. Samson warned. "His teeth are sharp, I wouldn't want you gettin' hurt."

     I drew back and watched Coco scratch his head with one hand and push pieces of banana into his mouth with the other.

      “Can I keep him?” I wished, almost out loud.

      Suddenly, and without warning, Mrs. Samson undid Coco's collar and the collar and the attached chain slid down the neck of the magnolia tree like a long snake.

      “Enough sun for one day,” she said, trapping Coco in the bend of her long, fleshy arm. “Let's go inside before that whistle starts up again.”

      Mrs. Samson wrapped the chain around her wrist, loosely, as she talked. When she was done, she turned and motioned towards the house.

      “How would you like to join Coco an’ me for lunch?” she said.

      The words had barely fallen out of her mouth, when, I saw, in my mind's eye, Coco and me sharing a bottle of  7-Up and a grilled cheese sandwich with sliced tomato. Then just as he was taking a swig of  7-Up, a man's voice came out of nowhere, shouting my name. I tried like crazy to ignore it, but the voice wouldn't let up.

      “Annie, Anneeeee.”

      Finally Mrs. Samson said: “You better go see what your father wants.”

      “Anneeeeeeeee.”

      “Hurry child.” Mrs. Samson's eyes matched her voice. They were wide with fear. I had no way of knowing the source of her fear, but it was there, as clear as a photograph, mounted on every inch of her face.

      I looked at the street, then I looked Coco.  “Alright,” I mumbled, without moving.

      “Go on now, you can visit again.”

      As Mrs. Samson spoke, I felt her hand on my back, pushing me forward. I pulled in a mouthful of air and took off. My legs didn't stop until I reached Mrs. Hicks'  lilac bush. It was in full bloom and its cone-shaped sweetness sweetly perfumed the hot, humid air. I took in a noseful and held onto it as I walked up the slate sidewalk that split our yard and Woody's yard down the middle.

      My father was on the porch, waiting.

      “Where the hell you been?”

      I lifted my eyes slowly. My father was smoking a corncob pipe that he held by the bowl. “Answer me, I asked you, ‘Where were you?’”

     “I umm....”

     “Never mind the umms.” My father paused to spit bits of tobacco into his hand and wipe his hand on his overalls. The overalls were the kind that painters wear, with thick shoulder straps and a wide pocket across the middle. “I’ve been callin’  you for over an hour.”

       I knew as sure as I had ten fingers that my father was lying. But I also knew by the look on his face, I had better play along. So I summoned up my sincerest voice and said: “With Coco.”

      My father took a can of Price Albert tobacco out of his pocket and stuffed some in the bowl of his pipe and set it on fire. He took a long draw and blew the smoke out slowly. "A goddamn monkey mean more to you than your own father?”

      “No sir,” I said, looking down the porch.

      That was the last words I heard before I felt something push against my shoulder and my feet rise up, and, for a brief moment, I had the terrible sensation I was falling backwards and there was nothing I could do to save myself. Then, suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a piece of the porch railing and I waved my arms, desperately. My fingers slid along the edge of the railing. I tried to hold on, but I couldn't. I held my breath. Then just when I was sure that I was a goner, I felt a hand grab hold of my arm and pull me onto the porch.

      “You tryin' to hurt yourself?” My father smiled, but his eyes were cold.

       “I...I fell.” The words fell out of my mouth quickly, just like the truth does when you aren't expecting it.

       For a long moment we just stood there. My father’s eyes were on me; my eyes were on the screen door where a wasp was squeezing itself through the door's giant belly.

       “That so?” As my father spoke, his smile gradually worked its way up to his eyes. “Didn’t that Cope woman teach you anything?”

      “Yes.”

      My father laughed and laughed until his voice dried up. Then he cleared his throat and laughed some more. Finally, he said: “Well, I’m your teacher now an’ you’ll do exactly what I tell you to do, understand?”

      I could feel my cheeks redden with anger. My father poked the stem of his pipe into my chest. Then he stared into my eyes and I stared into his and I heard myself say, “You pushed me.”

      That’s when he poked the stem of his pipe into my chest again, this time harder.

     I reached for the railing and tried to back up, but my father stopped me. “I’d learn how to listen if I were you,” he sneered.

      I grabbed hold of the railing.

      “If it were up to me you wouldn’t even be here.” As my father spoke his face continued to change, like a hunk of clay that is being pulled first one way, then the other. First his sneer worked itself into a smile; a gradual, uneasy smile that sat on his face like it didn't know what to do with itself. Then the smile faded and he said, “Give your daddy a big old bear hug,” and crushed his body into mine. I felt sweat drip from his chin onto my neck. I tried to turn my head to breathe, but my father had hold of my head and pushed my face into his chest. His body smelled like paint. I tried to push him away but he was too strong.

      Then, without warning, my father loosened his grip and lifted my chin and his eyes went up and down my face slowly.

     “You look like your mother the first time I met her.”

      The words would have sounded nice if my father hadn’t said them in a way that sent a cold chill down my spine. His eyes had a strange look in them, too. Again I tried to turn my head, but my father still had hold of my chin. He took a puff on his pipe and blow out the smoke. The smoke made the air turn to fog and my eyes burn.

       “You got a lot to learn, Bugs.”

       “Bugs? Why was my father calling me Bugs? It didn’t make any sense. He knew my name wasn’t Bugs. The whole situation made me feel dirty and creepy all over.

     “You look like your mother the first time I met her.” For the next few days my father's words spun around in my head like a giant, painted carousel, except that where horses usually stood, my father stood, and there were twelve of him. One smiling. One grinning. One frowning. And, the rest running.

      I tried to make sense of it all, but I couldn't. On some level I wondered if something was wrong with me, something I didn’t know about, something that made my father hate me. I couldn’t come up with anything; though, except for looking like my mother.  Finally, I went to Kate.

      “He’s just testin’ you,” she said. When I asked what I was being tested for, Kate shrugged, “Your reaction.”

 I waited a moment. Then: “What kind of reaction?”

 Kate didn’t say anything.

 “He’s not like that with you. You’re his favorite.”

  Kate rolled her eyes. But, it was the truth. She was stronger and quicker than most boys and this pleased my father greatly. One Saturday he gathered up the neighborhood bullies for what he called the Brighten Avenue Track Events and offered a quarter to any one who could outrun Kate. Of course, nobody could. So that left Kate holding a fistful of quarters. Anyway the next day Kate and I were on our way  to Tull's Drugstore to buy Cokes and candy with the winnings when Butchie showed up. It was obvious from the look on his face that he was up to no good. He followed us all the way to Tull's and waited until we were inside to make his move. Kate was chewing on a Three Musketeer when Butchie stepped in front of her, eyeball to eyeball, and said: “Let's see what a big shot you are when your father ain’t around.” I could see the muscles in Kate's face go tense, but she didn't bat an eyelash. “Get lost,” she said, and took another chew. Well, I guess that was too much for Butchie because he hauled off and punched Kate in the side. First, the Three Musketeer flew out of her hand and she tried like crazy to catch it. She almost had it, too, but her arm hit the gumball machine. The next thing we knew about a million gumballs and all sorts of shiny prizes were pouring out all over the floor. Mr. Tull stood right there and never said a word. Butchie raised his fist again, but this time Kate was ready for him. She backed up a degree or two, and with one quick move, landed a right to his eye. Butchie let out a loud moan, then cupped his face in his hands, and ran out the door, cursing. That's when Mr. Tull looked at the floor and said, “No good to me now. You girls help yourselves to as much as you want.” Well, Kate and I worked like demons, scooping up whistles and balls and rings with rubies and diamonds in them. When every prize was safely in our pockets, we went for the gum. When we were done we had to walk like we had two wooden legs and no knees to keep from losing everything. And it didn't help to hear Mr. Tull laughing. But we finally made it home without losing a single gumball.

      “Let's sell some gum to Sarah an' Jean Ann,” Kate said, so we did. Of course, we didn't tell them any of  the particulars about how we had acquired our loot so everything went real smooth. Sarah and Jean Ann paid fifty-eight cents for fifty-five gumballs. Kate explained the extra three cents covered handling expense. After the sale, Kate got an old shoebox and wrote WAMPUM on top and put the money inside. Then she put the rest of her track winnings in and said, “This is both ours, okay?” I gave my word.

      Anyway, the next day Kate and I were riding bikes and we saw Butchie down by the creek, fishing. He was wearing the biggest shiner I ever saw. Later that same day my father saw it for himself and paid Kate an extra dollar.

      “You earned this,” he said, counting out quarters in her hand. “Boy, am I proud.”

      When my father left, I asked Kate, “Why does he want you to be a boy?”

      I saw Kate's eyes catch my question. But she sure  took a long time to answer. I was starting to walk away when I heard her voice coming up behind me. “I don't know," she said. "Just does, that's all.”

      Later that day I was sitting on the porch when Kate grabbed my hand and pulled me into the house. “Daddy’ll be home any second,” she said.” Act busy.”

      In the kitchen I poured cold water and orange Kool-Aid in a pitcher and slid some ice cubes in.

      “Perfect,” Kate said, as my father walked in and circled the room with his eyes.

      “What’s goin’ on in here?” he growled, but my mother was in no mood to hear him.     

      “We’re busy,” my mother said.

       “It’s about time you put ‘um to work,” my father said and left.

       Kate and I drank a glass of Kool-Aid. Afterward, we took Sissy Jupe outside and tried to decide if Sitting Bull or Chief Joseph was the best Indian ever born. Of course, I was in Chief Joseph's camp.

      “No way, Sitting Bull was braver,” Kate countered.

      “No he wasn’t.” I barely got the last word out when I felt something heavy hit my back. It was a gallon of Dutch Boy paint. I held onto Sissy Jupe with one hand and Kate with the other. “You may fool your mother,” my father said. “But you don’t fool me.”

      Kate jumped up and stepped between my father and me and took the can of paint and put it on the floor of my father’s car.

       “Need anything else, daddy?” she said.

      My father walked to his car and got in. Then he leaned out the window and gave Kate a smile. “Yeah, keep an eye on her.” When my father talked, he capped his mouth with his hand as if he were sharing a big secret. The only thing was; however, his voice was loud enough for a deaf person to hear.

      As his car pulled away from the curb, he yelled, “Don’t forget now.”

      I stood there like a deer caught in headlights, frozen, unable to speak.

      “Do you wanna....” Before Kate had a chance to finish her thought a car pulled up. I looked over just in time to see Mrs. Hicks lifting something heavy off the front seat.

      “These here are for my Boy-Boy,” she said, carrying an armload of records towards the house. “Good Jesus music.”

      I didn't say anything, but I couldn't help thinking that Boy-Boy liked beer and girls a whole lot more than he liked Jesus. I remembered how one evening I was looking out my window and I saw him drinking beer and trying to put his hand down some girl's blouse. She kept trying to get away, but he had her pinned against a clothes pole pretty good. Anyway, the girl finally gave up and let him have a feel. But, after that she called him a pig and said she never wanted to see him again. I didn't catch the rest because it got dark and everything got real quiet once she stopped talking.

       Anyway, all of a sudden Mrs. Hicks let out a loud sneeze and the next thing I knew, Sissy Jupe was jumping off my lap and records were flying everywhere. Mrs. Hicks dropped to her knees, moaning.

      “Ohhhhh my,” she said, raking records into a pile. “Get that cat away from here.”

      I asked Kate to take Sissy Jupe inside and offered to help.

      “My aren't you sweet,” Mrs. Hicks said, and I noticed that her false teeth made small sucking sounds whenever she tried to smile and talk at the same time.

      “This here's Boy-Boy's favorite.” Mrs. Hicks was holding up an album cover with a smiling Jesus and a baby lamb on the cover.

       I nodded, politely.

      “I leant these to a friend at church,” she said, handing me a pile of records with the smiling Jesus and baby lamb on top. “But my how I did miss them.”

     I made my way to her front door and smiled.

     “You sure are different than your sisters,” Mrs. Hicks said, motioning me inside. “Everything goin’ okay?”

      I sat the records on a long red and tan sofa covered in clear, shiny plastic, without answering. Across from  the sofa was a red chair dressed the same way. There was more plastic on the floor. It was cut in long strips and went from the front door to the sofa and over to the chair and out to the dining room. Under the plastic was thick tan carpet that looked brand new. Besides the sofa and chair, the only other piece of furniture in the room was a small television with a ceramic clock on top painted to resemble Jesus.

      I was staring at the clock when I heard Mrs. Hicks' teeth making sucking sounds again, only this time louder. I turned around just in time to see her top teeth tilt away from her gum and her tongue tease them back in place. I turned my head in case her teeth were planning to escape. But the sucking sounds stopped and I heard Mrs. Hicks say, “You think you might like to come to church with me sometime?”

      “I'm Catholic.” The words fell out, automatically.

      “Oh, we aren't prejudice,” she said real friendly-like. “We welcome anybody.”

      "Oh," I blurted out, and stepped onto the porch and breathed in some fresh air.

       Moments later I was drinking more Kool-Aid with Kate, when, all of a sudden, I  heard what sounded like a record player cranking up followed by a loud, high-pitched scream.

      I plugged my ears with my fingers and waited for the racket to ease up. But the screaming got louder and louder. “Rock of Ages cleft for me....” Gradually, I could make out Mrs. Hicks' voice. It all but drowned out the record. “Let me hide myself in Thee....”

      “Great, here she goes again,” Kate said, opening a can of Hershey's chocolate and eating it by the tablespoon.

      “He walks with me and He talks to me and....” Mrs. Hicks was on a new song and the man on the record couldn't keep up. He was singing the old one.

      Kate leaned her head and folded her earlobes towards me. “I’m glad I’m not a Holy Roller,” she yelled.

        “A what?” As I spoke Kate ate another heaping tablespoon of chocolate and slipped the spoon back in the can. “Don’t do that,” I yelled, before Kate had time to respond. “Nobody wants to eat your spit.”

       “Who says?” she said, smartly.

       “Me.”

        Kate laughed.

       “What’s a Holy Roller?”               

      Kate grabbed a tea towel off of the drainboard and wiped her face. “You don’t know?” Kate said, dropping the spoon in the sink and smiling.

     “Would I ask if I knew?”

     Kate started to say something, but closed her mouth before the words got out. Then she opened her mouth again and said, “They roll on the floor.”

      Anyway that’s when I told Kate how Mrs. Hicks wanted me to go to church with her and Kate said the same thing happened to her. “I went,” she said, “an I saw the whole thing for myself. At first the preacher sounded Baptist. But then an old man stood up an' hollered 'Amen Lord' at the top of his lungs an' fell to the floor an' rolled back an' forth, moaning, as if he had swallowed some bad sausage for breakfast. A younger woman stood over him an' I thought she might be his daughter by the way she was cryin' and moanin'. But she didn't lift a finger to help the old man. No, she dropped to the floor, too, an' pretty soon everybody was droppin’ to the floor an’ kickin' an'  hollerin' somethin' awful.”

      “Wow.” I was excited to hear more. “What about Mrs. Hicks?”

      “She went down right after the old man an’ the woman did.”

      “Was Woody there?”

      “No.”

      “Why not?”

      Kate shrugged. “He never goes, but one time he gave me a brand new baseball glove.”

       Kate had a way of changing the subject mid-stream, but this time I didn't mind. “He did?” I said, eager to hear more.

      “Yeah, an ‘another time he found a wallet and it had a dollar in it.”

      “Whose was is?”

      Kate looked at me as if I had three eyes. “I don’t know. All I know is that Woody let me keep it. He said it might’ve belonged to one of the hobos that jump off the trains lookin’ for food.”

      “You ever see one?”

      “Yeah, I saw one. But he didn’t have a stick on his shoulder with a ball of clothes on it and he didn’t smile all the time, either, like they do in the movies. He knocked on our door an’ mommy gave him a sandwich an’ a butterscotch TastyKake an’ he said, “God Bless you m'mam,” and left.

      I was sort of disappointed to hear how ordinary sounding hobos are, so I said a few words for the sake of politeness, then changed the subject.

      “Listen,” I said, placing my ear to the wall. “Mrs. Hicks isn't singing.”

      “It’s rainin',” Kate said. “She doesn’t sing in the rain.”

      It was a strange comment, but by that time I had heard enough strange comments to have the good sense not to say anything. Mama Cope always told me that sometimes silence is better than words and she was right.

     I walked over to the window. The window had a metal awning that was bent on one side. As drops of rain fell on the awning, some of it ricocheted and made a soft, soothing sound on the window like the ticking of an old clock.

      “You wanna play cards?” Kate said.

      Suddenly, the sky got dark. As bolts of lightning sliced through the summer sky I decided to play “make believe.” Mama Cope taught me the game to get my mind off of where I am when I want to be someplace else. I wanted to be on top of a mountain. And a moment later, there I was, like pure magic, on top of a big mountain and God was putting on a gigantic fireworks show just for me. 

     “You wanna play cards?” Kate repeated.

     “Not now,” I said.