I was afraid Daddy would be furious about Junior tilling his garden. And that he’d take it out on my momma for allowing it to happen. If he did something to hurt her, it would be my fault.
I wanted to be the one to explain, so I sat on the porch and waited for him to come home from work. While I waited, I thought how if I was in Warm Springs I would be going into the dining room soon.
Before long, Mr. Botts would have someone else filling my place. Would Sam the Encyclopedia Man feed that person the same stories he gave me? Was Gavin mad that I ran off without saying goodbye? And Mr. Botts—would he ever forgive me?
Then Daddy came driving in and I forgot about Warm Springs.
Before he even got out of the truck, Daddy noticed the garden was tilled. He sat and stared at it for a long time. Mr. Shoes went running to greet him, yapping and jumping up against the door, but Daddy didn’t open it. He just sat there and stared and Mr. Shoes yipped some more.
Finally Daddy opened the door and Mr. Shoes jumped up into the floorboard of the truck and onto his lap. He greeted Daddy like he always did—licking his face and snuffling in his pockets. But you would’ve thought he was a rat the way Daddy grabbed him and flung him out the door.
Mr. Shoes landed in the yard with a thump that hurt me to hear. He sat looking stunned for a second and then he ran whimpering up the steps. I snapped my fingers, and just like that, he was on my lap.
“Give me kisses,” I said. I hugged him close. “Don’t take it personal, Mr. Shoes,” I whispered. “Daddy’s having a bad day, is all.” But I couldn’t see how that was a good explanation. And I figured Mr. Shoes was too smart to buy it.
When Daddy came up on the porch he stopped right by my chair. “I’m sure your momma’s glad to have you home, Ann Fay. I reckon from now on you can just solve all her problems, can’t you?”
And this time I knew for sure he was being sarcastic.
I burrowed my face in Mr. Shoes’ fur. What was I supposed to say? That I hadn’t done it for my momma? That I was just trying to help him out? But how would that make him feel?
I hung on to Mr. Shoes and waited for Daddy to go in the house. But he didn’t. I could feel him right beside me, breathing heavy. He opened the screen door a few times and let it fall back shut again.
I opened my eyes and saw his fist just a few inches away, clenching and opening and clenching again. I held real still and waited. Then finally he went inside.
Daddy was wrong. I didn’t know how to solve our problems. Especially not his.
But the next day at school Mrs. Barkley handed me a book. It was a biography of Eleanor Roosevelt. “Take a look at page thirty-eight,” she said.
So I started reading it the first chance I got. The part Mrs. Barkley wanted me to read was about when Eleanor was first married to Franklin. He was the Secretary of the Navy then, so she made visits to the Navy hospital. There were lots of shell-shocked soldiers from World War I. Mrs. Roosevelt described them as “poor demented creatures, … gazing from behind bars or walking up and down on enclosed porches.”
It sounded like those soldiers who’d fought for our country were being treated like prisoners! The book said Mrs. Roosevelt was so concerned that she went straight to work getting Congress to spend money on improving the hospital. And she raised other funds so they could have recreation. And occupational therapy.
I knew what occupational therapy was, and I could understand how making pot holders and crocheting pocketbooks could strengthen Olivia’s hands. But I didn’t see how it could help my daddy. Still, the book made me think maybe there was help out there somewhere.
During recess I went outside and sat on the bench and watched the rest of the class doing broad jumps and pole vaulting. I asked Mrs. Barkley did she think my daddy had shell shock.
“I think war neurosis may be a common condition,” she said. “The Veterans Administration might have a program to help soldiers adjust to life at home. It would be worth looking into.”
I didn’t see how I could ask Junior Bledsoe for one more thing. But how else would I get to the Veterans Administration to ask about GI benefits?
“And if they can’t help,” said Mrs. Barkley, “maybe the state hospital in Morganton can.”
“The state hospital!” I reached for my wooden Comfort. “That’s an insane asylum. My daddy is not crazy!”
Mrs. Barkley put her hand on my arm. “Don’t think of it like that,” she said. “Surely that hospital has psychiatrists on staff who could help your father. I just want you to think about the possibilities.”
“But I read what that book said—about soldiers behind bars. My daddy is not a criminal. And he’s not dangerous either.”
Maybe I was lying about that—I didn’t know. But I couldn’t imagine my daddy behind bars. And who was supposed to put him there anyway? I decided right off I wasn’t going to look into that mental hospital. At least not until I’d checked with the Veterans Administration.
But there was still the problem of Junior.
On the way home from school, it hit me that there was another way I could get some information. So this time I asked the bus driver to drop me off at the Hinkle sisters’.
Miss Pauline was right there at the back door to let me in. “My, my,” she said. “Isn’t this a surprise! Dinah, we have a guest.” She led me into her kitchen and pulled out a chair. “Sit here. I’ll get you something to eat.” She opened her refrigerator and brought out a bottle of Cheerwine.
Miss Dinah hugged me so hard it knocked her glasses half off. “Oh, it’s good to see you,” she said. “I heard you were back. How was Georgia?”
Why did I have to answer the same old question to every new person I saw? Didn’t it ever cross their minds I might rather be in Warm Springs? Instead of sitting there talking about it?
Miss Pauline put a plate of cookies in front of me. I took one and nibbled at it. “Georgia was just fine,” I said. “I wonder if I could use your telephone. I need to call the Veterans Administration.”
“Of course,” said Dinah. “I’ll look up the number while you finish your treat.”
She went into the living room.
I ate the cookie and left most of the Cheerwine in the bottle. “I’ll share it with the twins later,” I said. Miss Pauline and I went into the living room.
Miss Dinah had her finger on the phone directory and the receiver off the hook. “Do you want me to dial it for you?”
“Um,” I said, “maybe not just yet.”
What would I say, especially with those two sisters hearing every word? I didn’t want to drag them into my family’s business. But Junior had told me they already knew some of it. So I decided to take my chances.
“I need to talk to them about getting help for my daddy. Lately he’s been…well, he’s been…” I just couldn’t make myself say that my daddy had turned violent.
Miss Dinah leaned forward and whispered, “It’s okay, Ann Fay. Actually Bessie told us about the incidents.” Then she sat back and said, louder, “We’d do anything for your mother, wouldn’t we, Pauline?”
Miss Pauline nodded. “Perhaps I should call,” she said. “They’ll be more likely to speak to an adult.”
She took the phone. She explained all about Daddy not being himself since the war and my momma being in a family way. “Urgent help is needed,” she said.
After she hung up, she said that my mother would have to go and fill out papers. “Tell your momma we’ll gladly drive her there.”
“I think we should pay her a visit,” said Miss Dinah.
“Oh, no,” I said. “Please don’t. She will be so ashamed.”
“Nonsense,” said Miss Pauline. “If the war taught us anything, it’s that women must sometimes take charge of a situation. And we have to stick together.”
“Well, maybe.”
“No maybe about it,” said Miss Dinah. “I’m going to give you a ride home this minute. And get myself a little time with that precious dog of yours. I’ll talk to your mother and insist that she let us help.”
And that’s exactly what Miss Dinah did.