July 1944
On Thursday I hopped out of bed almost before the sun did. I went through the kitchen to the back porch and dropped the bucket into the well. I took the wash basin off the nail on the wall, poured water into it, and splashed my face.
Then I woke the twins up and fixed them grits. “Hurry,” I said. “Momma is expecting us to call at seven.”
We took the shortcut through the fields along the edge of the woods that brought us to the Hinkles’ back yard. We went to the back door like we always do. They have a sign there that says BACK DOOR FRIENDS ARE BEST.
Miss Pauline opened the door. She was fixing to say good morning. I could see the words forming on her lips, but they froze right there. Instead she covered her mouth and her nose with both hands and stepped back. “What are you doing here?” She sounded scared.
“Miss Pauline, I was wanting to use the telephone.”
“But—but—you’re under quarantine. You can’t come in.”
I never thought I’d hear Miss Pauline say I couldn’t come into her house. She was the one that was always baking cookies and shoving them into our hands. And both her and Miss Dinah always said we was welcome to use their telephone anytime. Now here she was, acting like we had the bubonic plague or something. I was so surprised I couldn’t think of a thing to say.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her lips a-quivering. She pushed the door shut before I could even come up with another plan.
I do believe she was scared of us three harmless girls, and all because of Bobby having polio. I thought maybe if I tried to explain, or asked her to make the call … I knocked on the door again. But she never did open it.
I put my arms around my sisters. “Let’s go,” I said. “I reckon we won’t be talking to Momma after all.” I heard my voice shaking. My eyes was stinging and if I wasn’t careful the girls would catch me crying. I had to be the strong one.
But I didn’t feel one bit strong.
We went home by the road. The blackberries was running rampant all over the side ditch. And the bright orange trumpet vine too. The road wasn’t nothing but dry red dust under our feet. It splashed over my toes and covered the hairs on my toes so you could count every one of them if you was of a mind to.
But I wasn’t in a mood for counting toe hairs. That was something I would do on a happy day. And even the blackberries and trumpet vine didn’t make me happy today.
We passed the little church for coloreds that set by the side of the road. Two men was digging in their graveyard. I wondered if polio had killed one of their people. Or maybe it was a soldier that had died.
I thought how I lived less than a mile away from that colored church and I didn’t know none of the people that went there.
Sometimes, on a Sunday evening, when I was sitting on the front porch watching Bakers Mountain turn deep blue as the sun went down the other side, I would hear them colored people singing, their voices floating over the fields. It was different from the singing at my church for sure. But I liked hearing it. And sometimes I’d go walking out the dirt road to catch the sound of it a little better. But I never went too close.
It seemed like there was just some neighbors you could get to know better than others—like Junior’s family, for instance. When we got to their lane, I said, “Let’s go talk to Junior. He’ll know what to do.”
Junior’s hound dogs come out from under the porch and howled like they didn’t have no idea who we was.
“Jesse, you hush and get over here right now,” I hollered. Jesse started wagging his tail all sorry-like and slunk over to us. Ellie scooped him up and Ida sat in the dirt and started kissing on Butch, the other dog.
Junior must’ve been dozing on the porch swing because he looked downright sleepy. “Howdy,” he said, and he give a big yawn.
“Junior,” I said, “I got a predicament. I need to talk to Momma. But the Hinkle sisters won’t let me use their telephone on account of the polio quarantine.”
Junior stood up so fast the porch swing went flying out from behind him and then come frontward and almost knocked him over. “Well, that is plumb ridiculous!” he said. He opened the screen door and stuck his head inside. “Momma,” he hollered, “I’m going to the Hinkles’ to help Ann Fay make a telephone call.” And without so much as another question about what was going on, he started down the steps.
One thing about Junior—whenever there’s a problem, you can always count on him to take over.
I yelled at Ida and Ellie to quit playing with them dogs and catch up to us. While we waited, Junior adjusted the straps on his overalls and tried to make his curly brown hair lay down by licking his hand and smoothing it across his head.
As we was walking I told Junior about Pete disappearing. “You seen him anywhere?”
Junior shook his head and frowned. “He might have run off somewhere to grieve,” he said. “I’ve heard tell of dogs that was so sad when their owner disappeared all their hair fell out. Or they run off and died in private.”
Ellie started crying when he said that. So Junior tried stuffing those words back in his mouth. “Course Pete wouldn’t die,” he said. “He’s got too much spunk. He’s probably out looking for Bobby right now. Shoot! That dog is so smart, he probably already found him.”
Then he changed the subject real quick.
When we got back to the Hinkle sisters’, Junior knocked on the front door and hollered out, “It’s me, Junior Bledsoe. I need to talk to you, please, ma’ams.”
Miss Pauline opened the door, but the instant she seen us standing behind Junior, she covered her face and stepped back.
“Please, Miss Pauline,” Junior said. “Ann Fay needs to talk to her momma.”
Miss Pauline said, “I’m sorry. But the health department put up those quarantine signs for good reason. She can’t be breathing into our telephone. What if she has infantile paralysis and doesn’t know it yet? The girls will have to get off our porch.”
I tell you what’s the truth—I felt downright dirty when Miss Pauline said that. I felt like one of them people in the Bible that had leprosy and wouldn’t nobody but Jesus touch them. I took the girls by the hand, and we went out to stand by the yellow bell bushes at the edge of the yard.
Junior said, “What about I come in and talk to their momma? They can wait at the edge of the yard and I’ll pass the messages back and forth.”
Miss Pauline looked like she might actually let him do it. But then she said, “Maybe you’ve been touching the girls. You might have the germs too.”
I seen Junior’s shoulders sag and knew he was running out of ideas. But then he said, “Well then, can you call for us?”
Miss Pauline didn’t say anything at first. I seen her eyes on us girls and I could see the fear in them. And the sadness too. She wasn’t used to turning people away. Finally she said, “Tell me the number and I’ll make the call for you.”
Junior looked at the number on the letter and repeated it for Miss Pauline. Then he stood close to the dining room window and passed the messages back and forth.
Junior took over the conversation from the beginning. “Tell her Ann Fay is doing real good with them girls. She’s just like a momma herself.”
It wasn’t true, of course. But it made me feel good that he was bragging on me so Momma wouldn’t worry. And bad, because I didn’t want to be a momma. Being the man of the house while Daddy was gone was one thing. But being the woman of the house—that was more responsibility than I could handle.
We couldn’t hear Miss Pauline, but Junior said she told how Momma was going to stay at the hospital with Bobby as long as she could—that is, if Junior and his mother would help look after us. Of course Junior told Momma not to worry, on account of him and Bessie was already watching out for us.
Ellie started crying for Momma then, and Ida went and put her arms around her. I patted Ellie on the head and smoothed down her blond hair, which was full of knots because we was in such a hurry to get to the telephone that we didn’t comb it. She buried her face in my overalls and wiped her snot on them too. But I didn’t fuss at her because I knew she was missing our momma.
And when it come to Bobby, she was probably as scared as me.
“Tell her the twins are doing fine,” Junior told Miss Pauline. “Tell her they’re standing right outside with Ann Fay and all three of them are smiling up a rainbow.”
Junior Bledsoe could sure lie when he needed to. But I didn’t fault him for it. I knew he didn’t want my momma to worry.
I said, “Ask her does Bobby hate that iron lung?”
Junior passed the message on to Miss Pauline and waited for her to answer.
“He loves it!” said Junior, and I knew he was lying on my end too. “Your momma said it saved his life and he’s too weak to be jumping around anyhow. He sleeps a lot.”
Pretty soon Miss Pauline hung up the phone and shut the window. She motioned for Junior to come around to the back of the house. When he come back he had a stack of newspapers.
“Miss Pauline sent these,” he said. “They tell all about that emergency hospital. She says if you come every day she’ll give you the paper from the day before. Just get them off the back steps.” Junior held up one paper so as I could see it.
The headline said YANKS PUSH FOE BACK IN FRANCE. I reached for the paper. I could use some good news about the war—something to make me feel like Daddy could come home alive.
And I did want to read all about the polio hospital.
“Well, it’s not as good as talking to Momma,” I said. “But at least it’s something.” Then I seen a smaller headline, lower on the page: Boy, 12, Polio Patient, Dies at Camp Here. My heart sunk to my dusty red toes.
I knew some people died from polio, but seeing it like that right here in my hometown paper and knowing Bobby was in the same hospital put a new fear right through me.
Junior carried most of them papers until Ellie started up whining about being tired. Then he said, “Here, Ann Fay, you take the newspapers and I’ll carry her.” He stooped down and said, “Get on my back, Ellie.” And he carried her piggyback until Ida started asking when it was going to be her turn.
“When we get to that mailbox,” said Junior.
I thought how Miss Pauline was so scared of us and here was Junior letting my little sisters breathe in his hair. Catching polio didn’t seem to bother him a bit.
I hadn’t never really thought of it before, but I figured out right then and there what is the definition of a true friend—someone who knows you might be dangerous to be around and they stick by you anyhow.