CHAPTER 3
After chores and breakfast the next morning, I sat on the porch steps and pitched green chinaberry balls at birds, the dream about Momma still on my mind. The climbing sun burned off a layer of low clouds, letting a bright cornflower sky show through.
Grandma came out to sit. “Might get a cloud this evening.” She pointed to the maple behind the woodshed. “See the leaves? They’ll turn over like that when rain is coming.”
“Huh, never knew that before. Grandma, let me show you something.”
She followed me to the edge of the dirt road that ran between our house and the stables. I stopped at a spot close to the mailbox post and bent down to run my hand over a piece of board showing under the grass. “What is that? I felt it the other day when I got the mail.”
She leaned over and brushed away some dirt. “That’s where the first well was dug on the place. Your granddaddy covered the hole with wood and sowed grass over it. I hadn’t noticed the ground was worn away like that. We need to lay some more boards, could be dangerous if somebody stepped on it.” As she raked, the outline showed.
“How deep is it?”
“Not more than fifty feet or so. At one time a spring ran across here”—she swept her arm toward the woods behind the house—“but over the years it changed direction. After it went dry, we put potatoes and onions in sacks and lowered them down to keep through the winter.”
“Why’d you quit?”
“When we built the pack house, we dug a good-sized cellar for storing vegetables and my potting flowers.”
I pushed on the edges of the wood. “Reckon there’s any water down there now?”
“Don’t think so. Them planks are probably rotten by now. You can make another cover for it next week.”
I looked up to see the Wilsons turning off the main paved road. Mr. Wilson drove slow in his brand-new ’61 Chevy truck, “so as not to wear it out too quick,” he said. I fingered the ten-dollar bill, wanting to remember to get something for Fancy.
Grandma and I walked over to greet them. “Morning.” Mr. Wilson leaned across his wife. “You doing all right, Rosa Belle?”
“I’m well and I appreciate you asking.” Grandma smoothed her bun. “Morning, Lila.” Her and Mrs. Wilson were second cousins. I hopped into the back of the pickup and waved as we pulled off. Grandma stood with her hands behind her back, the trees, the house, and the woodshed in the background. It reminded me of a Saturday Evening Post magazine I’d seen at the drugstore.
When we got to Apex, Mr. and Mrs. Wilson headed toward Salem General Store, and I walked up the street. I liked the clean smell of the drugstore, and nodded hello to the lady behind the counter. She was tall and thin with dirt-brown hair piled up in a beehive. Big black glasses made her look older than I suspected she was, and were too big for her face.
They kept the comic books against a wall in the back. I stuck one to my nose to sniff the odd scent of the paper. After some mind wrestling, I decided on ten I wanted, and picked up a magazine for Grandma. While the saleslady totaled, I asked her to add in a good-sized bag of Hershey’s Kisses. All together it cost three dollars.
I took my time walking down the sidewalk opposite the one I’d come up. On this side of the two-lane street was a café, a jewelry store, a Woolworths, and a doctor’s office. In front of Salem General Store, baskets of golden peaches sat on a wooden fruit stand. I sniffed a few, and then filled a paper sack. They cost me two more dollars. I followed Grandma’s advice with the five I had left.
I spotted Mr. Wilson coming out of the barbershop across the street. “Got your ears lowered, huh,” I said.
“Needed one.” He rubbed a hand over his bald spot. “Let’s get some ice cream. The missus should be done with her stuff by then.” We took our time, looking in windows at this and that. Mr. Wilson stopped in front of the window of Rosen’s Jewelry Store. “All jewelry stores are owned by Jews, Junebug. That’s why it’s called JEWelry. They’ll gyp you coming and going; ain’t nothing but white niggers.”
I stayed quiet. Granddaddy used to say, “Any man that works for what he has and lives in fear of the Lord deserves respect.” I thought about Roy and how hard he worked for what little he had. Yet Mr. Wilson treated him like just another mule, figuring as long as he put a few ears of corn in his box once in a while, he pretty well owned him until he died. Roy was a man who deserved more respect than that.
“Mrs. Wilson wears a pretty wedding ring. Where’d you buy it?” I stared in the window, thinking how Fancy might like a pretty ring one of these days.
He hesitated while his face turned red. “Bought it here, but it was a long time ago, when Old Man Rosen ran the place.”
“Was he a Jew man? You think he gypped you?”
Mr. Wilson rubbed his heavy jaw. “Son of a bitch probably did.”
The door to the jewelry store opened, and an elderly man stepped out and looked at the blue sky. “What a glorious Sabbath we are blessed with.” He extended his hand. “Mr. Wilson, how are you? Your wife’s ring, is it still wearing well after all these years?”
“Seems to be.” I waited for Mr. Wilson to lay into him, but he just stood red-faced.
“You must bring it by one day, let me clean it for you. No charge.” Mr. Rosen smiled and headed down the sidewalk. “Good to see you.”
I dropped my head and smiled to myself. Granddaddy also told me talking to a man’s back took a lot less bark than talking to his front.