Rita Will Page 11

  “Sis, there’s plenty of time to worry about men.”

  “Blood tells,” Aunt Mimi cryptically intoned.

  I could have ripped her throat out.

  “One man’s as good as another,” I bellowed. Where I’d heard that I don’t know, but it derailed their impending argument.

  They hopped to another subject and I walked outside to play with Chap, the Chesapeake Bay Retriever. We plunged into the moist woods. I liked to find the air currents and follow them, hoping to find deer. Sometimes I’d sit for what seemed like hours waiting to catch sight of an indigo bunting or an owl, my favorite bird.

  While I was popular at school, made good grades and loved learning, I was most content racing across hayfields or climbing the biggest walnut tree in the woods. With people it was blab, blab, blab. I craved silence and animal sounds. I never took Mom or Dad with me. I didn’t take the boys either. We’d build forts or fish, but my secret paths to the fox earths or a red-tailed hawk’s nest I showed no one. I didn’t trust them not to kill the animals that in a distant way I loved. If you put aside your frittering mind, the part of your brain that’s filled with words, you can learn a great deal from animals. Any animal that you encounter is a success. The failures are extinct.

  I watched animals prepare their young to live on their own. Vixens would go into a killing frenzy sometimes to teach their cubs. Birds truly would push their young out of the nest.

  The world waited outside the door. I wanted to go. I counted the years until I would graduate from high school. Eternity.

  The more Mom cranked on me to behave properly, the more I wanted to tear out of there. However, they did beat good manners into my skin and I wasn’t even in full-blown cotillion yet. Big cotillion meant dancing with boys. Ugh. Playing baseball or football, that’s what boys were for.

  Poor as we were, our social equals were the royal family of England, according to Aunt Mimi. Aunt Mimi was hard-working, but she could be an awful snob sometimes. I hated that.

  Mother’s pungent phrase for Aunt Mimi when she’d climb on her high horse was “She thinks her shit doesn’t stink.”

  As snobby as Aunt Mimi could be. Mom was egalitarian. Color, gender, class meant nothing to her. She could get exercised about religion, but even there she was fundamentally tolerant except where Aunt Mimi’s Catholicism was concerned.

  I watched, listened and absorbed every conversation those two had that I overheard. I also vowed never to be like either one of them—the usual battle cry of any girl, “I will not grow up to be like my mother!”

  That early summer I rode the bus to downtown York. A red and gold McCrory’s five-and-dime stood on the corner. I strolled the aisles. A pretty yellow yo-yo with a black stripe leaped into my pocket.

  I love honeybees and bumblebees. I have never been stung by a bee, although yellow jackets and wasps have dive-bombed me plenty. I liked to touch bees’ furry thoraxes, to stroke them and sing to them. I can’t imagine what an adult would have thought if they’d caught me singing to the bees.

  There are many country superstitions about bees. One is that when a family member dies you must go tell the bees. Every time someone died I dutifully told whatever bee I found. I didn’t know it meant you were supposed to go to the beeboxes. The bees didn’t seem to mind.

  This yo-yo looked like a bumblebee. I hadn’t a penny in my pocket but I had the yo-yo.

  By the time I walked home I was “walking the dog” with the yo-yo. Naturally, it caught my mother’s eye. She asked where I got it.

  “McCrory’s.”

  “With what?”

  “Huh?” Acting dumb didn’t save me.

  “With what money, kid?”

  “Uh …”

  “That’s what I thought.” She pinched my ear, hauling me to the phone, where she called Aunt Mimi. In a flash Aunt Mimi and her hateful black Nash appeared at the back door. The next thing I knew I was being marched into McCrory’s. Aunt Mimi had the good grace to stay outside. Mother dragged me to the counter. I had to hand over the yo-yo, confess my sin and apologize.

  The clerk, a scrawny red-eyed twit, chose to be even nastier than Mother. She said she could put me in jail. Well, I’d have rather been in jail than standing between her and Mom.

  After the tongue-lashing, Mother led me out the back door of the store.

  “Aunt Mimi is waiting out front.”

  “She’ll be window-shopping.” Mom stopped and put her hands on her hips. “Buzz, whatever happened to ‘Thou shalt not steal’?”

  “I don’t know.” And I didn’t.

  “All through your life you’ll see things you think you have to have. Next time this happens, try a little game that I play.” She walked me around to the street side. “Wait a day. One full day. Then go back and look at whatever it is. You might find that the shine has worn off. Then again, you might find it’s even prettier than you remembered. If you can afford to, buy it. Now, if it’s something really big, like a refrigerator—”

  “Or a horse,” I interrupted.

  “Or a horse, then wait a whole week and find out everything you can about what it is. You know, does someone sell the same thing for less money? You can’t give in to your first impulse. Now, whatever happened to ‘Thou shalt not steal’?”

  “I forgot it.”

  “You didn’t forget it, you pushed it out of your mind. Self-control, kid.”

  “Is God going to remember this? That I broke a commandment?”

  “Uh …” She paused a second, then bunt out laughing. “Nah, but Aunt Mimi will never forget it.”

  And, indeed, she never did.

  22

  Laundry

  Mother was rushed to the hospital with strange pains in her bowel. She endured three operations in one week. She had adhesions that blocked part of her colon. Finally, the doctors removed three feet of intestine.

  No one thought she would live. I vaguely remembered Mother being in the hospital once before, when I was four. I was afraid then and I was afraid now, especially when Daddy cried.

  Mom pulled through. I cleaned house, did the laundry and ironed until she was on her feet.

  I felt very important, but I was scared to death that I’d lose Mother. For months afterward I wouldn’t let her out of my sight. Going to school upset me. I was sure Mother would die.

  It took me a long time to get over that.

  23

  Valley View Elementary School

  The summer before fourth grade, 1954, a handful of children from Violet Hill Elementary School were relocated to the newer Valley View Elementary School, which reposed on a ridge overlooking the farm valley. We lived on the opposite ridge.

  I walked through the farm, across the creek and up the hill to Valley View. The children attending this school differed from the kids at Violet Hill. These kids came from money, maybe not all of them, but enough of them to let me know I was not born with a silver spoon in my mouth. They already owned televisions. Their parents drove them in new cars to school. Some children even had swimming pools, a much bigger status symbol in the fifties than it is today.

  The other significant change was how incredibly competitive these kids were. They’d jostle for the teacher’s attention, they’d cut one another on the kickball fields and they shared few of their material goods. They sucked up to authority.

  What a jolt. I don’t know if I said two words my fourth-grade year, but I made E’s (for “excellent”). Mom and Dad fixed it so I could go to the library if I finished my lessons early, just as they had at Violet Hill.

  My athletic ability helped me make friends, but I didn’t grow close to anyone. Carol Morton, a blond, outgoing girl, invited me to her house once for a pool party. That was the extent of my socializing at Valley View. I missed the draft horses. During recess at Violet Hill I’d been able to sneak across the playing field, vault the fence and crawl up on the back of one of the plow horses. I missed those horses and I missed my farm school buddies.

  More
than anything, I missed Mickey.

  Mother brought me a tiger, a short-haired kitten, one fall day. Tuffy entered my life and I haven’t lived without a short-haired tiger since.

  I had Kenny, Wadie and ever-growing Terry. Eugene was far away but okay, so Mother was happy. I worked with Chap, and Dad let me have a tricolor Collie puppy that I named Ginger so I could learn to work with herding dogs, which are quite different from hunting dogs.

  I dutifully trudged to school, then ran all the way home. The one outstanding event of those subdued years at school occurred on a crisp fall day when I was in fifth grade. The sow escaped her pen. I had no idea of this as I climbed the farm road up the hill. I heard a dark squeal behind me, glanced around and beheld six hundred pounds of angry bacon heading straight for me. If you’re a city person, you may not know that hogs can run faster than you. If they’re in a scuffling mood, an enraged hog can hurt you. A boar can kill you.

  I dropped my books, running for all I was worth. The farmer was nowhere to be seen. The sow was gaining on me. Thank God for an old oak tree in the middle of the top cornfield. I made it in time and shimmied up, grabbing hold of a thick, low branch to swing up. My vantage point provided me with an excellent view of Tons of Fun. She, in turn, appeared fascinated with her quarry. She didn’t budge. I missed school and sat in the tree until early afternoon, when the farmer drove down the road. Poor fellow, he was scared to death when he saw me. My dress was ripped, and scratches added to my allure. He captured the hog, put her back, then fetched me out of the tree. He found my books and drove me home and apologized to Mom.

  By now you have gathered that Mother was not the overprotective type. Thank God. There are enough born wimps without making one.

  After the farmer left she made me a mayonnaise sandwich and smiled at me. “Good thing you’re fast on your feet.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Were you scared?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You didn’t cry, did you?”

  “No.” I was so insulted I forgot the ma’am.

  She opened the old Norge and took out vanilla ice cream. I perked up.

  “Let’s celebrate. I’ll make hot-fudge sundaes.”

  “Celebrate what?”

  “A pig in a poke.” She attacked the rock-hard ice cream, then turned toward me. “You weren’t a coward.”

  “I was scared.”

  “Anyone with sense would be scared. A coward lets it get to him. You didn’t, so I say let’s eat ice cream.”

  I hoped this display of courage would release me from pre-cotillion and church. I know God means for us to go to church, but did he mean for it to be so dull?

  24

  Betting on the Side

  Aunt Mimi possessed a horror of silence, which she battled with endless chat. The Typhoid Mary of the Telephone started her calls at 6:30 each morning. After she finished with Mother she must have knocked off everyone in her social and church circle. Then she’d often hop in her car and head for our house.

  Both sisters hungered for information, news and rank gossip. Mother refused to pass on the gossip. She said Aunt Mimi could do that. Also, Mother rarely believed much of what she heard.

  “Believe none of what you hear and half of what you see,” she often counseled me.

  Big Ken was courting his housekeeper, Ceil. Little Terry loved her. Kenny and Wade had mixed emotions. Aunt Mimi needed to report fully on those developments. We thought she’d be cool to Ceil, but she surprised everyone by welcoming her. The big issues brought out the best in Aunt Mimi. The boys needed a young woman’s care and love. Ceil, brave woman, was ready to try.

  Julia Ellen was bound and determined to marry the gorgeous but penniless Russell. Aunt Mimi exhausted every argument in her arsenal. She tried waiting her out. Julia Ellen, usually a docile and obedient daughter, wouldn’t budge.

  “She’ll ruin her life,” Aunt Mimi wailed to Mom.

  “At least she’s ruining it with someone handsome.”

  “Juts, you are no help at all. You talk to her.”

  “I did talk to her.”

  “Well, talk to her again! She thinks he’s Don Juan.”

  “Don Guano!” I giggled as I slapped more peanut butter on the bread. I loved playing with language and made jokes and puns constantly. Adults often began to grind their teeth in my presence. I thought I was hysterical.

  Mother frowned. “Who asked you? If you can’t behave, you can take that sandwich and eat outside.”

  “Oh, Mom.”

  “And that’s another thing, Juts. Calling you Mom. Mom is vulgar. It’s what the lower classes say. Mother. It should be Mother.”

  “We are the lower classes,” I fired back.

  “We most certainly are not. We have slender resources but impeccable blood.”

  She was so predictable. I sassed back. “The best blood is Teddy blood.”

  “What is she talking about?” Aunt Mimi was cross.

  “Kid, out of here.”

  I picked up my sandwich in one hand, my glass of milk in the other. At the top of the backyard, where the yard met the hayfield, Dad had built a huge outdoor brick fireplace and grill to display his considerable cooking abilities. I walked up the hill and sat on the side of the fireplace.

  Tuffy followed me. Chap, sound asleep in his house, couldn’t be bothered to open an eye.

  I wondered if Mother was explaining Teddy blood to Sis. Citation’s great-grandfather on the top line, the sire line, was Teddy. Mom said Teddy blood was the best. She also bemoaned the American obsession with speed. A horse needs speed and stamina. Otherwise, they’re like Jaguars, pretty to look at but always breaking down.

  Aunt Mimi didn’t share Mother’s love for horses or boxing or baseball. But they shared a love of color, clothes and interior decoration.

  I could just hear Mom explaining the great sire Teddy to a fidgety sister whose main worries were, in descending order of importance: Her candidacy for sainthood; Julia Ellen’s marriage; the boys; Mearl’s house-painting business; her wardrobe; the irritating appearance of more gray hair than she felt necessary to display.

  I also figured she’d take a swipe at my bloodlines, which, although every bit as good as hers, were outside the boundaries of marriage.

  As much as the Buckingham sisters did for me—and I was grateful—I wanted to be on my own. I didn’t want to hear about my beginnings, a failing attached to me although I had nothing to do with it. I wearied of their pettiness, bickering and power struggles.

  As for visiting Mother Brown, that continued to be a season in purgatory. The good thing was that I’d read every National Geographic from the 1940s on.

  The developers were gobbling up farmland that I loved. The valley below me was dotted with homes, although the farm still held out in the middle. Our road was extended. New homes, much bigger than ours, appeared.

  I hated it. I begged Daddy to move near Hanover Shoe Farm. He said we couldn’t afford to.

  Nothing stayed the same. Even I was changing. Clothes that had fit the year before didn’t fit this year. The boys and I traded T-shirts, shorts, jeans among us. Dreams I’d dreamed were supplanted by new ones. I no longer wanted a hotpad business. I thought I’d run a yard service, since I’d made money that spring and summer trimming hedges, planting bulbs and mowing lawns. Small but strong, I accomplished a lot more than grownups thought I would, and I liked any kind of outside work, so I did a good job. I’d mow your lawn for a dollar. The dollars rolled in. I was saving to buy a farm in Virginia. That dream remained constant, fired, no doubt, by that first visit back in 1949 and by the one thing my mother said about my father’s family: FFV. First Families of Virginia.

  I could read anything. I ripped through books, especially history books and military history, at the rate of five a week. I could only go to the Martin Memorial Library on Saturdays, the day I “helped” Dad at the store. Mom still allowed only two books per week from the city library but I could take what I wa
nted from the school library since she wouldn’t have to carry them.

  Except now I was big enough to really work. I could keep inventory, sweep the aisles, restock shelves and trim the fat off meat. I was too short to work on the huge butcher block, so Dad stood me on a wooden milk crate to teach me how to do it properly. When I was halfway decent at fat trimming, he taught me how to cut away from the bone. Those knives sparkled from use and honing. I was careful.

  He taught me how to grade meat. We also rode around to the various cattle farmers. Grading on the hoof is a lot harder than grading once you’ve opened up the animal. Dad was terrific at it. The faces of farmers when he rolled into the driveway told me Dad was special. People smiled and laughed. He was liked and respected. I wanted people to treat me like that, too.

  The farmers called me “Sidekick.”

  The boys seethed with jealousy, especially when I made the rounds with Dad. However, Kenny’s feet could reach the pedals of the old tripod tractor, so he bragged that he could drive it. It was my turn to seethe with jealousy.

  One summer evening Kenny crowed over the fields he’d plowed that day. Wade and I called him a liar, which launched us into a wicked fistfight.

  As Kenny was now almost a foot taller than I was, though skinny as a rail, I weathered a few of these blows and then decided to take another tack.

  “Kenny, I want proof. If you can drive the tractor, I’ll give you my piggy bank.”

  He let up on Wade. “You mean it?”

  “Swear.”

  “On the Bible?”

  “A stack.”

  “The Catholic Bible, not the Lutheran Bible.” He leaned over me.

  “Swear on the Catholic Bible.” I crossed my arms over my chest.

  “Ha!” Kenny was spending that money in his head before he had it.

  The grown-ups were on the porch, and we were far enough away that they paid us no mind. As for our fights, we fought all the time, nothing new there.