Hardscrabble Road Read online

  CHAPTER 9

  School closed for a few days for peanut harvesting, so Papa hired us out to nearby farms. My brothers and I spent the daylight hours feeding peanut plants into mechanical pickers and then baling hay made from the stripped peanut vines. We’d stagger home after nightfall, filthy from the mix of sweat and dust, and put our wages into Papa’s open palm. On Saturday, he gave each of us a dime from the combined five dollars we’d earned so we could see the latest Western picture show.

  During the weekdays that followed, no matter the mood of my parents or the hardship of my chores, I always looked forward to the bus rides with Cecilia and to classroom time. Miss Wingate emphasized rules and discipline, getting us to sit up straight and correcting our English at every turn. “You may talk however you wish, outside of school. When you’re in class though, you will pronounce words as your teachers do. You will learn to form sentences that are proper and precise, that explain what you mean.”

  She wrote on the board and recited, “‘I OBEY THE RULES.’ This is a sentence you will learn. Four words that say a lot. Reading and writing might be scary to some of you. But all that’s needed is to know your letters, children, the letters you’re learning already.”

  I didn’t care much for all the copying Miss Wingate made us do, but I liked to watch her write at the board. The chalk clacked and swished and squeaked as her fingers and wrist danced left to right, creating bold tracks for us to follow. As we scrawled her assignments, she’d pace the aisles, high heels click-clicking, and give encouragement and gentle corrections. Initially, I made lots of mistakes so she would lean close and bathe me in her attention and perfume, but she caught on to that. Soon, she’d merely say, “Pay attention, Bud,” and keep walking. I found that making no mistakes earned glowing praise and fond glances, and tried to make up my own sentences.

  One time, she pointed at an addition I made and said, “This is fine work, Bud, and it’s good that you want to learn faster. Do you have anything to read at home?” When I told her we had a few pages left from the Sears and Roebuck catalog, she grimaced and said, “I’ll ask Mr. Gladney about letting you go door-to-door at dinnertime to collect newspapers.” Miss Wingate already brought in copies of Life, Collier’s, picture-show magazines, and old newspapers from her own home so the whole class could practice reading the easy words she’d underlined.

  The next day, the principal denied her request. He said I was too young to leave the grounds. I thought that learning to read might offer an escape—like daydreaming—but his denial mostly upset me because I hated dinnertime at school.

  I’d decided not to hide behind my brothers. Jay and Chet might not have minded me shadowing them, but I wanted to show how I was growing up. After the beating Buck had received, he seemed to avoid me, but almost everybody else shunned me too. Because Chet had fought my battle, I’d become the sissy of the sandlot. Fleming used to eat with me, but I’d sent him back to the marble games when bullies began to pick on him too. No one tried to fight me, but, from a distance, boys whispered, “B-B-B-B-ud.” With my back turned, someone would say, “Hey, Bud Rogers-s-s, did Ming do that to your face?” They called any dark bruise to the face a “MacLeod” as in, “That’s some MacLeod under your eye, a genuine thunderhead.”

  *

  Miss Wingate kept after Mr. Gladney until he relented to a degree: he’d allow Darlene or Jay to collect newspapers door-to-door. On a day when Jay went off-grounds to scrounge some reading material and Chet was home serving another a one-day suspension for fighting a townie classmate who’d mocked him, the bullies got closer to me than usual.

  Some seventh-graders gathered at the spigot in the schoolhouse wall, only twenty feet from me. Two of them stood close together, blocking my view of the others. They all giggled as water sprayed out of the faucet. In a minute, the flow of water stopped with a squeak. The boys acting as shields sauntered my way. One of them pointed at a wrestling match and muttered something and the other nodded. They seemed to be ignoring me on purpose. I jacked myself upright, so wary of those two that I didn’t notice the boys behind them.

  One boy said, “B-B-B-B-ud,” and stepped in front of me. A sky-blue globe the size of a cannonball was cupped beside his ear; I’d never seen a water balloon before. He hurled it at my groin, too fast for me to do anything but twist and raise one knee. The balloon burst against my fly and soaked me down to my shins. “He wet hisself,” he yelled. “He peed his drawers!”

  A second balloon, tossed by another kid, exploded against the top of my head. Burst rubber slithered under my collar, following the streams of water. I was afraid to look up, afraid to get a third one in the face. “Hurry up, Buck,” a bully shouted. “He’s primed for you.”

  Buck said, “The sissy wet his britches and cried all over his shirt.” I squinted at him through rivulets of water. He held a third balloon, round and pink. Water leaked from one end where he’d pinched it closed instead of tying it off. The opposite tip was rose-colored and Buck tweaked it. “Remind you of something, peewee? Wasn’t too long ago you was sucking on your mama’s.” He plucked the tip again. “Or do ya still?” With a single long step, he was right in front of me. Pushing the nipple-like end against my mouth, he said, “Go on, suck it.”

  I moved my head back, whacking the brick wall. Cold, wet rubber enveloped my face as Buck said, “No one here to s-s-s-s-s-save you. Taste that titty.” He lifted the balloon away and spun it around. His pinched fingers hit my lips and sprung apart, opening the balloon. Water jetted into my nose and mouth. As I choked, Buck tucked the limp balloon inside my sopping shirt. He said, “What’chu gonna do about it?”

  Coughing wracked me as the boys stuttered my name. I wiped my eyes and glimpsed Jay strolling across the road, coming toward the school with armfuls of newspapers. When he noticed me, he dropped everything and sprinted my way. Before he could arrive, I heard myself say to Buck, “G-g-go get the gloves.”

  The growing crowd parted for Buck so he could fetch the boxing mitts. He whistled as he sauntered away.

  Jay arrived, gasping, and said, “Who did this?” He faced the other boys and shouted, “Who did this?”

  I tried to clear my throat. “Don’t m-matter. It’s gonna get settled.”

  A couple of the bullies crowed, “That’s right,” and “You bet it is.”

  “Whoa, private. What’re you fixing to do?”

  The sliver of bravery I felt a moment ago had shredded like balloon rubber. I said, “Get beat up.”

  The bullies smirked at me and joked, “Betcha that B-bud Rogers gets knocked into space.”

  “Leastwise his whole face’ll match.”

  “Reckon he’ll lose his stutter with his teeth?”

  Jay turned his back on them and said, “Don’t fight Buck. I’ll take him on, and the rest.”

  Water dripped from my soggy overalls onto my feet. Even my back had gotten soaked. The wetness hid my nervous sweat as I began to imagine Buck clobbering me. I said, “Just t-tell me how you’d do it.”

  Buck returned with a set of gloves dangling from each hand. Mr. Gladney trailed him. Jay said, “He drags his feet a lot. I’d make ’im chase me.”

  A ring of boys closed in, nudging us toward the sandy lot where even more kids crowded around. I hoped that Cecilia and Miss Wingate couldn’t see within the wall of boys. Buck threw a pair of the globe-fisted mitts to me. They struck my face and I bobbled them. Jay laced the heavy, worn leathers onto my hands, tying big double-knotted bows. With the boxing gloves on, I couldn’t close my fingers into tight fists. It felt like weights had been strapped over my open hands.

  While the seventh-graders helped Buck with his gloves, Mr. Gladney said, “You sure you boys want to do this?”

  I lifted my gloves and knocked them together, trying to look like a boxer, trying to look like Chet. Immediately, the heavy leather and padding made my arms droop. A number of boys laughed around me. I said, “Yes, sir. I-I told Buck to get the gloves.”

  “He s
plashed you with a little water, right? Now you’re asking him to punch you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The principal shrugged and gave me a smirk. “Well, it’s your funeral. You get in too much trouble for even the best guardian angel.” He called, “Let’s have some room here. Spread out, make the circle bigger. OK, a couple of rules: no hitting below the waist and when I say you’re done, Buck, that’s it. Don’t kill the boy. Now go.” He clapped his hands together.

  With a sneer on his lips, Buck charged across the hard-packed dirt, right glove poised beside his ear. I backpedaled and put my arms together, holding them in front of my face and chest, elbows pointed down. Buck punched my exposed shoulder. It felt like getting hit with a pillow-wrapped anvil. He slammed his left glove against my arm, sending shock waves deep into my ribs.

  Buck pounded me with both hands, right-left, right-left. I didn’t counterpunch, but just kept moving clockwise around the ring of screaming boys while I protected my face and chest. He dogged me. His boxing gloves whumped and hissed as he landed blow after blow, each one almost knocking me off balance.

  My arms trembled from the punches they absorbed and the weight of my gloves. Buck’s sweat rained on me as he closed in again and hit me hard. My head jerked with every strike, but I continued to move in an unsteady retreat around the circle of noise. Jay shouted, “That’s it, Bud. Make the monster move!”

  Fleming yelled, “Mr. Gladney! Stop the fight!”

  Another combination of punches staggered me. I fell on my backside and crab-walked into a thicket of denim-clad legs. “Get up,” the boys shouted. “Look at the baby learn to crawl!” To save my dwindling strength, I let them hoist me to my feet, but they pushed me at Buck. He swung a mighty right fist that barely missed my nose. His momentum turned him around, so I backpedaled again, my arms shielding me once more.

  I peeked enough to see his next charge. His blows had slowed down, but he still hit hard enough to numb my muscles. He snuck a roundhouse punch around my glove and tagged my ear. Instantly, the skin grew hot and sore. Pains shot through my neck as it tried to keep my head from snapping loose. I fell back into the crowd. Some boys pulled me up and shouted, “Try, you sissy!”

  Buck grunted as his right glove glanced off mine. I thought he’d try to box my other ear, but his left fist came in very low, just above my groin. The shock of it nearly made me pee as I backpedaled again, doubled over.

  Mr. Gladney shouted, “Keep your punches up, Buck. Let’s finish this.”

  Buck towered above me, hollering, “Put up a fight.”

  I remained bent in half, frustrated and furious. My body ached like Papa had beaten me. The principal—who could’ve helped me—acted as callous as Mama. I wanted to tear Buck to pieces, but I had only enough strength to throw one punch.

  From my throat came Chet’s low growl. My right arm dropped in a long arc as if my shoulder had suddenly broken. The weight of the glove carried my fist down to my ankles and then it turned and sailed upward, yanking me off my feet. Like hitting a baseball right on the sweet spot of the bat, I barely felt the impact as my knuckles connected with Buck’s jaw. My uppercut caught him beneath his cleft chin and lifted him three inches off the ground.

  Buck’s arms hung limp as he pitched backward onto the dirt. He landed hard, with the thump of a fifty-pound flour sack tossed off a roof. His head bounced twice at the end of his thick neck, his gloves rolled palms-up, and then he was still. Unseeing eyes gazed at the sky from behind their drooping lids.

  The crowd roared. Some cheering boys slapped my back and shoulders until they knocked me to my knees while others imitated my uppercut. I couldn’t lift my arms; they were as wobbly as Mama’s tomato aspic.

  A few kids gathered around Buck. “Dayum,” one said and then glanced at the principal nearby. In a quieter voice, he said, “Buck-here is as dead as a door nail.”

  Another said, “He just got cold-cocked.”

  “Nope, he’s graveyard dead.”

  “Dead to the world, bless his heart.”

  Mr. Gladney gave me a grudging smile and shook his head. He edged up the knees of his suit trousers and crouched beside Buck. As soon as Buck blinked and moved his jaw in a small circle, the boys around him walked away. “Dayum,” the first one murmured again. “I sure thought he was deader’n a hammer.”

  Fleming pushed through some kids reenacting the fight and screamed to me in wordless excitement. Jay hoisted me to my feet and then lifted me into the air, yelling all the while.

  I was now tall enough to see over the shouting, cheering kids. Miss Wingate stood at the edge of the crowd with a few other teachers. She clutched a lace handkerchief over her mouth and looked at me with reddened eyes. I smiled at her but my victory didn’t seem to make her any happier.

  Cecilia leaned on the wire fence that kept the girls on their side of the playground. She and Darlene and my sister’s pretty friends all waved at me. For a moment, I felt ten feet tall.

  Jay jiggled me and kept yelling. He finally set me on the ground but had to keep hold as pain rushed through my body. I managed to lift my gloves-covered fists and say, “Thanks, general. C-could you help me off with these things?”

  BOOK TWO

  CHAPTER 10

  Buck shied away from me permanently after his licking, and the teasing ended. Some boys even invited me to play marbles and throw the ball in Bullpen. Every once in a while, a kid would point me out and murmur to a friend, “That’s the one that whupped Buck.”

  As if to balance this, I’d gotten—and stayed—on Papa’s bad side. Twice he caught me burning kerosene as I peered at hand-me-down newspapers late at night, running my print-blackened index finger below the words while sounding them out. “Goddammit,” he said, waking Jay and Chet, “you’re wasting fuel.” Both times, he sent me outside in the dark to pick a whip-like gallberry branch from the piles he kept in the smokehouse. I had to lift up my nightshirt in front of my brothers, who pretended to sleep, and try not to cry out as the whipping stung my legs and backside. On Friday night, I’d chosen a switch that was too slender for his liking, so he wore out that one against me and then sent me back to the smokehouse in tears to get two more.

  When Jay prodded me awake on Saturday, my first thought was that I’d slept through Papa’s mule-plowing song and Jay was trying to save me from another beating. With a gasp, I rolled out of bed, threw off my grimy nightshirt, and started to pull on my field clothes. My overalls scraped the raw wounds and made me clench my teeth.

  “Whoa, Bud!”

  I peeked over my shirt collar. Jay stood beside the bed, and Chet—not Papa—leaned against the doorjamb. Gray daylight leaked through the open window and a steady drip of rain plopped on the sill. Thunder rumbled in the west as I stammered, “Everything OK?”

  Chet said, “It’s too wet to do much. Papa’s gonna take Mama for a drive.”

  I heard Mama in their bedroom saying, “—to Columbus in a while. At least let’s go as far as Albany.” She pronounced it “Al-bennie.” Papa grunted a noncommittal reply.

  For breakfast, we grabbed some biscuits from the pie safe and a handful of cracklings from the canister beside the stove. Mama used so much lard in her dough that the week-old bread flaked like it was fresh-baked. The pork skins smelled rancid-sweet but still tasted like chewy bacon; they’d have to do until the December hog-killing.

  Lonnie called out to us from the back porch, where he sat drinking coffee from a chipped mug. Rain pattered on the tin roof and dripped off the edges in a curtain of water. When we came outside, he said, “Mr. Mance asked me and Nat to look after y’all. So let’s get the work outta the way and have us a big time.”

  The rabbit had returned, digging under the fence we’d replanted extra-deep. It had left my trap alone. Instead, it gobbled up one of Mama’s carrots and left pellets like orange- and green-tinted jelly beans.

  We scampered through the soggy chores, and our parents left without a word to us. When we told late-sleeping
Darlene that they had gone, she put on her yellow slicker with its matching rain hat and boots and took Mama’s flimsy umbrella of wicker and cloth. She said, “If Mama asks, I’m going to visit with the Turners.”

  I said, “Say hey to Cecilia,” and then had to endure my brothers’ ribbing about my “girlfriend.” With a quick wave, Darlene set off down the sandy drive. In the downpour, the yellow rubber encasing her gleamed like egg yolk.

  Nat came over a while later, rainwater running off the brim of his dun-colored fedora, his clothes as soaked-through as our own. Lonnie brewed more coffee and warmed some buttermilk for me and my brothers as we dripped dry on the back porch. The men sat in ladder-back chairs sipping from steaming mugs. Lonnie had put our heated milk in bowls, and we slurped from the rims as we sprawled on the floorboards. I lay on my side; the lash-marks still smarted. Lonnie said, “Reminds me of Birmingham weather. Seems like it rained most every weekend when I was a youngun.”

  Chet set down his emptied bowl. “Your folks still there?”

  “Mama is anyway. Daddy’s doing a hard twenty on some road gang.”

  “W-w-what for?” I sucked my lips to pull any lingering milk into my mouth.

  “He was bad to drink and fight. Got liquored up in a juke joint there in ’29 and stabbed a man slap dead.”

  Nat rested his elbows on his knees. “You gotta get you a wife, Lonnie. You’s the spitting image of your daddy. Having a family might settle you down some.”

  “Can’t find a good woman like you done, Nat. Leona—she’s the last one. Too bad she don’t got a sister. We could be brother-in-laws.”

  “Plenty of good women out there still, Lonnie. You gotta look for ’em at church instead of them joints in Colquitt and Eldorendo. Come on with us tomorrow, you’ll see.”

  Lonnie drained his mug and said, “I can’t tell how a woman shakes it at church. Yonder in Eldorendo, I know straight-away.”