Anybody Shining (12 page)

“This is different, Arie Mae,” Mama said. Her point was just as I feared. “This is an invitation to a party. It's hospitality, and we don't turn down hospitality when it's offered.”

That is how we come to spend the rest of the day getting ready for Miss Pittman's picnic. When Daddy, James, and Harlan come in from
the high field, they fussed at Mama for making such a poor showing for dinner, just heated-up soup beans, not even a pan of cornbread, though James brightened some at the news of the picnic. It was like he'd plain forgot that Miss Pittman thought we was filthy and ignorant.

“I hope they got races and swimming!” he exclaimed. “And strawberry ice cream, too.”

“Strawberry ice cream?” Harlan asked, as if such a thing were beyond all belief. “Sign me up for that!”

Cousin Caroline, I am writing this letter late at night. I can't sleep for thinking on all the things that might happen tomorrow at Miss Pittman's picnic. What if there's special forks and spoons that we don't know the proper way to use? What if I spill all over myself and Tom pretends not to know me? What if in the middle of a polite conversation, Harlan starts to spitting and cussing, in spite of all the training Lucille has give him? I fear we will behave in such a way that Miss Pittman
will think she's right to say that we are uncivilized, ignorant folks.

Maybe I will wake up tomorrow with pneumonia and will have to stay home. That is what I'm hoping for, leastways.

Signed,

Your Cousin,

Arie Mae Sparks

Dear Cousin Caroline,

There is such a good deal to tell you about all that happened today. Most of it I'd rather not think about ever again, but if I don't write it down, then I won't have no peace in my mind. There is a voice asking why write it to you, when you don't ever answer back, and I wonder that myself. Maybe now I'm just in the habit of it. Maybe I'm in the habit of believing that you read my letters and care what I got to say, even if you don't write back.

Maybe you got two broke hands. If so, I am
sorry to hear it, but that sure would explain things.

I'm writing this beneath the window of the room I share with Lucille and Baby John. Moonlight is streaming in and lighting everything up, so it's just as good as having a lamp by my side. I've been gazing at Baby John's face, which is as round and ruddy as an apple. For so long he was the prettiest baby you have ever seen, and he's still nice to look at, but he's coming on nine months and not so much a baby anymore. You can see in his face the little boy he is about to be.

Sometimes I think it would be nice to be Baby John's age again and have no worries. Today, walking down the mountain to Miss Pittman's picnic, carrying Mama's apple stack cake in a box tied up with string, I worried about being ignorant, and I worried about the dress I was wearing, my blue everyday, the one that shows the least wear and tear, but is still drab and dreary. With it I wore my brown lace-up oxford shoes and white socks.
James and Harlan went barefoot, but I couldn't bring myself to do that, even though my brown oxford shoes are too tight.

Lucille and I trailed James and Harlan to the cabins where the Baltimore folks was staying. The closer we got, the slower and slower my feet moved. You are a good girl, Arie Mae Sparks, I told myself over and over, but I did not feel good. I felt like nothing about me was good enough, not my dress, nor my shoes, nor the words I spoke or the thoughts that run through my mind.

I used to be so happy that the songcatchers had started their school here, even if I couldn't go. But now I wished they'd never come, so I would never have these bad sorts of feelings about myself and everyone I know.

We could hear the laughter of children as we got closer, and suddenly I thought to wonder what other children would be there. Will Maycomb and Ivadee Ledford, I supposed, along with all their brothers and sisters, and I
wouldn't have been surprised to come across Addie and Billy Eckley nor Minnie, Carl, and Caroline Vinson. I thought of all the houses you will find along the road from the settlement school to the Hollifields' place on the highest perch of Pumpkin Patch Mountain and counted up a righteous number of young'uns. What would them Baltimore children make of us all gathered together? I shuddered to wonder.

Well, it was quite a sight when we rounded the corner of the visitors' cabins and headed in the direction of the creek. All the children I have named and plenty more was running wild as unbroken horses in the grass. The Baltimore children stood to one side and looked on as though they was watching a show. Every last one of them wore shoes, and their faces was shiny clean. The mountain children looked more used up and most had dirty feet.

As soon as she saw us, Ruth called out, “Arie Mae! Lucille! Come help us set the table!” She sounded as though she was doing us an
honor by asking. I thought it odd that there was tables for a picnic, but it turned out to be just the one for setting out food and another for plates and punch. When it come time to eat, we would spread out blankets on the grass and sit with our plates in our laps.

We followed Ruth into a cabin where platters of food were laid out upon a table. “Miss Pittman and Mother thought sandwiches were appropriate, and I agree,” Ruth told us, pointing at the food. “At first we considered beef and pickle sandwiches, but in the end decided that cream cheese and olive would hold together best.”

Lucille and I nodded, though we are not much for sandwiches as Mama don't make light bread, which is the kind you can slice into thin pieces to put something between. Mostly we have biscuits and cornbread. Still, I have seen pictures of sandwiches in magazines, so the sight of them weren't shocking.

But olives and cream cheese? I glanced at Lucille and saw her lower lip a-trembling.
Lucille is one of them who is particular about what she eats and don't take to unfamiliar food easy. When we attend a church supper, she'll stick to whatever Mama has made, in spite of all the ladies who urge her to try just one bite of their famous dishes.

“I am sure you and your mama have made the right choice,” I told Ruth, setting down Mama's apple stack cake on the far end of the table. “Cream cheese and olives sounds like a treat.”

“You don't think the mountain children will find them too unfamiliar?” Ruth asked. Her tone made me suspicious. Maybe she hoped we would turn on our heels at the sight of such food and run back up the mountain, showing ourselves to be ignorant and plain.

The sandwiches was cut up into triangles and set upon pretty platters. There were also bowls of nuts and cucumber spears, and plates with sliced radishes and tomatoes and hard-boiled eggs. While there was plenty of everything, it seemed to me a meager spread, nothing there
to fill your belly. Still, I thought maybe this was how high-class folks ate, and I swore to myself that I would try a bite of everything.

A tall woman with a crisp, white apron tied around her waist walked into the room, looking brisk and full of good cheer. “Hello, girls!” she called when she saw us. “I'm Ruth's mother, Mrs. Wells. You must be Ruth's friends Arie Mae and Lucille. Now, which one is which?”

I could tell from the second I laid eyes on Mrs. Wells that she was who Ruth got her bossy side from. From the very manner in which she walked into the room, her head turning this way and that, making sure all was as it should be, it was clear she was in charge.

“I'm Arie Mae Sparks, ma'am,” I said. “And this here is my little sister, Lucille.”

“ ‘This is my sister, Lucille,' ” Mrs. Wells corrected me. “Say things directly, Arie Mae, and you'll be better understood. From looking at the two of you, it is clear that Lucille is younger than you are, and the use of ‘here' in that
sentence was extraneous. Now, let's carry these platters outside and tell the children it's time for luncheon.”

That's when I wanted to tell her that she'd fixed all the wrong sorts of food for the mountain children, who would have as soon chucked a radish slice through the cracks in the floor than eat it, but I suspected she would not have listened to me. Mrs. Wells did not strike me as the sort who listened to anybody but herself.

I followed Lucille over to the table and was about to pick up a plate of buttered bread, when Mrs. Wells said, “Arie Mae, may I speak with you for just a moment?”

“Yes, ma'am,” I replied. Lucille give me a worried look and I give her a look that said,
Don't you never mind.

“It's nice to finally meet you, dear,” Mrs. Wells said after Ruth and Lucille left. She leaned over the table to neaten a row of radish slices on one platter, then straightened a line of carrots on another. “You and my Tom have become friends, I understand. I'm very happy
that you children have accepted Tom with such open arms. Sometimes people find it hard to overlook his—his difficulties.”

“What difficulties would those be, ma'am? Do you mean his leg?”

She nodded. “His leg, his limp, the fact that he can't run and play like other children. For a boy his age, it's quite a handicap.”

“I don't mind none. None of us children do. Everybody's happy for Tom to be here.”

“You don't mind
any
,” Mrs. Wells corrected me. “You must learn to speak properly if you're to advance in this world, Arie Mae. Now, Tom tells me you two plan to hike through the woods tomorrow to a place called Pilgrim's Gap.”

“That's right,” I told her. “We aim to find Aunt Jennie Odom. Tom wants to collect some of her stories.”

Mrs. Wells frowned. “Yes, well, I'm afraid such a journey will not be possible. You see, it's not only Tom's leg that bothers him. Tom had scarlet fever as a young child and it
weakened his heart. Therefore I must ask that you not overtire him. He wants to do things that normal children do, but he simply cannot.”

My knees got a little bit wobbly when she said that, and my fingers and toes went cold. I have knowed children with weak hearts, and they ain't often long for this world.

“Arie Mae, this is strictly confidential.” Mrs. Wells leaned toward me and put a hand on my shoulder. “You mustn't tell Tom I've told you this. He doesn't know how damaged his heart is, because he's never been one to overdo and I haven't wanted to worry him. But since we've come to the school, I suspect he'd climb a mountain every day if he had the time. But he can't, and he mustn't. Do you understand what I'm saying, Arie Mae? You must keep him to quiet activities when the two of you play together.”

“Yes, ma'am,” I said. “I'll be careful not to wear him out.”

“Good,” Mrs. Wells said with a nod. “Now carry these things outside. I believe Miss Pittman
is about to lead the children in a game of Mother May I, and when that's over we shall eat.”

Well, I carried that bread and butter tray outdoors with a heavy heart. I had never felt sad about Tom's leg, at least not too sad, because it seemed to me he made do right well on one good leg. But a weak heart was another story. A weak heart was not to be messed with. Now I'd have to come up with lies to tell Tom about why we could not go to Aunt Jennie Odom's or even trek up to see Miss Sary. I ain't as strict about the truth as James is, but to lie to Tom seemed to me a terrible thing.