Color the Sidewalk for Me (25 page)

“Well, this favorite marble a his was black and silver, see, spectacularly beautiful. Jake got it from his daddy when we were both seven, and it took two years, but I was determined to git it for myself. Then one day I got me a fantabulous idea. The past Christmas my daddy had bought a box a glass balls for our tree. They was glorious, all colors a the rainbow, bright and shiny. They catch the sun just right, they'd send a spark a light clear through your eye. And one fine spring day I remembered those balls whilst thinkin' about Jake Lewellyn's marble.”

Knowing what was coming, Mr. Jenkins began laughing already. I had to giggle just watching him.

“I had me an idea, but I knew if my mama found out, she'd tan my hide good. After that Daddy would set in and, tell you what, I'd be in real trouble. So I was right careful when I snuck into the closet and stole one a them Christmas balls. I took it way out past our house into the field”—Granddad waved his hand in the air—“just about where we're sittin' right now in lovely downtown Bradleyville. Then I broke it into pieces, about a quarter inch long, and trucked 'em home in my pocket. But before I come home”—his eyes sparkled—“I picked me a toadstool, a cute little thing with a button cap.”

Mr. Jenkins laughed again, others joining in. Lee Harding exchanged an amused smile with Mr. B. I caught his eye next and he winked at me.

“Well, Mama always had a bowl a biscuit dough sittin' around before supper, so I slithered my fingers through it and used it to stick some a those colored glass pieces to the top a that toadstool. Then I broke the stem off it, placed it in the middle a some ol' cloth, put the whole thing in a box, and closed the lid. Then I was ready for Jake.”

The laughter had attracted attention and our little group was growing. Mr. Tull perched in the doorway, keeping a steely eye on a few customers in the store. Mr. Delham had wandered out of the hardware store and looked at our bunch curiously before being waved over by Lee Harding.

Granddad nodded gleefully at the newcomers, chuckling. “Jake, you was such a trustin' soul back then.”

Mr. Lewellyn humphed, tapping a foot.

“So anyhow, I paid Jake a visit, tellin' him all excited-like how my daddy had just come back from ridin' ol' Paddington—that was our horse—over to Albertsville. And there, I said, he'd bought me the shiniest, beautifulest marble anybody ever saw, brought over from the jungles a Africa.”

“Jungles of Africa, for gracious' sake!” Policeman Scutch's shoulders shook.

Granddad's words caught on his own chortles. “So I says, ‘Jake, I want you to see this here marble, but my daddy said whatever I do, I ain't to git it in the sun, else the colors'll fade.' So I told him I'd open the box just a smidgen and give him a peek, makin' sure I opened it toward the sun. Ol' Jake stuck his nose in that box and near died when that colored glass glinted off his eye. Then I closed the lid right quick.”

Everyone laughed except Mr. Lewellyn. “Born liar, that's what ya are, Thomas Bradley,” he muttered.

“Well, afore you knowed it,” Granddad said, ignoring him, “Jake was declarin' he
had
to have that marble. ‘No,' I says, ‘yours is much better; leastways you can play with it outside. This one you got to be so careful with and all.' And he says it don't matter, he'd stay inside his house as long as he lived if he could just have that marble. He begged to see it one more time, so I obliged—right neighborly of me, wouldn't you say? Then I clamped that box lid shut and informed him we'd have to go inside if we was to play with it, no more foolin' around. That was when he offered to trade marbles.”

“Oh my.” Lee Harding slapped his thigh. “Thomas, you was downright mean.”

“Still is,” mumbled Jake Lewellyn, but that only made us laugh all the harder.

By this time I pressed close to Kevy, making room for more Bradleyville folk who had wandered over—Mrs. Clangerlee from the IGA; Mr. Peterson, an English teacher from school; and Jason King from the mill. Mr. King was married to Lee Harding's younger sister, Connie.

“I tried to talk ya out of it, ya idgit.” Granddad pointed a gnarled finger at his friend. “But Jake insisted. So after two years a scheming, I had his marble and he was carting that box home like it was full a gold. I just couldn't help myself; I had to hang around, listenin' for when he finally got inside.” Granddad laughed heartily, crossing his arms over his stomach, eyes squeezed shut. “You shoulda heared him when he opened that box! He done wailed like a polecat bein' skinned alive, I swear!”

“He's been wailin' ever since, too, Thomas!” Hank Jenkins hooted.

“Why didn't he just tell his daddy and git it back?” Bill Scutch wondered.

Granddad cast him a look. “Are you kiddin'? Tell his daddy what—that he'd traded in his best marble for some African wonder that was no more'n a smelly ol' toadstool? His daddy woulda kicked his behind for bein' such a fool.”

I thought Mr. B. would fall out of his chair, he was laughing so hard.

“I wouldn't a put it past him to steal it back, though,” Granddad added, “so I hid that marble down in the toe of an ol' sock for years. That was the danged thing about it; I'd worked so hard to git it but then I couldn't even play with it.”

“The wages a sin, Thomas,” Mr. Jenkins chortled.

Granddad ignored the comment. “Then when I was growed up and my mama passed away, I took a little teacup from a play set she had as a girl and put that marble in it.” Granddad glanced around the group, his grin wide. “And that's where I've kept it all these years, on my bookcase along with my war medals.”

“Except now your medals ain't there, are they, Thomas?” Mr. Lewellyn threw Granddad a feisty look.

“Nope, Jake, they ain't,” he said proudly. “They's awaitin' till November, when I git 'em back from the governor hisself.”

Mr. Lewellyn grew still as Mr. B. wiped tears away. Bill Scutch leaned over to Lee Harding with a remark that set them both off again. “Well,” Mr. Lewellyn pronounced loudly, smacking his palms on the arms of his chair, “sixty-five years it's been. And look at all these fine people around us today. Now, I guess, is as good a time as any to git my marble back.” He turned to Kevy and commanded, “Help me up, son.”

Laughter scuttled from our group like a flock of startled quail. My brother and I exchanged puzzled glances as he rose to aid Mr. Lewellyn, pulling him up under the arm and handing him his cane.

“What in tarnation you up to now?” Granddad slurped purposefully at his shake.

Mr. Lewellyn waved a hand in the air. “You just wait, ol' man. You'll see.”

Apprehension curled around my shoulders as I watched him plod to the curb, open his car door, and lean in carefully, extracting a brown IGA bag with a grunt. His jowls no longer shook; no righteous indignation lit his eyes. He was too calm now, his steps too confident. Watching closely, I could make out a slight tremor in the hand that held his cane and another around the edges of his mouth. But they weren't from anger; they were from excitement. I recognized that all too well from my own glowing anticipation the moment before Danny kissed me. Suddenly I was afraid for Granddad.

We all watched Mr. Lewellyn return to his chair, clutching the bag.
It's time to git my marble back.
Everyone knew that no matter what glowing victories Jake Lewellyn may have enjoyed in the besting feud over the years, they boasted little more significance than fireflies against a summer sun. Because Granddad still had the marble.

Only Granddad appeared unconcerned, stirring his milk shake and still laughing over his youthful victory. But I knew him too well. He'd sniffed in the air that something was coming, and he was bracing himself.

“Come on, Jake, you got us all on pins and needles,” Mr. B. complained. “What's in the bag?”

“Ain't nothin' in that bag, Frank.” Granddad's tone tinged with irritation. “He's just mad 'cause we all had our laughs at him; look at that red face.”

“I don't know.” Mr. Jenkins straightened in his chair. “He looks pretty sure a hisself.”

“He sure does.” Lee Harding was pulling at his black mustache.

“Will y'all quit talkin' about me like I wasn't even here!” Mr. Lewellyn eased himself into his seat, still gripping the bag as if his life depended on it. “Oof. There now!” Laying the bag in his lap, he looked around the group, drinking in our expectant attention like a puppy lapping milk. “Folks,” he announced, “this here's a momentous occasion, and I'm glad each one a you's a part of it. Sixty-five years. Hank, you been friends with me and Thomas since we was kids; you know more'n anybody what this means.”

I turned widening eyes to Granddad, hardly daring to breathe. Nobody really expected Mr. Lewellyn to ever get his marble back. In their feud Thomas Bradley reigned, had always reigned. Thomas Bradley, battlefield hero and Bradleyville wit. Granddad had enjoyed the latter reputation almost as much as the former. Studying him now, unable to quell the tightening in my chest, I saw my fear reflected not in his purposely blank face or even his eyes, but in the deliberate tapping of a single finger against the arm of his chair. I glanced at Daddy. He watched the same finger, his mouth set.

“Celia—,” Kevy whispered.

“Hush.”

With much fanfare Mr. Lewellyn opened the grocery bag and pulled out a flat brown package. “Ooh, looky what I got here, Thomas.” He turned it over. Held it up on display. “The envelope with your medals that you mailed off to the newspaper.”

“Oh my,” whispered Mr. Tull, slapping a hand to his sunken chest.

My breath sucked in audibly. I felt Kevy grab my arm and out the corner of my eye saw Daddy's head fall back in dismay. Granddad's face paled. Everyone else broke into exclamations, Mr. B. bursting, “How in tarnation did you get that?” and Hank Jenkins groaning, “Oh, my heart.”

Jake Lewellyn laughed merrily, waving the envelope in the air. “I got it from the newspaper reporter. There ain't no ceremony; I planned the whole thing, article and all! Oh, ho, ho, Thomas,” he gloated. “You fell for it, too, right down to showin' up here today!”

“But—,” Mr. Jenkins interrupted.

“I just couldn't resist it! When ol' Mrs. Pennyweather's neighbor told me his son worked at the paper, I knew there was an angle in there somewhere. He did a right good job, too, mockin' up this article. Even printed it with a real advertisement on the back to make it look official. Didn't charge me much, either.” Mr. Lewellyn leaned back to pull a copy of the article from his pocket, passing it to Mr. B. “Read it; you'll see. It's good. Doggone good.”

Daddy shook his head dazedly. I thought mine would rocket right off my shoulders, I was so mad. I wanted to stalk over to Mr. Lewellyn and strangle his red, bloated, good-for-nothing neck.

“So be it, Jake.” Granddad's voice strained, his chest caving a little more with each taunting wave of the envelope that bore his life's greatest achievements. “Just give me back my medals.”

“Oh no! Not till you give me back my marble.”

Silence. Hank Jenkins' eyes slid back and forth between the two men. Mr. B. brought a hand to his neck, waiting. Lee Harding leaned forward in his chair, one heel off the cement.

Granddad examined his fingers, jaw working. He'd never been in such a spot before. Finally he inhaled deeply. “Well,” he declared, looking Mr. Lewellyn squarely in the eye, “tell you what. You keep 'em. I earned 'em; you cain't take that away from me.”

Astonishment rolled across Mr. Lewellyn's forehead and was gone. “Aw, Thomas, who you think you're kiddin'? If you cain't look at these dang medals every day, you'll drive the whole town crazy.”

“Well, I done just fine this week, ain't I?”

I thought of Granddad popping around the house like a water droplet in a hot skillet. And he'd only thought his medals were in the mail. He'd never last a day knowing they were sitting in Jake Lewellyn's house.

Mr. Lewellyn's eyes narrowed. “I know you too well, Thomas.”

Granddad shrugged. “I'll manage.” Drumming his fingers on one knee, he looked around at everyone's stricken faces.

“Sorry, Thomas,” Mr. Delham consoled. Mr. Tull was so upset, he couldn't utter a word. His head shook back and forth, back and forth. “I thank you.” Granddad nodded. Then he looked to Daddy. “Well, William. I guess that's that. Ready to head on home?”

“Anytime, sir.”

“Hold on there just a second.” Mr. Lewellyn would have none of it. “Afore you turn tail and run home, let's just have a look at what you'll be missin'.” His smile turned treacherous. “That nice reporter,” he said casually, running a finger across the envelope, “forwarded this to me unopened, just the way you packed it. He even added a great idea of his own. Once I saw how carefully you'd padded each of these medals, I figured I'd do like the reporter suggested and leave 'em be. That way you'd suffer through watchin' me undo your own wrappin'.” He slid a hand into the envelope. “Now, Thomas, I'd just like to show you what you'll be missin'.”

“No need, Jake.” Granddad slid forward in his chair, preparing to rise. Bill Scutch leaned over to pat him on the arm.

“No, now, this'll just take a minute. Besides, how long has it been since all these people actually seen these adornments a yours, all shiny and spiffed like you keep 'em?”

“Fine, Jake.” Granddad's eyes slipped shut as he slumped, awaiting the inevitable. All the fight was clean knocked out of him. Only Granddad, I thought, could manage to walk away with dignity when this was all over.

“Let's go, Daddy,” I whispered loudly.

“Hold on there, Celia.” Mr. Lewellyn pulled out the envelope's contents. “We got to do this up right.”