Color the Sidewalk for Me (26 page)
I could see a bulky outline of the three rectangular boxes, wrapped carefully in newspaper. First he cut through the heavy tape with a pocketknife and meticulously unraveled the paper. After that came an old red-and-white striped dish towel, frayed at the ends. Finally the three dark blue boxes lay exposed to the whole world on top of his heavy legs.
By the time the disparaging show was done, Granddad had scooted back in his chair, breathing hard. “Doggone it, Jake, that's enough!” Sticking out a leg, he rooted in his pocket and, amid numerous gasps, pulled out the infamous black and silver piece that had started the whole mess. “Here!” he said, holding it up between his thumb and forefinger. “Here's your danged marble!”
Mr. Lewellyn puckered his chin. “Carrying it with you these days, are ya?”
Granddad's voice was tight. “I like the feel of it in my pocket.”
“Liked,
you mean. 'Cause you ain't gonna feel it no more. Gimme it.” Mr. Lewellyn threw out his hand, palm up.
With disdain Granddad eyed him. Then he slowly obeyed, his stately movements worthy of the moment. But first he held up that swirled marble, two-toned and sparkling, for us all to admire. Every one of us was taken by it because of the history it represented, the decades it spanned. I hadn't even been thought of when that marble last changed hands; Tull's Drugstore was just a field. The mill was only a few years old, and Albertsville was still thumbing its nose at the foolhardiness of my great-granddad, who'd moved into the country with the grandiose notion of building a town that eschewed sinful ways.
Finally, reaching over to Mr. Lewellyn, Granddad prepared to drop that marble in the beefy, sweating palm. In the last second he stopped. Drew back. “Wait a minute. I ain't actually seen my medals yet.”
Mr. Lewellyn dropped his arm, making a face. “Heaven's sake, Thomas, you know they're in there. What would I do with 'em?”
“So lemme see 'em.”
“Danged stubborn ol' man,” Mr. Lewellyn muttered as he rummaged through the boxes, picked one up and opened it, thrusting its contents toward Granddad. “Here.”
My eyes perceived it faster than my brain. For a split second my mind flashed pure white as it scrambled to process. Then discernment burst like fireworks, showering colors of meaning over my shoulders.
I heard the staccato of a laugh and realized it was my own. Then other soundsâastonished chuckles, quickly tumbling into the deep guffaws of men and the higher laughter of women; the slapping of hands against metal; the scraping of a chair on cement; Kevy's giggles. We all gaped at the box in Mr. Lewellyn's hand, pointing, elbowing each other, while Granddad remained stock-still.
Except for the slow smile spreading across his face.
For in the gold velvet lining of the box, taped securely and now blackened with mildew, lay a long-stemmed, button-cap toadstool.
Mr. Lewellyn recoiled, yanking the box around to view its contents. An expression of abject horror crossed his face. “No,” he breathed, jowls trembling. “It cain't be.” Dropping the box like a glowing coal, he snatched a second, yanked it open.
“Ha!” Hank Jenkins cried, tipping back his chair. “It's another one!”
Our laughter swelled louder, echoing off the hardware store across the street, bouncing back against our own gleaming foreheads.
“Aagh!” Mr. Lewellyn's breath rattled in his throat. He snapped up the last box, hope shining through sudden wateriness in his eyesâa rarefied, last-dying-breath hope that all three medals would be there, stuffed into one box.
And for all his pains he uncovered a third toadstool.
Mr. B. and Lee Harding were out of their seats, bent over with hoots and howls, slapping Granddad on the back. Kevy and I hugged each other. Daddy hit his knee so hard, I thought his hand would break. Everyone else carried on like starlings on a phone line. Jake Lewellyn melted into his chair, mumbling incoherently.
Taking his time, Granddad pulled to his feet and stood at attention, like the straightest of soldiers. Then with solemn grandeur he held up that marble one last time between his thumb and finger, arcing it slowly through the air for us all to admire. After we'd all oohed and aahed, he opened his pocket with the other hand and delicately dropped it inside, bringing up his empty hands palms-out like a magician performing a disappearing act. After which his face broke into an all-consuming grin.
Our applause was resounding.
G
randdad's only regret about his victory at Tull's was that Mama had not been there to witness it.
“William, I sure am glad you were there,” Granddad exclaimed as he clambered into the car to go home. “Ya know, it was that cough a Jake's what first got me thinkin'. He just wouldn't a visited while he was like that unless he couldn't wait to git one over on me!” He grinned jubilantly, pounding the dashboard.
Wily as Granddad was, he'd noticed the date of that advertisement on the back of the news clipping. He'd called the store and discovered that the ad had run two days before the supposed date of the article. Then he phoned the reporter, using the utmost of his wiliness. “Play things my way,” he wheedled, “and I'll pay you twice what Jake Lewellyn did.” The reporter had happily obliged, right down to convincing Mr. Lewellyn not to open that package until he was in front of Granddad.
When we got home, Granddad told Mama the whole story, prancing about the kitchen in crowing detail as she ladled tomatoes into boiled jars, far too busy to listen with her eyes.
I wished Danny had been at Tull's as well. That afternoon I related the story as he laughed with delight. I also spilled to him my disgust over Mama's indifference about it. My openness seemed to lend Danny the courage to talk, and for the next two Saturdays his years of loneliness and dammed-up emotions flooded over our entwined arms in a torrent of disclosures as we sat side by side under our canopy, our backs against one of the oak trees.
His gentle kisses gained fervency as summer ran its course. Just before school started, I delivered the practiced revelation of my love for Danny to Mona, Barbara, and Melissa amid their round, anticipating eyes. They wanted details. I gave them none.
As expected, school proved a terrible frustration, but not for the reasons we'd anticipated. Yes, the whispering fairly echoed against the cafeteria walls the first day Danny and I sat together at lunch. The titillating word raced through town like brushfireâ
Celia and Danny are sweet on each other!
My closest friends stuck by me but I was shunned by the rest. Randy and Gerald and their gang were appalled that a farm boy could move in on their territory. Bobby Delham was furious at first; then a slow sadness crept over him and stayed. He couldn't look at Danny.
Everywhere folks raised their eyebrows. Not that they were being judgmental, my mother claimed. The whole town knew Patricia Cander was a fine Christian woman and prayed for her continued strength and protection, even as they prayed for Anthony Cander's soul. And they rejoiced that Danny was apparently settling down. All the same, he'd been known most of his life as a troublemaker, and it was common knowledge that alcoholism tended to run in families. His reputation made him a poor match for any young girl until he really proved himself. No one wanted to see me take up with someone who might decide to hit the bottle. “Danny's not like that,” I'd retort. “He's as good a Christian as you or me.”
Better,
I'd think to myself.
It took a long time, but even in Bradleyville life goes on, and the talk did eventually lessen. My belief that God had put Danny and me together led me to think that folks were seeing the good in him. In my cynical moments I thought we simply proved disappointing gossip fare. The town's standards precluded us from touching at our age, and we had a long timeâan eternity, in my eyesâto wait before we could really date. In Bradleyville no young couple got away with much, but we were different and we knew it. We sensed that the town was giving Danny just one chance. If he behaved himself and if my feelings for him did not lower me to unsightly actions, in the end we might be accepted. And so we were on our best behavior.
But we longed for private moments together. Instead we whispered I-love-you's in the hallway, kidded around at our lunch table with the friends who eventually joined us, took five minutes after school to talk before we walked our separate ways. And that was that. Over time the stress began to wear on Danny. He'd carried so much on his shoulders already. The crops had been poor that summer, thanks to little rain, and he and his family were barely eking out an existence. The worse things became, the more his daddy drank. Danny kept a watchful eye on his mama while staying out of trouble at school, lest he damage his tenuous reputation. He worked night and day on the farm while pushing himself for better grades. And he was near me five days a week, loving me with everything he possessed but unable even to hold my hand.
Until March. Wonderful March, when Mary Lee Taylor had her seventeenth birthday party and I convinced Mama after much begging to let me go. “We'll be chaperoned,” I claimed, “and there won't be any dancing.” I felt a stab of guilt for lying but pushed it from my mind. Danny's mama, well aware of his difficulties, managed to see that he had the truck to drive to Mary Lee's that Saturday night. And from somewhere she scraped up money to buy him a new outfit. The excitement we felt, waiting for that party! Mary Lee nearly died when Danny walked in, eyes reflecting off a fitted green satin shirt tucked into white pants. He was by far the best-looking guy there, and I was so proud. We didn't know how to dance, but when Mary Lee put on the Bee Gees in her large basement game room, we held each other as the words of “How Deep Is Your Love?” spoke to us alone.
Afterward we slipped out the back door into the shadows against the house and stole a long kiss. Melissa and Mona, my only friends who were allowed to go, were too busy ogling the boys from Albertsville to notice our absence. But Mary Lee was most envious.
Fortunately, Mama never found out, and she and I managed to temporarily lay down our arms. I simply gave her no cause to find fault with me, although I suppose if she hadn't let me attend Mary Lee's party, I'd have thrown a fit.
Mama still argued with Granddad about his war stories, even as he began to weaken, his straight back drawing to a stoop and his features wizening. Once Jake Lewellyn had started talking to him again, they played checkers at our dining room table during the cold winter. Come springtime they lolled in our porch furniture, ragging on each other with fire in their eyes and blankets across their knees. By the time summer arrived again, a walk to Tull's was unthinkable for Granddad. He was stricken with dizzy spells and more frequent heart palpitations. The cardiologist in Albertsville ran numerous tests but found nothing that he thought surgery could improve. Granddad was simply aging and his heart was wearing down. The doctor doled out little blue pills and told Granddad to take it easy.
At the time I believed it was Granddad who was responsible for my again being able to see Danny on summer Saturdays when I was sixteen, with Kevy along as chaperone. When Mama acquiesced at my pleading, I imagined he'd somehow talked her into it.
Not until years later did I learn that she had reasons of her own.
A
fter my argument with Mama, I spent two hours in my bedroom, wallowing in regret over how I'd treated Melissa when we were teenagers. I still could barely assimilate the news of her death. Finally my own morbidity sickened me, and I had to think about something else. Marching past Mama, I made a beeline for the phone, hoping that a call to Sammons Advertising would refocus me.
At best it gave me only a short reprieve. Through conversations with numerous colleagues, I learned that my accounts were proceeding at various paces. Matt had met again with Gary Stelt to get a clearer indication of exactly what a “catchy symbol” meant. I told Matt about my futile attempts at doodling for Partners. “It was late at night, though,” I added, “and my brain wouldn't work.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Happens to me all the time. Days too.”
Quentin Sammons was spending most of his time on Southern Bank and had become mired in the processâconceptual meetings being held regarding the bank's intended new image, board members arguing, secretaries calling, and faxes flying back and forth. As he spoke, I sat at the dining room table imagining the discussions, the diplomacy. I closed my eyes to picture my office, files spread across my desk. Remembering the energy of the challenge, I tried to evoke it to let it course through me, hum in my veins. But I could not find it.
By the time I had spoken to colleagues about Cellway and my other, smaller projects, I felt an emptiness never before associated with work. The people, the designs and creative concentration, seemed too far away for me to viscerally connect. Sammons Advertising may have filled the void while I was in Little Rock, but in Bradleyville it was failing miserably. By the time I hung up, I felt as though one of the foundations of my life were crumbling away.