Hidden Hearts (7 page)

“I’m twelve.”

“That’s awfully old to be sittin’ in trees, don’t you think?”

“No.”

To show my complete disinterest I pulled my Wonder Woman comic from my pocket and pretended to read
Earth’s Last Hour
.

“Hm.
She’s one of my favorites,” he said, trying to read over my shoulder.

I ignored him and the pointy limb poking my thigh through my dress. If I wiggled around too much I might tumble to the ground.

“How would you like to see the
first
Wonder Woman comic book?”

I couldn’t stop myself from looking up. I loved comic books, and I loved to draw. His expression seemed sincere but I was doubtful. Adults lied. 

“Now
that
got your attention,” he said. “You get outta this tree and I’ll show it to you sometime.”

He
was
lying. Adults always said things like that when they wanted kids to do something right away. They’d make a promise for the future and then never keep it. Pops did it all the time. I’d lost count of all the ice creams he’d said he’d buy me, the movies we were supposed to see together or the pony ride that never happened.

“I think I’ll stay here,” I said, turning the page.

“Can’t let you do that.”

I was in his arms before I could protest, and in just two steps we were out of the tree, but not before I heard a loud rip behind me. He stepped away and Mama spun me around.

“Now look at this,” she barked, grabbing the back of my dress and holding it up so I could see it. “This is what your shenanigans have caused, young lady. Now, you get upstairs and change. We’ll see what your father says when he comes home.”

She swatted my bottom as I raced past her. I didn’t want to be near the bulldozer when the trees started shrieking again.

I ran to my room and peered through the window. She was still talking to Mac so I lifted it slowly to eavesdrop.

“I’m sorry you had to do that, Mac.”

“Not a problem, Mrs. Battle. The girl loves her trees. I’m gonna call it a day. Sun’s startin’ to bend, and there’s no point in upsettin’ her more.”

She laughed. “You’re far too nice to her. What she needs is a good whupping.”

“I’ll leave that up to your husband, ma’am,” he said, tipping his hat and heading to our neighbor’s property where the workers lived.

We watched him go, walking away like an easy breeze.

****

Coming up the driveway the next day after school I was greeted by the same horrible growling and the pathetic high-pitched cry as a tree fought back in vain. I ran faster determined to stop Mac but I slipped on something and fell, landing on my side in a deep groove from the bulldozer’s tire.

I was wet, covered in pulpy juice mixed with dirt and surrounded by thousands of crushed oranges. I sat up and assessed his progress. While I’d struggled with fractions during math and played dodgeball at recess, he’d destroyed a few hundred trees and piled them into a disgusting pyramid.

I started to cry. The perfectly straight rows had been reduced to thousands of twisted roots, broken trunks and tangled branches. The huge bucket clawed at the earth and the machine strained underneath a slim trunk until a popping sound overpowered the drone of the engine as the tree lost its fight to stay planted in the ground. But the claw eventually hefted it up and dropped it onto the pile of bodies.

I gazed at the thousands of smashed oranges strewn across what was left of our lawn, victims of the bulldozer’s enormous treads. A few had managed to roll out of harm’s way near the back stairs. I picked one up with a plan to enjoy the sweet, delicious fruit, but as the bulldozer backed up and turned sideways, I saw Mac position the claw against another innocent tree.

“No!”

I threw the orange with all my might and it hit him in the arm. He jumped and the claw dropped as he let go of the controls. He looked surprised, and I wondered if he might scoop me up as punishment, but instead he leaned against the bulldozer’s steering wheel and shook his head in disbelief.

That just made me angrier. I grabbed several oranges and tossed them in his direction. And when I couldn’t find any more oranges I hurled pebbles and then dirt, my arms flailing like windmills. As I readied to pelt what felt like a good-sized rock, a force of pink flowers and lace knocked me to the ground.

“Don’t you be hurtin’ my daddy!” a high-pitched voice screamed. “I’ll break you!”

“Kiah!
Get off her,” Mac ordered.

We rolled over a few more times until his strong arms demanded she release me. I stood up and faced a beautiful girl with eyes like his and smooth, milk-chocolate skin. He held her in a bear hug while she squirmed to free herself. She was tall and skinny and probably a little older than me. Her short, wiry black hair was smoothed away from her face and cut unevenly at her jawbone.

“Now, Kiah, you be a good girl.”

She nodded and he stepped away. I saw my chance. I barreled toward her but he was quick. He grabbed me by the middle and held me like a football.

“Now, quit wiggling, Miss Vivi.”

I paid him no mind and squirmed and kicked. When I heard him grunt, I knew I’d done damage.

“You stop it, you hear?” he said roughly. “Or I’ll tell your mama to give you another whuppin’.”

At the mention of a spanking my body went limp, still sore from the last night’s paddling. 

He set me down and I looked up. All I saw was kindness.

“Well, Miss Vivi, your mama’s right. You are a holy terror.”

“I am not!” When he laughed I asked, “How do you know Mama calls me that?”

He squatted down and faced me. “Honey, everybody knows it. And your mama told me.”

I made some sort of disagreeable sound which only made him laugh harder. It was contagious and I cracked a smile.

“This here’s my daughter, Kiah.”

She stood by the bulldozer, her hands on her hips. Unlike me, she clearly followed her daddy’s directions.

“Say hello, Kiah.” When she shook her head, he added, “Young lady, please be courteous.”

“Hello,” she said in a very unfriendly tone.

“I think the two of you oughtta be friends seein’ as you’re both the only girls around here.”

We exchanged glares and he shook his head. “I have to get back to work.” He studied the remaining trees before meeting my gaze. “You love ’em, don’t ya?”

“Yes.”

He tipped his hat to me. “Then I’m sorry my work is painful to you.”

No one had ever apologized to me. I nodded dumbly.

“Now, it’s good to have more friends, Kiah,” he said seriously.

They gazed at each other as if they were talking without speaking. I was surprised because I couldn’t talk to Pops even when I used words. We’d certainly never be able to read minds like them. Eventually she grudgingly stepped toward me.

“I’m sorry for beating you up.”

“You didn’t beat me up,” I argued. “I’d
a had
you if your daddy hadn’t stepped in.”

She gave a lopsided grin. “Maybe you would have.”

Obviously he thought we weren’t going to kill each other, so he climbed back into the bulldozer. Before he started the engine, he said, “We live across the way in the quarters. Kiah, why don’t you offer Vivi some lemonade?” he said.

And then the horrible motor rumbled to life and he went about his business of ravaging the orange grove. I took a step forward, but she put a gentle hand on my shoulder. I looked into her eyes and saw Mac’s kindness. She nodded and I knew there was nothing I could do. We watched for several minutes as he effortlessly lifted up the trees and added them to the pile. All the while she kept her hand on my shoulder.

She turned to me and asked, “How old are you?”

“Twelve. How old are you?”

“Fourteen. I’m going to high school already.”

I knew that meant she went to Carver downtown, the only high school for black kids. She trudged through the smashed fruit and retrieved a stack of books sitting on the driveway. The back of her dress was covered in a huge dirt streak from her neckline to her hem, and I wondered what names
her
mother would call her.

I glanced at the huge brown smudge on the front of my shirt. It looked as if I’d been making mud pies. I groaned. Mama would certainly offer her standard comment when she saw me. “Vivi, I should just let you run around naked seeing how you treat your clothes. A bath don’t hardly cost nothing and your skin comes mostly clean except for those awful knees of yours. I’ve seen potatoes come out of the patch cleaner than your knees.”

But for now I was lucky. It was Tuesday and that meant she was at her sewing group with the ladies from our church.

“Are you comin’?” Kiah called.

I followed as she slid between the rows of trees to an irrigation ditch on the east end of the property. She leaped over it and disappeared into an adjoining grove.

“We live over here,” she explained. “Mr. Rubenstein bought up all this land too.”

“Does your daddy work for him?” I asked.

“Uh-huh, he’s one of the head guys,” she said with pride.

Then suddenly the trees were gone and we were standing in a flat field, the earth newly turned. In the distance huge yellow machines rumbled over the soft dirt where rows of little houses would sit. They would all look the same: red brick or painted masonry block with a pop-out front window and a single-car garage.

On our first trip through the city, as we had driven through west Phoenix, Mama had asked Pops what he thought of the tiny houses and he’d remarked, “Don’t think much of ’em except the money we can make.”

She led me past a row of cabins, and we went inside the one on the end. I could see the whole place from the living room since the bedroom and bathroom doors were open. Neither of the beds was made and I was jealous. Mama never tolerated an unmade bed or one full of wrinkles and poor corners.

Kiah threw her books on the small dining room table and went to the kitchen. I was surprised to see a sink, which meant they had running water. Dirty dishes were scattered on the counter and only two clean glasses remained on an empty shelf in the cupboard.

“Where’s your mama?”

“She’s dead,” she said flatly. “It’s just me and Daddy. She died when she was having me, but Daddy said it wasn’t my fault. You want some lemonade?” she asked, removing a pitcher from the refrigerator.

“Sure.”

She poured us each a glass and we sat down at the table. I didn’t know what to say to this odd girl quietly sipping lemonade, who had thrown me to the ground just minutes before. I looked at her stack of schoolbooks, the one on top titled
Algebra I
. I’d been warned about algebra and told that I’d learn it next year as a freshman, if I got promoted. I wasn’t a very good student, and sometimes I believed Mama when she called me a moron, especially after she got my report card or visited with my teachers.

“Vivi, a whole family of squirrels could take up residence in that empty area between your ears. Might as well
seein’
as you don’t have any need for it. You better hope you’re good at makin’ babies.”

I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to squeeze a baby out of the tiny hole between my legs, and the thought made me study harder but nothing stuck. I’d be in the middle of writing an essay and suddenly I was doodling in the margins, drawing faces or scenery, the thought of the paragraph dropped like a used hankie. I knew it didn’t matter anyway. I always got a D. Teachers gave me just enough to pass, but I thought it was because they liked my drawings.

“Why were you up in that tree?” she asked.

“I don’t want your daddy to tear ’em down. They’re
my
trees,
at least they used to be.”

She frowned but she didn’t get mad. She just poured more lemonade in my glass.

“I think it’s important to stand up for things you believe in,” she said slowly. “I’m going to go to law school to fight for civil rights someday. You might find me sittin’ in a tree somewhere, too,” she added with a grin. If she was going to law school, I knew she was smart.