Jimmy (6 page)

Going downstairs, he found Mama drinking coffee in the glass sunroom beside the kitchen. Unless they had guests, Mama let him wear a cap in the house if he wanted to. A Holy Bible lay open in her lap. On a little table beside her rested a notebook. She told Jimmy once that she wrote down her thoughts and prayers in it. Jimmy had looked at the pages before and saw his name in it a lot. Mama had pretty handwriting.

“Good morning, Mama,” he said, walking over to her.

She put her left arm around him, took off his cap with her right hand, and kissed the top of his head.

“Good morning, sunshine,” she answered. “Why don't you eat a bowl of cereal?”

Mama
made a hot breakfast for Jimmy and Daddy on Monday through Friday but not on Saturday. Jimmy put cereal in a bowl and poured the milk without spilling a drop. He took it to the sunroom and sat at a little table to eat.

“Have you called Deputy Askew?” he asked. “It's a good day to wash cars.”

Mama closed her Holy Bible.

“Daddy and I talked about that last night and decided you shouldn't go to the sheriff's office and wash cars for a while.”

Jimmy put down his spoon.

“Why?”

Before Mama answered, Jimmy heard Daddy come into the kitchen.

“Lee!” Mama called out. “Jimmy wants to know why he can't go to the sheriff's office and wash cars.”

Daddy entered the sunroom with a cup of coffee in his hand. He hadn't shaved, and his face was covered with dark stubble. He frowned. Jimmy worried. Pleasing adults was hard. He tried to do what was right but made mistakes a lot.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “Whatever I—”

“No, no,” Daddy said. “You didn't do anything wrong. But I don't think Sheriff Brinson wants you to come to the jail.”

“Why not?”

“Because of court yesterday.”

Confused, Jimmy looked at Mama, who didn't say anything.

Daddy continued, “Sheriff Brinson wasn't happy when you told about his conversation with Detective Milligan.”

“But I told the truth,” he protested.

“And that was the right thing to do.”

“Then why is Sheriff Brinson mad?”

“Because what you said will get him into trouble.”

Jimmy shook his head. “No. You said it was a mistake that Jake was in trouble, and I had to help.”

“Yes, and you did the right thing.”

Jimmy's lower lip began to tremble. Saying he was sorry might not make things right. “Then why can't I help wash cars? I like to do it! And Deputy Askew promised me a policeman's cap!”

Mama came over and put her arm around him. “Sometimes adults punish children wrongly. Sheriff Brinson may blame you for something he did, and until he stops being sheriff, you can't help wash the police cars.”

“But he doesn't wash the cars. I help Deputy Askew.”

Mama looked at Daddy.

“Your mama is right,” Daddy added. “We discussed it last night after you went to bed.”

“I shouldn't have told what I heard!” Jimmy said. “Every time I talk I get into trouble. If I promise to do more jobs for you and Mama, can I—”

“No arguing. You can't go,” Daddy cut in.

Jimmy started to say something but stopped. Daddy might get mad.

Head down, he slowly stirred his cereal. Daddy started reading the Atlanta paper. Jimmy got an idea.

“Would you do something with me?” he asked Daddy. “We could wash your car and Mama's car. I could show you what I've learned about washing cars.”

Daddy closed the paper and looked at his watch. “Uh, no. I'm playing golf this morning with Steve Laney, and I'll have to pay his greens fee after what I did to him yesterday. Why don't you go see your grandpa? The two of you always have a great time.”

Mama walked toward the kitchen.

“I'll call him in a few minutes,” she said.

J
IMMY WENT UPSTAIR S TO HIS ROOM AND PLOPPED DOWN ON
the bed. Sticking out from under the bed was the walking stick Grandpa made for him when Jimmy was six years old. Jimmy nudged it with his toe. He heard the front door slam and looked out the window. Daddy opened the trunk of his car and put his golf clubs inside. Jimmy loved to go to the golf course and ride in the cart, but Daddy didn't invite him except when he was playing with Uncle Bart. That didn't happen very much, because Uncle Bart worked on Saturdays and Mama wouldn't let Daddy play golf on Sunday.

Mama called up the stairs. “Grandpa and Grandma say that it's okay for you to come over!”

Jimmy clapped his hands together and went downstairs. Mama had her purse and car keys in her hand.

“Let's go. I need to run some errands this morning.”

“You don't need to take me,” Jimmy replied. “Buster and I can walk. I know the way.”

Mama stopped and stared. Jimmy had walked to his grandparents' home many times but always accompanied by an adult.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Mama looked at her watch. “Okay, I'll call and let them know you're leaving the house. Don't forget to stop and look both ways before crossing the street.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Mama gave him a quick hug. When she let him go, Jimmy ran to the screened door at the side entrance to the house. The door slammed behind him as he hopped down the steps to get Buster from the backyard. Buster burst through the gate and ran in a tight circle before coming to a stop. Jimmy bent over and scratched the dog's chin. Buster wiggled in delight. Jimmy heard Mama's car going down the driveway.

“We're going to Grandpa's house,” Jimmy said. “All by ourselves.”

Jimmy and Buster walked across the yard toward the sidewalk and turned right. On the street behind them, Mama pulled to the curb and watched.

Jimmy usually made the trip to Grandpa's house with his left hand safe in Mama's cool grip and Buster tugging on the leash in his right hand. Today both walked free.

Jimmy knew the way by heart, but the thought that he could leave the house alone, walk carefully along the sidewalk, stop at the stop signs, look both ways, cross only if there were no cars, and turn onto Grandpa's street turned the journey into an adventure. Someday he would own a bicycle. Every other boy he knew had been riding a bicycle for years, but Jimmy still waited. Maybe his thirteenth birthday would be the big day.

They came to the first four-way stop. There were cars at all corners of the intersection. Jimmy waited. Mama coasted to a halt beneath the shade of a large tree about two hundred feet behind him. A woman rolled down her car window.

“You can cross!” she yelled. “Pedestrians have the right of way.”

“I'm not a pedestrian,” Jimmy answered. “My name is Jimmy Mitchell.”

The woman rolled up her window and proceeded across the intersection. Jimmy waited. Mama had taught him to be patient, because it could take awhile for all the cars to move forward. Buster sat and began to pant. Even though it wasn't summer yet, the day held the promise of stifling heat. When the way finally cleared, Jimmy and Buster crossed to the other side.

Jimmy's grandparents lived on Ridgeview Drive in a much smaller house than the large home owned by Daddy and Mama.

“Which house is it?” Jimmy asked Buster.

The dog, trotting in front, glanced behind to see why Jimmy had slowed. Jimmy caught up. It was no use trying to fool Buster. The dog went on until they came to the seventh house on the left. Then he ran across the front yard and jumped onto a narrow stoop.

Flower beds stretched across the front of the house. The dark dirt of the beds was different from the red clay that peeked through in bare spots beneath two medium-sized trees. Grandma said the soil came from a river bottom. Sometimes Grandma brought cut flowers to Jimmy's house.

Buster ran up to the front door and barked. About the
time Jimmy joined him, the door cracked open, and Buster rushed inside for the treat Grandma always gave him before letting him play in the backyard. The squirrels at Grandpa's house spent more time on the ground than the ones behind Jimmy's house and scampered into the trees a split second before the dog arrived.

Grandpa held the door open for Jimmy. When he was a young man, Grandpa had brown hair like his son and grandson, but in the past few years his hair had turned completely white. Not quite as tall as Daddy, Grandpa had wide shoulders, a barrel chest, and hands that still remembered the strength developed during forty years as a lineman and foreman with the Georgia Power Company.

Grandpa stepped onto the stoop and gave Jimmy a big hug. Grandpa's hugs were more than a hello.

“Where's your mama?” Grandpa asked, looking over Jimmy's shoulder.

“She let Buster and me come by ourselves.”

At the end of Ridgeview Drive, Mama drove away toward her first stop in town.

“Did you have any problems?” Grandpa asked.

“No, sir.”

Grandpa let Jimmy go, but the boy remained close.

“Can I listen?” Jimmy asked.

Ever since Grandpa's heart attack, Jimmy always took time to listen to the old man's heart. Daddy told Jimmy that Grandpa's heart stopped beating at the hospital, and the doctors had to make it start again.

Grandpa stood still, and Jimmy pressed his left ear against Grandpa's chest.

“How does it sound?” Grandpa asked.

“Thump, thump, thump,” Jimmy replied.

“That's good. If it ever quits, let me know.”

They passed through a small living room. Grandma rarely allowed anyone to sit on the cream-colored couch and matching side chair. Jimmy had watched her dust the furniture and clean the room. She always put everything back in the same place: the big picture book of scenes from the Georgia coast rested in the center of the coffee table, the clear glass balls with decorations inside went in a corner bookcase, the two pieces of cloth that Grandma's mother had woven on a loom covered matching end tables, and the cross-stitch sampler of the alphabet Grandma made when she was a little girl stood on a small stand atop a small desk.

“Are you thirsty?” Grandpa asked. “It's a long, hot walk from your house.”

Jimmy felt his forehead. He'd not thought it hot outside, but there were tiny drops of sweat on his brow.

“Yes, sir.”

“What would you like?”

Jimmy grinned. “How much is a glass of water?”

“How much do you have?”

Jimmy turned out his pockets. They were empty.

Grandpa frowned. “If you don't have any money for water, I guess you'll have to drink lemonade.”

Jimmy followed Grandpa into the kitchen at the rear of the house. Grandma stood at the sink. Through a window beside the kitchen table, Jimmy could see Buster chase a squirrel that zigzagged up the side of a tree and out of reach.

“Good morning, Grandma,” he said.

Grandma dried her hands on a dish towel and gave Jimmy a hug. Her hugs were a simple hello.

“Jimmy walked over by himself,” Grandpa announced.

“Does your mama know you're here?” Grandma asked in surprise.

“She called earlier this morning and talked to me,” Grandpa replied. “You were outside in the garden.”

Grandma always wore a dress. She had fancy ones for church; soft, loose ones for inside the house; and older ones for working in her small vegetable garden or flower beds. A little taller and a lot heavier than Jimmy's mama, Grandma spent all her time around her house and the neatly kept yard. On Saturday mornings, she always went to the beauty shop to have her gray hair fixed for church. She poured a glass of lemonade for Jimmy and looked at the clock on the kitchen wall.

“Time for me to go to the beauty shop,” she said. “There are fresh-picked tomatoes for you to take home, Jimmy. Will you be here when I get back?”

“Unless we decide to go to California,” Grandpa answered.

“Where is that?” Jimmy asked.

“It's where they grow the lemons your grandma used to make that lemonade.”

“Let's go,” Jimmy said. “I don't have to be home until supper time.”

“We couldn't make it,” Grandpa said. “California is way past Alabama. I'll get the map and show you.”

After Grandma left, Grandpa unrolled a large plastic map of the United States and spread it out on the kitchen table. They'd looked at the map many times. Jimmy liked the different colors. Grandpa said each color was a different state.

“Where do we live?” he asked Jimmy.

Jimmy pointed to a blue rectangle. “But the color is wrong,” he said. “Our ground is red.”

“Yep,” Grandpa replied. “If you'd colored this map, you would have gotten it right. Where is Piney Grove?”

Jimmy peered through his glasses. He knew where to look. He'd put his finger on Piney Grove so many times there was a smudge on the plastic. The name of the town was in the smallest print on the map.

“Here,” he said.

Jimmy understood that the dots and lines were cities and roads, but he thought a good map should show houses, cars, and people. Anyone could make a dot or a draw a line, but the buildings along Hathaway Street would be hard.

“Find California,” Grandpa said. “It's the name of a state, just like Georgia, so it won't be in little print.”

“How do you spell it?”

Grandpa wrote the name on a slip of paper and left the room. Jimmy stared at the map and began moving his finger across the lower states as he looked for the right word. Mississippi, Louisiana, Texas, New Mexico, Arizona. The first time he reached the Pacific Ocean he stopped near San Diego. Returning to the East Coast, he moved up and touched North Carolina, Tennessee, Arkansas, Texas, Colorado, and Utah. He reached the Pacific again when he saw the word—California. Colored light green, California was a lot bigger than Georgia.

“I found it!” he called out.

Grandpa returned with a cup of coffee in his hand. He looked over Jimmy's shoulder.