43 - sculptured wall of water

The child barely struggled. One moment he was there; the next moment he was - what, a point of perception forever peering down at the flooded creek that rushed in a sculptured wall of water toward the culvert?

"T.G., get away from that bank!"

A giant woman stood at the end of the dirt path that went beside the road. She wore a dark blue dress with a white collar. Her black hair was done up in a loose bun with strands sticking out. She stood with her hands on her hips, her legs spread, her expression intent. It was my mother, younger, even prettier than when I last saw her in a previous life. The wind blew her dress around her legs. I could hear the fabric rustle like a flag.

"T.G. come on in; it's time for dinner."

She walked briskly back along the path and crossed to the second house from the creek. She stepped up on the stoop and turned around to me.

Everything was huge. The house, a small bungalow, painted gray with blue shutters and trim, was like a mansion. The oak tree in the front yard, its leaves green and gray sparkling in the warm wind, towered to the dark blue sky. The shrubs on either side of the stoop were like monuments.

"T.G. damnit, come on!"

I answered, in a piping, soprano voice, " I am coming." I ran. It felt good.

Jumping up on the stoop beside her I had to bend my neck back to see her face. She didn't seem angry now. A smile played at the corner of her large, well-shaped mouth. She patted me lightly on the head. "Please son, don’t get close to the creek. And answer me when I call."

Her touch filled me with joy. I said, "Yes mother, I am sorry."

I followed her inside, through the little living room into a short hallway. She told me to wash my hands. The bathroom door was open. I stood at a sink that I could barely see over. I lathered my hands with coarse soap and dried off on a sour smelling damp towel. In the kitchen she was putting food on the table. The kitchen was pale yellow. There were no cabinets, only shelves with brown curtains. Where the curtains had been pulled back, I could see a haphazard collection of cans, boxes, pots, pans, glasses and plates. That was her work. I marveled. We sat at a small blue wooden table covered with a red and yellow flowered oilcloth which mother had wiped with a damp cloth. I gingerly placed the palm of my small hand on the wet surface. I had never liked the feeling; the oilcloth seemed sticky. It had a particular odor.

"You're not talking much."

What was suitable conversation for a five-year old? "Ah, I'm hungry. This is really good." We were eating tomato soup and cheese sandwiches that she had grilled in the frying pan which still rested on the small, white porcelain stove. The bread was yellow in the middle from the butter and crisp brown on the edges. It was good, better than the cookies I had eaten in the Pic’s apartment. (Perhaps the old woman whose body I shared had atrophied taste buds.)

We didn’t talk anymore. She read silently from a book which she had placed on the table beside her plate, leafing through the pages with her left hand while she handled her food with her right hand. When I was through, I put my empty soup bowl on top of my sandwich plate and carefully carried the stack to a small, one-basin sink, already filled with unwashed dishes from this morning. I was not aware of mother watching me, until she said, "Well, you are full of surprises aren't you?"

"If you only knew."

She looked at me for another moment then shrugged. “Why don’t you go on outside and play, while I clean up."

“All right.”

“And stay away from that creek.”

“All right.”

I went out the back door, down the rickety steps. A tin can with yellow flowers was sitting on the top step. I walked, head down, along a worn dirt path that went toward a garden. I felt like an old man.

"T.G.!"

I looked up. A little girl, about my size, came running out of the back yard of one of the neighboring prefabricated houses. She was wearing a brown shirt-like dress that stopped just above pretty little knees. Her hair was dark brown cut in bangs across her forehead. Her eyes were large and dark. She smiled at me, "Where are you going? You look silly, bent over like that. You look like my Paw-Paw."


Who was this child? Then I remembered. It was Alice. I had grieved for her when my family left Baltimore after the war to return to Shelby. "Hi Alice."

She repeated, "Where are you going?"

"Ah, no where."

She took my hand, pulling me. "Well, come with me. I've got a secret."

I let her tug me toward the yard from which she had come. "What is your secret?"

She made a face. "Silly, it’s a secret."

I looked around trying to associate what I saw with my memories. Near the house was a homemade animal cage, the door ajar. At the corner of our backyard, was my father's garden. It was planted where a tree had fallen, rotted and produced rich black dirt (not at all like the red clay of Piedmont North Carolina). It was a jungle of vegetables: blood-red tomatoes which looked as though they were about to burst, corn several times my height, and a complicated tangled of bean and cucumber plants. I said to Alice, "Wait here a minute."

I pushed my way through the corn, hearing it rustle, feeling the stalks like bony fingers scratch against my exposed skin.

"Where are you going?"

Alice moved beside me, brushing against my shoulder. I started to tell her to leave, then didn't because it didn't make any difference. "No where. I don’t know."

I walked further among the haphazardly planted rows of corn; Alice followed. We came to a small opening in the middle of the garden, like a cave with a sky-blue roof. The smell of the plants and dirt was overpowering. Alice whispered, "Look, it’s Killer!" and pointed with a small finger to something. I looked but saw nothing. I said, "What?"

She hissed, “Over there stupid!"

"Oh"

It was a rabbit, appearing huge this close. It was snow white with black tipped rakish ears, one pitched forward, the other to the side. It's eyes were red and it's nose twitched. The rabbit seemed to study us. Alice inched forward, her hand outstretched. She managed to get within a foot of it before the rabbit bolted, disappearing with a rustle into the corn.

I said, out of breath, "I see Killer got loose. I wonder where he is going?"

Alice didn’t answer. She shivered. She looked at my house, at the neighbor’s house. Turning around she looked at the little house across our backyard. She said. “Oh, it’s home.” She stared at me. A small smile pulled at the edge of her mouth. “Well, Thompson Gaines. I guess it’s gone down the rabbit hole.”.