Fireflies In December Part 20

The five diners turned with gasps and blatant stares, and within moments the manager appeared, whispering apologies to his current patrons before hurrying over to us.

"I'm sorry, Miss Cleta," he said with forced politeness, "but I'll have to ask you to leave."

"Do you still make food here?" Miss Cleta asked.

"Why, yes, ma'am."

"And do you still take American money?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Well then, I see no reason why you cannot allow me and my friends to eat here."

"Miss Cleta," he said, tugging at his tight collar, "please don't make me be blunt."

"Why not? I am."

His cheeks turned red. "Very well, then. We do not have coloreds in here, ma'am. It offends our customers."

She looked at me. "You offended, Jessilyn, by our Gemma here?"

"No, ma'am."

"Well, neither am I," Miss Cleta said to the manager. "So that makes two of your customers that aren't offended."

By this time the manager was becoming very anxious, and he leaned closer to say, "Miss Cleta, I'm gonna lose business if you stay. Now, either you leave politely, or I'll call the sheriff."

Gemma looked near to tears, and with a glance at her, Miss Cleta said, "Very well. We'll leave. But let me a.s.sure you that I will never set foot in this establishment again, nor will I recommend it to my friends."

The manager backed away from the table as we rose, his arms folded in determination. The other patrons watched us as we walked away, and Miss Cleta stopped as we pa.s.sed one of their tables. "Don't eat the shrimp," she said loudly. "I got the diarrhea from them once." The women gasped as Miss Cleta turned with a smile of satisfaction and led us out of the restaurant. "That ought to fix their appet.i.tes," she said with a hoot once we were outside. "Well now. Where should we go next?"

We stood on the sidewalk for a second thinking up our next move when Hobie Decker came out of his diner across the street. He lit up a cigarette and leaned against the wall before catching sight of our odd little trio.

"Hey there, Miss Cleta." He put out his cigarette in a show of respect and tipped his head at me and Gemma. "Ladies," he added. "You out for a day on the town?"

"Yes'r," Miss Cleta called back. "We figured on gettin' a bite, but it seems this here inn ain't too obligin' about servin' all G.o.d's creatures."

"Well, you're welcome to have a bite in my place anytime you want."

"Why, Hobie Decker," Miss Cleta exclaimed, "I can't think of anythin' better."

Gemma and I smiled at him, just thankful at the prospect of actual food.

When we entered the diner, two men were sitting at the bar, and a family of three sat at a table in the corner. The family smiled at us, something so rare it shocked me to see. But one of the men at the bar looked less than enthusiastic. He started to speak, but Mr. Decker put a hand on his arm, eyeing him sharply. The man reached into his pocket, plunked some change onto the counter, and stormed out. The other man at the bar just turned around and continued his lunch.

We dined on the greasiest fried chicken I'd ever had and cherry cola with two cherries floating inside. It tasted heavenly to us. When we'd had more than our fill, Miss Cleta paid Mr. Decker a fine tip, and the three of us headed off to complete her errand list. We visited the grocer, the pharmacy, and the candy store, while all along the way Mr. Stokes followed in his taxi, piling all her purchases into the car.

Miss Cleta kept her head held high wherever we went, a pleasant smile on her face, one hand on my arm, one hand on Gemma's. We followed her lead and said h.e.l.lo to everyone we pa.s.sed. In all, we had two smiles and h.e.l.los in return, but mostly we were met with disdain or simple disinterest. Miss Cleta's stout confidence gave me and Gemma a much-needed lift, and by the time we headed for home, we felt more restored than battered.

"You done caused a commotion, sure enough," Mr. Stokes said as we got into the car. "Sure enough, you done caused a commotion. I can see it with my own two eyes."

"Sure enough we did," Miss Cleta said as we drove off down the road.

"You don't want to be startin' things up, Miss Cleta. No, ma'am, you don't."

"Mr. Stokes, ain't nothin' bad ever changed to good without startin' a little commotion," she replied. "Long as we keep a good Christian att.i.tude with people, a little commotion can change a lot of hearts."

"Was it a good Christian att.i.tude to warn those ladies about the shrimp?" I asked with a twinkle in my eye.

"Well . . . ," she said with a sly smile. "We should have a good Christian att.i.tude at least most most of the time." of the time."

I looked at Miss Cleta fondly, proud to have her as my friend and ally. We were in great need of them in those days, and I was fast discovering that the quality of her friendship was higher than most.

Chapter 18.

Miss Cleta had Mr. Stokes carry me and Gemma home in his taxi, and we stepped out onto our gravel driveway like queens departing a carriage.

Momma stood on the porch, one hand holding a dish towel, the other shading her eyes from the sun. "Well, look at you girls. Comin' home in style, you are."

We said good-bye to Mr. Stokes and sauntered regally up to the porch.

"Just jottin' into town," I said. "You know how us social girls live."

"Takin' taxi cabs!" Momma gave a low whistle. "Livin' high on the hog, ain't you?"

Gemma sat on a rocker and patted her stomach. "If we ate like that every day, we'd be turnin' into hogs. I done ate enough to last me a year."

"So it went okay, then?" Momma asked uncertainly. She hadn't been too fond of letting us go in the first place, but Daddy had convinced her that we couldn't hide from everything.

We followed Momma into the kitchen so she could finish her dishes while listening to us tell her about our day. We were in the middle of running down the list of things we'd eaten when Daddy stormed into the house.

"Harley, you're trackin' mud into my house," Momma scolded, but she stopped when she saw his face. "What's wrong now? Someone get hurt?"

Daddy just stood there, one hand on his hip. Then he said, "Sadie, Jessilyn, Gemma . . . you seen anyone in the back fields of late?"

We all shook our heads.

"What is it, Harley?" Momma asked impatiently.

"Somebody done slashed the tires on my tractor, that's what. I just got me them new tires, and they ain't no good to n.o.body now. And I ain't got the money to go about replacin' 'em." He started to pace the floor, smacking his hat against his leg with every other step. "Who does things like that? Sneakin' onto a man's property and ruinin' the things he works hard for. Who does that?"

Momma sighed and leaned over the sink, staring out the window. After a minute, she said, "Well, what're we gonna do?"

"I don't know." Daddy paced the floor a few more times, and then he looked up at me and Gemma. He could see the worry on our faces, and that made him calm down a bit. He gave us a small, forced smile. "It'll work out, girls. Ain't no worryin' to be done. It'll get fixed like everythin' else."

"But you need that tractor for the farm," I said. "What'll you do if you can't use it?"

"Jessilyn, that ain't your worry. Like I said, it'll all work out." He walked off into the den, and Momma went after him. I could hear them talking quietly as they left.

I sat at the kitchen table, tapping my fingers thoughtfully. I wondered if Jeb had locked me in that shed last night to keep me from seeing him fooling around with the tractor. But then, why would he have told me that he'd locked me in? I'd been wondering about that ever since I found out.

On our farm, we had only five hands altogether, and outside of Jeb, all of them were colored men who had small, worn homes and large families. But Jeb was alone in the world, and he lived an acre away in an old shack that sat on our property. We didn't even know where that shack came from, but Daddy let Jeb use it for a home, what little there was of it. The lean-to, though, kept some of his personal effects and a few tools he'd brought with him when he came to Calloway.

I believed he'd had plenty of opportunity to lock me in as he'd said, but I couldn't figure out why it would benefit him to do it. Each time I thought of Jeb, I questioned him even more. And each time I thought of that lean-to, I wondered just what he kept inside.

The week before the start of school, Gemma and I were helping in the fields to take some of the pressure off Daddy. He never liked us doing those sorts of ch.o.r.es. He'd always said, "Girls are delicate and they shouldn't be doin' dirty work in the fields." But I didn't mind so much unless it was a scorcher, and this day in particular was only eighty degrees, cool by Calloway standards.

We had no more information about the tractor than we'd had the day Daddy found it beat up, and Daddy was spending most of his time trying to patch the old steel wheels he'd taken off for the fancy new tires. They were bent up and tore up the ground they ran across, but he had no choice. A working farm needed a working tractor, and that was all there was to it.

As we worked that morning, I watched Jeb closely. He gave nothing away and seemed innocent as a dove. I couldn't imagine not being able to trust him, yet that conversation with Walt Blevins kept running through my brain. He'd known about Walt bothering me, and he'd warned him, but I also realized that he'd only warned him for his own benefit, to keep his plans intact. What were those plans? There was no longer any question if Luke was right that Jeb had been hiding something. I had only to wonder exactly what it was that he was hiding. I did nothing but wonder.

By noon, Daddy told us we'd done enough.

"We ain't but got through two rows," I told him.

"You shouldn't be doin' any rows," he said. "Look at y'all's hands. All dirty and rough. You head on in and get some dinner, and if there's any woman's ch.o.r.es to be done, you can help your momma. It'll be gettin' hotter throughout the afternoon, anyhow."

Gemma and I trudged up the path examining the beginnings of blisters on our hands. "Shoot!" I said when I found one on the inside of my finger. "The finger next to it will rub it like crazy."

"Shoulda worn gloves like I done told you," Gemma said.

"I hate wearin' gloves; you know that. Keeps me from feelin' what I'm doin'."

"Well then, don't complain about blisters."

"You wore gloves, and you got a blister comin' up."

"Only a small one," she said in her defense.

"Ain't no comparin' big ones and small ones. You got a blister, then you got a blister. Ain't no difference between the two." I slowed as we neared the old shed and walked over to the lean-to, examining it as best I could in the bright sun. Then I looked around to see if we had any company.

"What're you doin'?" Gemma asked impatiently. "Dinner's gonna get stale waitin' for us."

"Just a minute," I hissed. "You ate two tomatoes while we were pickin', anyway. You can't be that starved."

"Well, what're you pokin' around the shed for?"

I stood back. "What's he got in that thing?" I tried the door of the lean-to unsuccessfully.

"You get your nasty self away from that lean-to," Gemma said. "That ain't your stuff. It's Jeb's."

"It's on La.s.siter property."

"So's my trunk, but I expect no one goes diggin' through it."

I tried the door again, tugging harder this time.

"Jessilyn!"

"I just want to know what he keeps in it."

"What for? He ain't done nothin' to you."

"Ain't so sure," I said seriously.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I ain't so sure."

Gemma didn't get my meaning, and I didn't expect her to, but all the same I was determined to get a peek inside that lean-to. I found a sort of crowbar in the shed and used it to jimmy the door open, with Gemma flapping at me the whole time.

"You're gonna break the law," she whispered, her arms spread out in front of her like an attorney presenting his case. "That's what you're gonna do. I ain't never known you to be a lawbreaker."

"It's La.s.siter property," I remarked again. "Ain't no law breakin' in that."

The door creaked slightly as I opened it. The s.p.a.ce was so small you almost had to crawl into it, and I bent down and did a sort of duckwalk inside, the sunlight illuminating its contents. Several crates were stacked in one corner and a pallet lay rolled up in another.

Gemma came in behind me. "Uh . . . uh . . . uh . . ."

"Would you hush up?" I wailed, my nerves already frazzled enough.

"Can't help feelin' the way I'm feelin'. Least one of us has some conscience left."

"Oh, hush!" I took a furtive look out the door, saw no one, and proceeded to work at one of the wooden crates.

"Now you're gettin' worse. Lookin' in a man's things.

That's a sin."

"It ain't no sin."

"Sure as sunshine, it is!"

"When you ever seen the Bible say, 'Thou shalt not look in another man's crates'?"

"Don't you make fun of the Bible," Gemma demanded, her face stricken.

"I ain't makin' fun of the Bible. I'm makin' fun of you."

"Well, I ain't gonna let you do it." She grabbed my hands to keep me from removing the top of the crate.