Trudy Krisher - Spite Fences

ALSO AVAILABLE IN LAUREL-LEAF BOOKS:

KINSHIP, Trudy Krisher

THE WAR IN GEORGIA, Jerrie Oughton

I HADNT MEANT TO TELL YOU THIS,
Jacqueline Woodson

THE DEAR ONE, Jacqueline Woodson

ONE-EYED CAT, Paula Fox

THE SLAVE DANCER, Paula Fox

THE OUTSIDE SHOT,
Walter Dean Myers

MOTOWN AND DIDI,
Walter Dean Myers

THE VOICE ON THE RADIO,
Caroline B. Cooney

EARTHSHINE, Theresa Nelson

HONOR BRIGHT, Randall Beth Platt

For my father,
who has taught me about the ties of history;
For my mother,
who has taught me about the ties of family;
For my children,
that they may discover the ways that they are bound to both.

M ama had the spoon in her fist. She was waving it in Daddys face. They had started fighting again. First thing in the morning.

A salesmans supposed to sell things, Henry Pugh, Mama said. Not give em away free. Daddy had lost his job as a salesman with Johnson & Johnson this summer. Mama blamed it on his sample policy.

I escaped to my room and picked up the camera. I held it to my chest, peering into the viewfinder. It was a used camera but a good one, given to me by Zeke. He had dug the camera out of his trading sack, passed it to me, and insisted that I take it with a nod of his head. I wont take nothin for it, hed said. It was one of many times Id been grateful to Zeke.

The camera had two lenses, one for the viewfinder, one for the film. One was on top of the other, like a figure eight. I peered down into the viewfinder, the voices in the other room making pictures in my mind.

I heard Mama yelling again. First its a sample of baby powder, Henry, she said. I imagined her shaking a can of baby powder under each armpit. Aim. Click.

Then its a bottle of baby oil. I could see her on the film, running drops of oil down each forearm, rubbing them in. Advance the film. Trip the shutter.

I could see her pinning Daddy to the wall, shaking the spoon in his face. And finally, she shrieked, youre lettin em take that nice pink baby soap in the silver foil, which theyre probably savin for the wife for Christmas.

I heard my daddy too. Stop bein such a hard one for happiness, Izzy, he said. I peered into the lens, imagining him there, mopping his forehead with his red bandana. The Lord loveth a cheerful giver. Focus. Click.

I needed to escape. Not just today. Almost every day since last summer. I didnt want to think about Mama and Daddy, but most of all I didnt want to think about what happened to Zeke. What happened last summer wasnt something I could talk about or even look at yet. The memory of it was like a picture you took when the people wouldnt hold still. I tried to keep that picture from coming into my mind.

My room was one way of escaping. The pecan tree in the corner of our yard was another. But my favorite way of escaping was going on a sneak with Pert Wilson. Nothing could get my mind off things like a sneak with Pert. On one sneak we had biked all the way to Troy for the double feature at the drive-in. Neither one of us had a red cent, so we stood outside the back fence, watching the picture even if we couldnt hear it, making up dialogue as we went along. Pert made the big strong cowboys in the John Wayne movie talk in high squeaky voices, and I made barking dog sounds for the people in Old Yeller.

Once we snuck over to Clifton Hill, where the rich folks live, to see Phillip Jubal Adkinss great-grand-daddys leg. P.J. Adkinss great-granddaddy had his leg blown off at Chickamauga in 1863. He carried it back to Kinship in his saddlebag and had it stuffed by the local taxidermist. It was mounted with the boot still on because PJ.s great-granddaddy had stole the boots off a dead Yankee and wanted to prove it. Pert and I snuck into Adkinss house and saw it, sure enough. It was inside a glass case with a brass lock, and the spurs on the boot looked like the cockleburs that clung to my jeans when I ran through Lem Pattersons cow pasture. I knew for sure it was an Adkins leg; Adkinses had fat knees even back then.

On another sneak we took Daddys old can of red paint, putting our red handprints up all over Kinship. On the trash can near the base of the Civil War statue of John B. Gordon. On the trunks of the trees at Pearl Lake. When Mama found out, her own handprint rose up red on my own bottom.

But I could see that I wasnt going to be able to escape on a sneak with Pert Wilson today. Mama had plans. She had started up right after breakfast.

Get on in here, Maggie Pugh, Mama called to me from the front room. Ill bet youre in there a-fiddlin with that ol camera again. Youd best be puttin it away now, girl. We got dustin out here. And dishes.

I put down the camera and picked up the dustrag, heading into the living room. As I worked, I watched Mama out of the corner of my eye. I saw her pacing, rubbing her hands, and tying her scarf up tight around her bobby pins. They were familiar gestures to me. They meant she was set on work.

Gardenia had been concentrating on the strings of a cats cradle when Mama hoisted her up, plunking her down on the kitchen stool. Hey, Mama, Gardenia wailed, youre knottin my cradle strings.

Now sit still and stop your squirmin, angel, Mama said. She was looking Gardenia over the way she looked over meat in Shriners meat case. The announcer on the radio, got on a trade with Zeke, was saying how the coloreds in Alabama could use the city parks same as white now and how a private school was opening up in Atlanta for kids whose parents were members of the Ku Klux Klan. After that he announced the price of bush beans and the number of board feet of sawlogs this year.

Then Mama snapped her fingers and pointed to me. Get the comb and brush from the bathroom cabinet, Maggie.

First she brushed all over the top of Gardenias yellow head. Next she brushed the left side, and then she brushed the right, mumbling to herself. That fool daddy of yours might have lost his job and that fool sister of yours aint got no future bettern housework, but Izabelle Pughs still got her baby Gardenia, and the Hayes County Little Miss Pageants next week. An angel as pretty as this ones as good as money in the bank.

Gardenias blue eyes got round as globes. I stopped my mopping and looked into them.

Then Mama took the comb, parting Gardenias hair in three sections. Dont you think french braids would look nice, Maggie?

She didnt wait for my answer. She was plaiting Gardenias whole head lickety split, the comb clamped tight in her teeth like a pirates knife. Yes, sirree, Bob, she said. The winner gets fifty dollars, an all-day shopping spree, and a chance to compete in the state pageant in Savannah.

The top of Gardenias head looked like a braided basket. Mama pulled a daisy from the vase by the sink, sticking it behind Gardenias ear. Ohhhh-eee! Mama said. Aint you somethin else, baby!

Then, just as quickly, she was ripping the whole thing out.

Maybe we should try pigtails. I do declare pigtails with two big white ribbons might just do the trick. Mama was frowning. She was never satisfied.