SIX MILE WAS the kind of town you were born and raised in, not one you moved to from somewhere else. It wasn't surprising, then, that Martin had been the New Kid for nearly a year. Now someone else held that title.
Sybil Richards was the tallest girl Martin had ever seen. She had walked into class that morning and stared back at the sea of curious faces with a look of pure confidence. She stood up straight, not hunched over like most of the tall girls Martin knew. Her hair was cut in a perfect square around her wide face. She wore a denim skirt that nearly reached her ankles and a T-shirt that said DAYTONA INTERNATIONAL SPEEDWAY. Silver bracelets clinked and jangled on
each arm, and her big hands clutched a smudged patent leather purse.
When she walked down the aisle to an empty desk, her sandals scuffed and flapped. Some of the kids poked and jabbed one another with delight, theatrically struggling to keep from laughing. One girl laughed right out loud, a sputtering kind of laugh that shot out from between closed lips. She clamped her hand over her mouth in pretend embarrassment.
Sybil Richards sat down with a swoosh of her skirt, her bracelets clanging loudly against the desktop. She gazed back at each staring face, sending heads whipping around to face the front of the class. Martin turned quickly before her eyes had a chance to meet his.
After class, Martin hurried outside to find T.J. He spotted him with a group of kids and waited while T.J. high-fived each one before coming over to where he stood.
“Hey, Martin.” T.J.'s freckled cheeks spread out in a wide grin. A baseball hat covered his buzz cut.
T.J. had an ease about him, a natural friendliness that had drawn Martin to him like a moth to a flame. He wondered how T.J. had learned to make friends so easily. Martin had moved so many times he'd never quite got the knack of it. T.J. had once begged Martin to teach him to play the harmonica. Martin had tried and tried, but T.J. just couldn't seem to get the hang of it. Maybe it was the same way with making friends. Maybe you just had to have a natural talent.
The two of them fell into step together as they headed for home. They took turns kicking a dented, rusty beer can up the side of the road.
“I guess you ain't the new kid anymore,” T.J. said. He gave the can a whack with the side of his sneaker and sent it tumbling noisily along the asphalt.
“Yeah, I guess not,” Martin said. He felt a wave of gratitude to Sybil Richards.
Martin ran ahead to kick the can before it rolled into a gully by the roadside. “You ever want to be somebody else, T.J.?”
“Sure, lots of times.”
Martin stared at his friend. “Like who?” he said.
“Oh, I don't know. Roger Clemens or Michael Jordan or somebody like that. Or maybe that kid whose dad owns the lumberyard. He's got a van with a TV and a refrigerator in it.” T.J. kept the can moving up the roadside. “How about you?”
Martin wondered if T.J. would laugh if he said Beethoven. “Naw, I can't think of anybody.” He gave the can one final kick and followed T.J. into the trailer park. Now that the weather was getting warmer, doors and windows were open, spilling out the sounds of life from inside. Wylene's music drifted out through her open front door. Tammy Wynette singing, “Stand by Your Man.” The words faded as the two boys continued down the road. Next came the sound of laughter from a TV, the clatter of pots and pans, the high-pitched squabbling of children. At the Owenses'
trailer, T.J. pushed open the gate. A moon-shaped crevice was etched into the red dirt where the gate dragged on the ground. A BEWARE OF DOG sign hung on the chain link fence, even though the Owenses didn't have a dog. Never did have one as far as Martin knew.
“See ya,” T.J. called over his shoulder before going inside.
“See ya.” Martin continued down the dusty road. He lifted his chin and sang loud and off-key: “S-u-m-m-e-r-t-i-m-e, and the livin's e-a-s-y” A dog barked at him from a neighbor's porch.
As soon as he rounded the corner, Martin saw the Furniture City delivery truck parked in front of the trailer. He stopped singing and hesitated before opening the screen door. Inside, Martin's father was watching television and sorting through a tackle box.
“Hi, Dad.” Martin tossed his books onto the kitchen counter.
“Hey.”
“Where's Mamma?”
Just then his mother came out from the bedroom. Her eyes were red and puffy.
“Hi, hon,” she said. “I made Rice Krispie treats.” She pushed a plate toward Martin. “How was school?”
“Fine.” Martin took one of the sticky squares and sat on the couch. Mr. Pittman rummaged through the tackle box, untangling fishing line and picking out squiggly rubber worms.
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“You going fishing, Dad?” Martin took another Rice
Krispie treat and watched his father gathering everything up and putting it back in the box.
“Thought I might,” his father said. “Will you put some ice in the cooler, Doris?”
Martin's mother jerked the freezer door open and scooped ice into a cooler. Her clenched jaw pulsed slightly. An ice cube shot across the tiny kitchen and crashed to the floor, splintering into pieces, but she didn't seem to notice.
“What should I say if they call from the store?” she asked.
“Tell'm I went fishing.” Mr. Pittman winked at Martin. Martin smiled. His mother's eyes burned into him, and he looked down at the shiny little puddles of ice melting on the yellowing linoleum.
“I'm serious, Ed,” Mrs. Pittman said. “You know they're gonna call.”
“I don't really give a damn, Doris. I'm going fishing with my boy here.” With that, he picked up his tackle box and went out. Martin followed him, waiting on the steps while his father took a six-pack of beer from the back of the furniture truck and put it in the cooler.
“You coming or not?” he called to Martin. He loaded everything into the trunk of the car and climbed in.
The car started with a roar, and a puff of black smoke shot out of the exhaust pipe. Martin hopped into the passenger side just as the car was pulling away from the trailer. The Scogginses' scruffy little dog yipped and snapped at the tires as they drove by.
Martin leaned toward the open window and let the warm air blow his hair back. They turned onto a dirt road that
zigzagged through the woods. The car squeaked as it bounced along the rutted road. Every now and then the tailpipe scraped the ground. Mr. Pittman stopped the car at the edge of the lake and turned the engine off. They sat there gazing out at the glittering, still water.
“Let's go catch us some bass,” his father finally said. The squeak of the car door opening broke the silence and echoed across the lake. Martin carried the fishing poles and tackle box down to the narrow beach.
“Should've got us some night crawlers,” Mr. Pittman said, casting his line out into the water. “Them bass can't resist a big, juicy night crawler.” He sat down with a grunt. Martin cast his line and sat down next to him.
“You ever go fishing with your daddy?” Martin asked, watching the bobber floating lazily in the still water.
His father snorted. Martin thought he wasn't going to answer, but finally he said, “Naw.” They both stared out at the water in silence. Martin was thinking about how to mention the piano when his father said, “He was too busy.”
“Working?”
“Chasin' skirts.” Mr. Pittman's line jerked. He jumped up and reeled it in. A bass about a foot long wriggled frantically in the air. “Gotcha!” he said as he unhooked the flopping fish and tossed it into a bucket.
“Didn't Hazeline get mad?” Martin asked while his father cast his line again.
“Mad? Hell, she damn near killed him 'bout every other night. County sheriff was a regular visitor at our house.”
“Were you mad when he left?” Martin said. “Your daddy,
I mean.” He kept his eyes on the water. The question had just popped out, and now he wished he could take it back.
“If I'da known he was leaving, I'd have given that bastard a going-away party.”
“You ever try to get in touch with him?” Martin asked.
“Nope. Never will neither.”
“Seems kind of sad, not knowing where your own dad is and all.” Martin watched a dragonfly hover over the water, then dart away.
His father took a swig of beer and looked at Martin. “Sad?” He chuckled and took another drink. “Son, you better toughen yourself up or you're gonna get your butt kicked out there in the real world. Sometimes fate deals out some lousy hands in life. The way I figure it, the difference between being down in the dirt miserable and full-tilt boogie on top of it all is just the luck of the draw.” He took another beer out of the cooler and popped the top. “I just got me a lousy hand,” he said, taking a long, gulping drink.
He nudged Martin with the cold can. “Want some?”
“Sure.” Martin took a swig, then wrinkled his nose as the bitter taste filled his mouth. His eyes watered when the fizzy cold burned his throat. His father laughed. “I can see I got my work cut out for me, trying to make a man out of you.”
Martin grinned sheepishly at his father. The rest of the afternoon passed in silence except for an occasional whoop when a fish bit. Just as the sun was beginning to set on the lake, turning the water a bright, iridescent pink, the sound of a motorcycle came from the road above them. It got
louder and louder until the motorcycle finally burst into view with a roar, sending dust and gravel flying in all directions.
“Damn,” Mr. Pittman said. “There goes another good fishing spot.” He stood up and began packing up the fishing equipment.
Two people wearing helmets sat on the motorcycle looking down at Martin and his father. The driver was a man with skinny, muscular arms. His passenger was a girl, long legs sticking out of cutoff jeans.
The man turned the engine off and walked down the hill toward them. He took his helmet off and grinned.
“Hi there,” he said. “How's the fishing?” He wore cowboy boots and greasy jeans. On the pocket of his blue uniform shirt was a patch that said FRANK. His face was creased and weathered. His smile exposed a row of perfect white teeth under a bushy gray mustache.
“Lousy,” Martin's father said. He slammed the lid on the cooler and headed for the car.
The man's eyes darted to the bucket filled to the brim with shiny silver fish. His smile twitched a little at the corners.
“That's too bad,” he said. “Reckon we'll have to find us another spot. Maybe we'll walk around to the other side. Can you get over there from here?”
“I wouldn't know.” Mr. Pittman loaded the fishing gear into the trunk.
“Let's take a walk, Peanut,” the man called up to the girl.
He turned and started off down the path that ran alongside the lake. A long, thin ponytail hung halfway down his back.
The girl climbed slowly off the bike. She took her helmet off and shook her square-cut hair out of her face. The cool, calm eyes of Sybil Richards gazed down at Martin. He flashed a quick, nervous smile, but she stared at him without a flicker of recognition.
“Hey, Dad,” she called after the man. “Should I bring the poles?”
“Sure,” he answered. “Why not?”
Sybil got the fishing poles and walked past Martin toward the lake. As she went by, she looked down at the bucket of fish and said, “I just figured we might not want to waste our time at such a lousy fishing hole, is all.”
Martin watched in stunned silence as Sybil and the smiling, ponytailed man disappeared into the woods.
“HOW'D THEM FISH taste?”
Martin looked up. Sybil Richards stood beside his chair. Without waiting for his reply, she plunked her lunch tray down on the table and sat next to him. She opened her milk carton, took a swig, then patted at the milk mustache with a napkin before picking up a greasy grilled cheese sandwich.
“Haven't had .'em yet,” Martin said. “They're in the freezer.”
She threw the soggy sandwich down on her plate in disgust. Her bracelets jingled as she stirred her applesauce with a fork. “I don't eat fish.” She slurped the applesauce off the fork. “I'm a lacto-ovo-vegetarian.”
There was no way he was going to ask what that was.
“That means I only eat vegetables, eggs, nuts, beans, and milk products,” she said. “And grains. No meat, chicken, or fish. Nothing with a face, as they say.”
Martin looked at his cold hamburger. This girl beat all, coming over here like the Queen of Sheba trying to ruin a perfectly good lunch.
“I just moved in with my dad,” she informed him.
Martin raised his eyebrows, then took a bite of hamburger and chewed slowly, like it was the best-tasting thing he'd ever eaten.
“My brothers went to Dallas with my mom,” Sybil went on. “But I said, no way, José. Not me. Nothing in Dallas but cowboys and cows.” She kept stirring her applesauce and jingling her bracelets. “How come you moved to Six Mile?” she asked.
Martin held up a finger. “Excuse me,” he said, “I got a mouthful of cow face.” He chewed, then swallowed, ducking his head in a big, gulping motion. “Now, what was that?”
“I said how come you moved to Six Mile?”
“How do you know I moved here? Maybe I been here all my life.”
“Maybe,” she said, licking the back of her fork. “And maybe not.” The edges of her mouth turned up into a little Mona Lisa smile. “My dad rents a house on Shaw Creek Road. I'm planting me a garden with corn and lima beans and all.”
The bell rang, sending kids scrambling to clear their
places and get back to class. Martin carried his tray to the trash can and threw away the rest of his hamburger. He glanced back at Sybil. She sat there eating chocolate pudding with a fork. She smiled and wiggled her long fingers at him. “See you,” she called.
Martin dropped his spoon with a clang. He kicked it out of the way and hurried out the door.
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That afternoon, when Hazeline came in the front door and saw Martin's father lying on the couch, she said, “Uh-oh.” She looked at Martin's mother standing at the stove, then at Martin sitting on a barstool spinning a bottle cap on the kitchen counter.
“Angela Biggins, come on down!” the announcer on TV said. Angela Biggins squealed and waved her arms as she ran down the aisle to play
The Price Is Right.
“Somebody want to tell me what's going on?” Hazeline said, still standing in the doorway.
Angela Biggins giggled breathlessly and leaned in to the microphone. “I'm a computer programmer from Racine, Wisconsin, and the mother of two wonderful little boys, Mike and Jeffrey,” she said.
Hazeline threw her bags on a chair and jammed her fists into her waist. “Okay, then, let me guess. Ed got fired.”
Martin spun the bottle cap. It wobbled off the counter and onto the floor. His mother turned on the water at the sink and clattered dishes.
“Well now, ain't this a pitiful sight,” Hazeline said. “Me
up here saying âEd got fired' like I've said about a hundred times before, and you all just sitting there like a bunch of nothing.”
Martin's father sat up slowly and looked at Hazeline.
“This ain't none of your business, Mamma,” he said.
“You're right, Ed. It ain't my business. But it sure as hell is theirs.” She threw a bony arm in the direction of Martin and his mother. She reached into a bag for a pack of cigarettes and thumped the pack against her hand to shake one out. With quick, jerky movements, she lit it and blew out a trail of smoke, her chin pointed up in the air.
“Well, that's good, then,” she said. “Now Doris can get that job she wanted over at the school, and you can stay home and cook pot roast.”
“What job is that, Doris?” Mr. Pittman said. He turned off the television just as Angela Biggins was saying, “Forty-nine ninety-five?” Martin's mother stayed at the sink, her back to the room. “Just typing and answering the phone in the office,” she said. “I'd be here when Martin got home.” She turned around to face her husband. “I was thinking maybe I could save up for that piano Martin was wanting.”
“Aw, hell, Doris, you gonna start on that again?” He looked back at the TV. “Next thing you know, he'll be wantin' a dollhouse. You gonna buy him that, too?”
Martin wished he could blink his eyes like that genie on TV and disappear in a puff of smoke.
Hazeline cleared her throat loudly. “I don't know what ya'll arguing about,” she said. “Don't nobody need to work
anyway. Martin's probably got twenty or thirty bottles to tide ya'll over for a few months. Ain't that right, Martin?”
Martin's chin quivered and he blinked his eyes to keep the tears from coming. Why was she making everyone look at him when he was trying so hard to disappear? He stared at the bottle cap on the floor. Then he felt Hazeline's hand on his shoulder, smelled stale cigarettes on her clothes.
“I'm sorry, hon,” she said. She walked over and stood in front of her son. “You know, Ed, I been working every day of my life since I was twelve years old. I got no pity for a grown man who chooses not to support his family 'cause he ain't in the mood.”
“Like my daddy supported his family, you mean?” Mr. Pittman said.
“Like I supported my family.” Hazeline was yelling now. Ashes flew off the end of her cigarette as she waved her arms around. “Listen here, Ed Pittman. You been pissed off all your damn life about something can't nobody do nothing about. If you think I'm gonna get out the cryin' towel for you, you'd better think again.”
She turned to Martin and said, “Why don't you get out that harmonica of yours and play âPoor, Poor, Pitiful Me' for your daddy?”
Martin heard a laugh, and it took him a minute to realize it had come from him. Then he did something he never expected to do. He hopped off the stool and walked out the door, up the road, and down the brick path to Wylene's. He was sitting on her couch drinking a soda and watching her
paint her fingernails before he realized for sure what he'd done.
“And then this guy from third shift come busting in waving a hammer like a crazy person,” Wylene was saying, “And Ronnie Taylor from security tackles him right there in the weaving room, and before you know it, there's cops everywhere.” She blew on her frosty pink fingernails. “Not exactly your typical day at the plant.” She leaned forward and squinted at Martin. “You okay?”
“I been thinking about that piano,” he said. “I was thinking maybe I could get a job and save up for it.”
Wylene sat back in her La-Z-Boy reclining chair and propped her feet up. She held her hands up with her fingers spread apart like a mime touching an invisible wall. “That's great,” she said.
She waved her hands around in the air to let the nail polish dry. “I'm going to put on some music to inspire you.”
She picked through the tapes with stiff fingers, carefully taking one out and putting it on. “This here's Scott Joplin,” she said. “This is called ragtime music. How do you like it?”
Martin grinned and slapped his leg in time to the lively music. “It's nice.”
Wylene went back to the La-Z-Boy. “I bet with a little practice you could play better than that,” she said. “Wouldn't it be great to just sit down and play any ole thing you felt like any ole time you wanted?” She bounced her fuzzy slippers back and forth to the music. “You could do it, Martin. I know you could. You're a natural musician.”
“You think so?” Martin asked. “You really think so?”
“Sure I do. Shoot, if I had half your talent I wouldn't be wasting my time sitting around listening to somebody else. I'd be playing my heart out every minute of the day.”
“You ever know any other boys that like music? I mean, you know, Beethoven and stuff like that?”
Wylene cocked her head and looked at him. “Music ain't about being a boy or being a girl, Martin. Music's about what's in your heart. If you're asking me if I've ever known anyone with as much music in their heart as you, then I reckon I'd have to say no. I ain't been that lucky.”
Martin ran his fingers up and down the invisible keyboard on the coffee table, shaking his head and tapping his toes and wondering where to go from here.