The Wonder of Charlie Anne (9 page)

I find Phoebe lying on the ground between two rows of corn. Her trousers give her away. Then Phoebe and Birdie come help me find Peter.

We run all the way to the end of the field, almost to the river and so close to Mama I can hear her laughing she is so happy to see us, and when we get to the end of the corn, there is Peter sitting on the fence.

“It took you about forever,” he says. “Where’ve you
been?” Then he sees Phoebe, and he stares at her for so long that I have to finally go over and kick a little sense into him, and then he says, “Hey.”

I tell Peter this is Phoebe and Phoebe this is Peter and then Peter stares kind of stupid at Phoebe for a minute so I have to pinch some manners into him, the good kind (you do not stare at people and make them feel all uncomfortable) and then we all go up by Mama and I say Mama this is Phoebe and Phoebe this is Mama and Mama says she is so happy to meet Phoebe.

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” says Phoebe, and Mama says why don’t we all sit for a spell, and we do. The river is rushing this morning after all the rain.

“Charlie Anne, do you remember what Mama looked like?” Peter whispers so only I can hear.

“She has red hair,” I whisper. “Do you remember her dress with all the strawberries that are the same color as her hair, and her freckles? Do you remember all her freckles?”

Peter is shaking his head. “I don’t remember too much, Charlie Anne,” and then I notice his eyes are getting wet, and I reach over and pull him closer to me.

“Maybe if I keep being sad, I won’t forget her anymore,” he whispers.

While I am thinking about this, about how people who die can disappear more every day, Birdie reaches over and touches the skin on Phoebe’s face. Birdie is
like that. She does not know about how sometimes maybe you should not be touching someone’s face. We watch Birdie scrape up some dirt and then rub her doll’s face until it is dark as Phoebe. Birdie holds the doll to her heart.

I hope Phoebe knows Birdie does not mean anything bad by the things she does. I guess maybe she does understand because Birdie goes over and climbs on Phoebe’s lap and Phoebe lets her stay there.

When we are down by the corn, we see the oldest Thatcher boy shooting his gun at crows in the big white pines by the river. We rush back inside to hide between the stalks. “That Thatcher boy is a snake,” I whisper to Phoebe. “You stay away.”

“What’s so bad about him?” she whispers back.

So I tell her my Thatcher story: “Well, his papa got killed in a hunting accident. And ever since then, the mama has been mean and the dogs have been meaner and the oldest boy is the meanest of all.”

Finally, when we come out of the corn and are back at the potatoes, there is Ivy, standing and looking at us, her face all red.

“I watched you,” says Ivy. “I watched you playing with that colored girl.” She points at Phoebe.

“Shut up, Ivy.” I move in front of Phoebe.

“I’m telling Mirabel.” Ivy runs off toward home, and
even though her legs are longer than mine, I am faster, and when I catch her, I give her a big shove and she falls into the dirt.

I pick up a big handful of mud. “If you tell,” I say, giving her my most terrible mad face, “I will make you eat this.”

“If you don’t let me up, I’m going to tell on you right now. Now let me up.”

“You better let her up, Charlie Anne,” says Peter. “You don’t want to miss supper again, do you?”

“I don’t care,” I tell Peter, but I let Ivy up.

“Becky told me to watch out for coloreds and now we have one on our own land,” Ivy says as soon as she is standing.

Then Becky comes up beside us with a big ugly grin on her face. “Whoever heard of a girl wearing trousers like that,” she says, pointing at Phoebe. “What’s the matter, you want to be a boy?”

“I’m not a boy,” Phoebe says softly, looking a little smaller all of a sudden. Birdie reaches for Phoebe’s hand. She pulls the lemon drop out of her pocket with her other hand and offers it to Phoebe.

“Don’t you dare!” shrieks Ivy. “Don’t you dare eat our candy.” Phoebe just gives Ivy a mad look and takes the candy and pops it in her mouth.

“I’m telling. I’m telling you let a colored girl eat off your lemon drop.”

Then I push Ivy good and hard. She stumbles in the
dirt again, and this time she is crying that I broke her nose, and Becky Ellis is laughing. Ivy gives Becky a why-are-you-laughing-at-me look. Becky shrugs and runs off toward her house.

“Good riddance,” says Peter, looking shyly over at Phoebe.

“God ribbons,” says Birdie.

I cannot help grinning just the tiniest bit at what Birdie says and Phoebe sees me and then I see the corner of her mouth start lifting up and then we look straight at each other and tell each other with just our eyes that we should not burst out laughing right now because it might hurt Birdie’s feelings.

“You broke my nose,” Ivy is still saying, and then she gets up and rushes off to Mirabel, and I know it won’t be long before I get the what-for.

Ivy is sitting on the table, with a big towel on her head, her face tilted back to stop the bleeding, and Mirabel is reaching for the vinegar jug. The letter to Aunt Eleanor is sealed and sitting on the table ready for the post.

“I told. I told on you, Charlie Anne.”

“Up to bed this instant,” says Mirabel as soon as she sees me.

“Why?” I say, glaring at Ivy.

“Thank God her nose isn’t broken, that’s all I’ve got
to say. And what’s this I hear about you playing with that colored girl? Now listen up good, Charlie Anne. You are not to play with that girl. People will talk. Do you understand?”

“About what? Why will people talk?”

“Young lady, you’ve never even been out of this town. You don’t know what the world is like. Heavens, if you had your way, you’d be associating with coloreds all the time. Have you no sense?”

I look at her hard and I keep my mouth clamped shut and then I march right past her and up to my bed.

We’ll just see about that.

Mirabel means what she says. She does not let me near Phoebe. Instead, I get more manners lessons than ever.

Mirabel sits in Mama’s rocking chair in the parlor each night when the supper dishes are done and pulls out
The Charm of Fine Manners
and makes Ivy and me and Birdie crowd around her on the floor. We are supposed to keep busy while we are listening, so tonight there is a big bowl of onions on the floor for us to peel for creamed onions tomorrow.

“How come Peter doesn’t have to do this?” I want to know, big onion tears rolling down my cheeks. “How come he gets to go out to the barn?”

“He does not need to learn to grow up to be the mistress of a home. You do, Charlie Anne. All young ladies need to know how to cream onions.”

Ivy snickers and I throw an onion at her and she screeches and Mirabel has to put down her book and tell me if I don’t start behaving myself, I will be here all night peeling onions, and then she picks up the book and starts again:

Mirabel looks up from the book and down over her reading glasses and she gives me her I-told-you-so look. Then she starts again:

I wipe my eyes with Mama’s old apron and reach for another onion.

We begin having wash day Mondays and ironing Tuesdays and house-sweeping and rug-beating Wednesdays, and Thursdays and Fridays are for canning and putting up vegetables and baking. Every day is gardening day.

I am hoeing carrots with Birdie. She keeps licking off her lemon drop and putting it back in her pocket and then picking up the hoe, but the wood handle keeps sticking to her hand, and even worse than that, a yellow jacket has noticed the lemon drop, too, and is circling around her face.

“Make it go away, make it go away, Charlie Anne.” She is crying and screaming to make it go away, but the bee keeps coming closer, closer, and Anna May and Belle are up on their feet now, moving closer to us, wondering why the dickens I don’t do something about that yellow jacket.

The bee lands on the thin skin between Birdie’s thumb and first finger and holds on, all interested in the smell of her lemon drop, and I swat at it, but it keeps holding on, and then before I can say cow pie, Birdie is howling.

This is what you do to help Birdie forget her bee sting.

“How about a chicken race?”

She is sucking on her finger. Tears are sliding down her cheeks. I am making a mud bandage by spitting into a bit of dirt. “It is much better than vinegar.” I dab it on the bee sting. “See?”

She nods and says, “Mirabel gets really mad when we have chicken races, Charlie Anne.”

“She’s organizing all those canning jars in the basement. She won’t even know. Come on. Let’s go find Minnie and Olympia and Bea.”

You would think our chickens would stay close to the barn, but they can be anywhere: up by the porch, down by the privy, out by the garden, pecking around the compost. Today we find them out by the blackberry bushes.

I let Birdie have first pick, on account of her bee sting and all, plus I know she will pick Minnie. Birdie doesn’t understand that maybe you shouldn’t be choosing a plump little chicken that lets you cuddle her. I myself go for Olympia, who is tall and lean, because I want a chicken that can win.

Setting up a chicken race is pretty easy, actually. You need a start line (Birdie’s hoe) and a finish line (my hoe) and two chickens that you hold on to, patting gently, until you say ready set go, and then you’re allowed one little push, and that’s all.

From then on, all you can do is holler. No touching.

“All right, Birdie?”

She nods. She is whispering to Minnie and stroking her head.

“Ready. Set. Go!” I give Olympia a little push and she squawks and rushes ahead. Birdie taps Minnie on the bottom. Anna May and Belle come up by the fence because if there’s one thing about cows, they love a good chicken race.

“Go!” I scream. “Move your butt, Olympia. Gooooooooo.”

Everything is fair in a chicken race, so when Olympia decides to stop and peck at a june bug, I have to let her. Meanwhile, Birdie has moved around to the finish line and is calling “Here, chick. Here, chick” in that soft voice of hers, and wouldn’t you know it, there is Minnie scurrying toward the finish line.

There are no walls to keep our chickens on the racecourse, so when Olympia heads for a quick escape, I rush right over and stand in front of her. “Shoo,” I say, trying to herd her back toward the finish line. “Shoo.”

I hear Anna May and Belle cheering for Minnie. “Be quiet,” I tell them.

As Minnie crosses the finish line, Phoebe comes hurrying over.

“You can have Olympia,” I tell her.

“No, Charlie Anne. I want the other one.”

So then we have to go back down by the blackberry bushes and find Bea and bring her up and start the whole race over again.