More Than a Hashtag, page 6
“Mr. Hopper, you need to relax a little. I am not going to take a bite out of you. I am not the enemy here. Yankees have been accepted in the South, although somewhat reluctantly, for quite a while now.”
I swear on my mama’s grave she gave a little laugh. It was a nice laugh, and it didn’t even crack her face. It made me relax a little, but y’all never turn your back on a badger, so I stayed on high alert.
“Well, there’s not much to tell,” I started off. “I like readin’ and fishin’ and catchin’ shrimp and crawfish. My best friend is Chilly, and we like to ro-day whenever we can.”
“Ro-day. That is an interesting word. Is it Cajun? What does it mean exactly?”
“You know, runnin’ the roads and hangin’ out all day havin’ fun. I guess it’s a Cajun word. Don’t they say it up north?”
“I don’t recall, but I am certain there is a word in New England meaning the same thing. I seem to have forgotten what that word might be,” she answered.
I guess that explained her sourpuss Yankee face. Maybe they didn’t have fun or do much ro-dayin’ up north. It must be all work, work, work. Then I ‘membered her laugh and the little sparkle in her eyes.
“Tell me about your family. Do you know very much about your people?”
“Mama doesn’t say too much, but Mamere told me a little ‘bout my daddy. I ‘member him twirlin’ me in circles while he held my arms. I was named after him, but he died in a car crash when I was little. He was from Texas, and he and Mama met at the college in Lafayette. I don’t know too much ‘bout his people. Well, nothin’ actually.
I shifted on the sofa. “Mamere talks ‘bout her people all the time. They’d been livin’ in the bayou ‘fore the Civil War. Some of her mama’s people were brought over as slaves to work the cane and cotton fields. I kinda ‘member my grandpere Aupont. I ‘member sittin’ on his lap and his big laugh. When I started first grade I wore his glasses so I could read the little words. But just ‘til Mama could afford to buy me some glasses that fit. He died when I was a little boy.”
Oh, mais! I’d be dipped in peanut oil and fried like a turkey leg! I couldn’t believe I blabbed all that to Miz Johnson. I wasn’t even nervous. It was like talkin’ to Chilly’s daddy or even Mamere. I almost caught a frisson thinkin’ ‘bout it.
“That was very nice of you to share some of your story with me, Thomas Edison. Sharing things inspires trust between two people. I want you to trust me. Would you like to ask a question about me?”
I was thinkin’ ‘bout the things Mamere had said ‘bout Miz Johnson. I didn’t want her to think I didn’t have an imagination, so I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. The question that came spillin’ outta my mouth was very personal.
“Miz Johnson, I’d like to ask how you and Mama got to be good friends. Y’all ain’t very much alike.”
Help me Jesus. Too late to take it back now. That question’d been burnin’ in my brain for the longest time. I didn’t dare look down at my hands in my lap, ‘cuz you’re supposed to look people in the eye when you speak to ‘em. Most ‘specially old people. I could feel my cheeks gettin’ hot and my heart start poundin’. I held my breath, waitin’ for her to tell me it wasn’t a proper question to ask a lady. Even worse, that the question I asked wasn’t none of my business.
I watched Miz Johnson think ‘bout my question. Her eyes were blue behind her granny glasses. I hadn’t notice that before. They got kinda soft and far away lookin’ as she was thinkin’ how to answer. She musta wanted us to trust each other real bad, ‘cuz I was pretty sure she wasn’t gonna yell at me or hit me with the imaginary wooden spoon.
“Well, Thomas Edison, that is a very thought-provoking question. Your mama and I have been friends for a very long time. We shared the same apartment as roommates at the University. Neither one of us knew anyone on the campus when we both arrived.
“We did not get off to a very good start, I’m afraid. Part of that had to do with the difference in our ages. When you are young, ten years is an eon in time. But even so, Angelica has been my dearest friend since the day we decided to tolerate each other. I think we both realized we might as well make the best of our situation.
“We shared some very sweet days and some incredibly hard times together, but we never left each other’s side. I think your mama and I, like how you young people say, ‘had each other’s back.’ ”
She leaned sideways and gave me two thumbs up like she was tryin’ to be cool.
I swear I almost fell offa her sofa. If a choir of angels had appeared and started singin’ in her kitchen, I couldn’ta been more shocked. I almost had to use both my hands to close my mouth and slap my face to get ahold of myself.
Now it was Miz Johnson’s turn to blush.
“I apologize, Thomas Edison. Maybe that was a little too much sharing all at once. Let me go into the kitchen and bring us a soft drink. Would you like a Fanta Grape soda, or would you prefer some sweet tea?”
‘Nother shock. I would bet my life Miz Johnson had never put a can of Fanta in her frigidaire until today. How would she know Fanta grape was my favorite drink in the whole world? I was gonna ask Richie Smoot who delivered her groceries from Gautreaux’s ‘bout that one.
“I would love a soda, thank you ma’am,” I managed to choke out.
Miz Johnson disappeared into the kitchen where the choir of angels was tunin’ up. She brought my Fanta Grape and her sweet tea back into the parlor on a silver tray and put a cloth down on the side table. She had filled two tall glasses with ice. She opened my soda and poured it into one of the glasses. I always drank straight from the can, but I guess this was how Yankee ladies served their guests. Miz Johnson set the tray on the table in front of me with the rest of my Fanta. She settled herself back in her chair and set her sweet tea on ‘nother cloth.
She looked a bit more serious’n when we were sharin’ our stories. I was waitin’ for the tide to turn and her to give me a million-word paper to write for the weekend. But again, she surprised me.
“Thomas Edison, I spoke with your mama about what would be of value for you to learn. We both decided that if I am going to teach you to write like a great American author, I will do that by helping you find your voice.
“Our conversation today told me some things about your voice. I don’t mean your speaking voice. I mean your thoughts, the voice in your head. A voice is like a fingerprint of your mind. The manner in which each person expresses himself is unique to that individual.
“Everyone has a voice, and it is the goal of a good teacher and a hard-working pupil to find said voice. Your assignment, until we meet again on Monday, is to pick a subject well known to you. Write about your subject the way you would speak to someone if it were your side of a conversation.
“Do not worry about grammar or correct spelling. That will come later. Do not worry about anything except using your imagination. Do you understand what I am asking of you?”
“Yes, ma’am, I think so. But how many words do I gotta write? And I don’t know anythin’ that’d make a good story.”
“Thomas Edison, ‘every seashell has a story.’ And you have one too. We are not going to worry about the number of words. I only want you to express your thoughts just like you did here with me today, while we were having our talk. The hardest thing about writing is to form ideas and thoughts. That is why a truly great writer writes about what he knows. So, Thomas Edison, write about your life. Pick an experience and tell me about it. Does that clarify the assignment for you?”
“Yes, ma’am!” I almost shouted. I was relieved and excited and could feel the wheels turnin’ in my head. There were so many things I could write ‘bout. I was sure Miz Johnson could feel my excitement. She smiled and told me our two hours were up.
I was so surprised, I almost hollered, “Go to bed!” But luckily, I had a little control over my mouth, ‘cuz a Yankee lady woulda been beyond insulted over that remark.
“Thank you, Miz Johnson. I’m really and truly sorry ‘bout burnin’ down your azalea bush and almost catchin’ your house on fire. I won’t ever do anythin’ like that again.”
“Well, Thomas Edison, everyone makes mistakes. It is what we learn from our mistakes that builds our character. That is what matters. A man named Frank Jackson said, ‘Always watch your character. It becomes your destiny.’ Now is there anything else we need to cover before you leave?” she asked.
“Just one more thing, ma’am, if you wouldn’t mind. Could you please call me ‘ Tee’? When I hear ‘ Thomas Edison,’ I look ‘round for Mamere and wait for her to tell me what I did wrong.”
“Tee it is.” She held out her hand to shake mine. “It’s been a pleasure spending time with you, Tee.”
We shook hands, and I went home. The choir was still singin’.
7
Fishin’ On The Dock
‘Fore I even went inside the house, I could smell it; Mamere was makin’ fried boloney sandwiches! My favorite food in the world. She musta thought I’d come draggin’ on home from Miz Johnson’s like a half-dead cat, and only my favorite food could keep me alive. ‘Sides that, it was goin’ on only eleven thirty and we never ever ate ‘fore noon.
Mamere kept to her routines no matter what was happenin’. Sickness, tornadoes, locusts . . . probably ever’ plague that struck the children of Israel could come down on us, and Mamere wouldn’t budge her time for meals. At the Hopper-Aupont house, meals was served on time.
“Grandmere!” I said, wrappin’ my arms ‘round her for a big hug. “Y’all are the absolute best. I’m starvin’!”
“Cher, boy, you ate a big old bowl of grits a few hours ago.”
She looked at my face with curious eyes and asked, “Tell me how things went with Miz Johnson.”
“I gotta sit down and eat a few bites. Then I’ll tell y’all everythin’.”
I got the milk outta the frigidaire and put two glasses down on the table while Mamere brought us each over fried heaven on a plate.
“Mmmmm, gah-lee! Nobody cooks better’n you, Mamere.”
After we said grace, she sat there waitin’ for me to tell her what happened. I think she was surprised to see me get home without my hair startin’ to go gray from the stress I’d endured.
“Lemme ask y’all a question first,” I said. “Why don’t you and Mama ever talk ‘bout Miz Johnson when I’m ‘round? She’s a book that’s definitely nothin’ like her cover. Did you know she has blue eyes, and she even smiles? She’s actually interested in me! So why haven’t y’all ever told me how she and Mama met and got to be best friends?”
“Thomas Edison, y’all ever tried to teach a cat the ABCs? It’s no use. Even if you could get the cat to sit still for a minute, the cat don’t give a care ‘bout listenin’, let alone learnin’. Y’all are just like a cat. You already made up your mind you didn’t want to hear nothin’ ‘bout Miz Johnson.” Mamere finished making her point.
“Well, I wanna know now. She seemed to like me and wanna know more ‘bout me. I always thought she only cared ‘bout me ‘cuz I get her lawn mowed, put her trash cans out, washed her windows, and the other nine million other chores I do.”
“I think most of the story is somethin’ you need to sit down and talk ‘bout with your mama. She’d tell it best. Why don’t y’all ask her tonight after work? I’ll go to bed early, and you can have your mama all to yourself.”
“Do you think ‘stead of just tellin’ me ‘bout Miz Johnson, she’ll tell me how she met my daddy? I know Miz Johnson had somethin’ to do with that too.” I had been waitin’ my whole life to hear this story, so I was anxious to hear Mamere’s response.
“I think she will. You’re old ‘nough now to understand, and I think I know your mama pretty well. There’s a lotta things in her past that need to be shared with her almost-grown son.
“Now eat your fried baloney. Chilly’s been callin’ all day to see if you came out alive from Miz Johnson’s house. Better call him back ‘fore he has a heart attack,” chuckled Mamere.
I started to get up to call Chilly. I couldn’t wait to trade stories. Mamere was havin’ none of that gobblin’ down my food.
“Oh, cho-co!” she halted my phone trip. “Slow down and eat like a gentleman. No phone ‘til y’all finish your food and drink ever’ last drop of that milk. We don’t waste good food ‘round here.”
In less’n five minutes, I was on the phone callin’ Chilly.
“Tee,” Chilly answered on the first ring. “I been prayin’ over ya, bro. How’d it go with the Wicked Witch of the South?”
He made me laugh, ‘cuz prayin’ wasn’t a Chilly thing to do—unless the rougarou was on his tail.
“Well, I gotta tell ya. It ain’t nothin’ like I expected. Hang on a minute . . .”
“Mamere!” I hollered. “Do I have any chores, or can I go over to Chilly’s?”
“Go, boy. Y’all earned yourself some fun,” Mamere said, givin’ her blessin’.
“Cho-co!” I hollered in the phone, almost makin’ Chilly deaf. “Y’all done servin’ the Queen? ‘Cuz if you’re not, I’ll wait ‘til you’re through. I can’t take no more stressful moments in my day.”
“Mais, yes! I’ll tell y’all ‘bout it when ya get here. Bring your fishin’ pole. Daddy says the catfish are bitin’ right off the town dock, and nobody’s even got a line in over there.”
“Whoo-wee, on my way!”
I was out the door faster’n a duck on a June bug, my fishin’ gear in hand. I couldn’t wait to see Chilly’s face when I told him ‘bout Miz Johnson. But more’n that, I couldn’t wait to hear what Mean Queen Jovinne had put him through that day.
We set a record gettin’ to Gautreaux’s, where the town dock hung out over slow-movin’ Bayou Allons. The dock wasn’t really owned by the town, but since Gautreaux’s Market sold bait and rented pirogues and air boats, they had to put a dock somewhere. It made an easy, one-stop shop for tourists to buy bait and get a boat.
We went inside to get some chicken livers to bait the jug hooks and some worms for our poles. We both forgot to bring water and a cooler, so we borrowed a cooler from the back room where Pinkie was workin’, washin’ Coke bottles. We had only ‘nough money to buy bait and ice and some Sour Patch Kids, but Pinkie was in a good mood. He bought us some Fantas and a coupla bottles of water.
It was busier’n usual in the store. I thought I was gonna bust open tryin’ to keep calm. It took me and Chilly forever to get checked out through the longest line ever! Finally, we was on our way. We took all our gear down the road a bit, so we was farther away from the dock. Nobody’d bother us or hear the stories we was ‘bout to share clear down there.
Chilly was busy baitin’ the lines on the jugs with the chicken livers, but he just couldn’t wait any more.
“Tee! Y’all survived! Did she try to hit ya with a ruler or make ya do chores? Did she give ya a long paper to write? Do y’all think she knows the library closes ‘fore nine on Saturday, so ya won’t have time to do some researchin’ or anythin’?”
“Chill, Chilly, ‘fore y’all give yourself a word stroke or somethin’. Better take a drink, or you’ll faint on the ground, and I ain’t doin’ no mouth to mouth on ya. I swear the whole thing with Miz Johnson was unreal. She was nice and even gave me a Fanta grape!”
I thought Chilly was gonna faint. His face got so red, it actually made me worried ‘nough to start reviewin’ the steps to the CPR we learned in Scouts.
“No way! I don’t believe a word comin’ outta your mouth, Tee Hopper,” said Chilly in complete shock.
“I swear! She actually smiled at me, and we talked ‘bout our lives. No lie, Chilly.”
“She smiled?! Swear it, Tee. Swear on your mama’s grave,” demanded Chilly.
I swore, and we both spat on the ground. There’s nothin’ more powerful’n a spit-oath swear.
“Gah-lee! So what do y’all have to do for Monday?”
“I gotta write ‘bout somethin’ that’s interestin’ to me. Somethin’ that’s part of my life. She wants to get to know me. Miz Johnson said people trust each other when they share things ‘bout themselves. I’m wonderin’ if she’s gonna write a paper ‘bout her life for me to read. I’m kinda excited, if y’all want the truth. Did you know she’s just ten years older’n Mama?
Chilly had nothin’ to say. He just stared at me. It’s a good thing a big old bee wasn’t buzzin’ ‘round, ‘cuz it woulda gone right into his mouth, and he’da swallowed it and died.
“How many words did she say y’all had to write?” he finally asked.
“Miz Johnson said it didn’t matter, long as I told my story.
“Now, your turn, Chilly. How was the Queen of Mean this mornin’?” I asked. I couldn’t wait to hear this story.
Chilly was fixin’ the jugs. He tied ‘em to a tree and threw ‘em in the water. They floated on top while their line hung down in the water with the bait on a hook. When the jug bobbed up and down, we knew we had somethin’ on the line. We was hopin’ to catch a few jug fishin’ while we used our poles. Miz Marguerite, Chilly’s mama, called that “multi-taskin’.” She said only women were good at doin’ that, but we wasn’t doin’ too bad.
I noticed from behind that Chilly’s usually tight britches was hangin’ down looser on his hips. They looked like they’d fall down ‘round his ankles if he moved too fast.
“Hey, Chilly, why y’all got ‘da gumbo? Y’all join Weight Watchers or somethin’? Maybe givin’ up Snickers bars? Y’all gettin’ skinny, boy!”
